my dusty uterus

Disappearing Act.

2012-02-28T17:31:00.000-08:00

Why does every tampon brand think beach vignette ads starring women in white bikinis and tight white jeans will sell more tampons? I can see the poor brand team stuck working on Tampax, huddled around the conference room table trying to write the brief. I am SURE it says the ad should communicate security and freedom at the same time. The last box on the brief says, "[Brand name] tampons stop your period from interfering with your life!" The agency is sick of briefs like this. "Freedom AND security?!" the creatives scream. "Let's go to the movies today and give Tampax more of the same." Cue white jeans and bikinis.

Yesterday my disappointment with the category evaporated. An ad aired portraying women hiding tampons on their person before heading to the bathroom. I have been doing this since high school! The category finally found a true consumer insight! Way to go whatever brand it was! I seem to have already forgotten. Better luck next time with your unaided awareness.

Anyway, my secret compartment of choice is up the bottom part of my sleeve. If I'm sleeveless, I choose to stick it in the top of my pants. If I'm pants-less (Also known as in a dress or a skirt, folks. I try my hardest to never leave the house without pants.), I fold my arms and jam it inconspicuously between the bones. This third approach is the weakest, but still, I would put my "tampon hiding" skills at moderate. I don't blow the doors down, but I've never lost one en route to the ladies.

How the hell does one do this on her way to the lactation lounge with a hospital grade pump?

Utter Clutter.

2012-02-27T11:34:00.001-08:00

Miss Mac over at Mac and PC wrote a very eloquent post about the Beautiful Disasters that have come along with her little guy. As I read hers, I teared up and then laughed out loud after a quick mental inventory of our post-baby house. Almost every room has a "Baby on Board" stamp of baby paraphernalia. Sit back, relax, and enjoy a guided tour of the utter clutter in our once very organized home.

First Stop: The Kitchen.

This counter once only had a coffee maker on it. Now, feast your eyes on its new occupants. We start on the right with a tub of Similac, moving to the left we have a dirty bottle, some pumping accessories and a bottle warming up in a giant Starbucks mug in the sink. Also scattered in are the Splenda container, out because I now always have coffee brewing; my water bottle ready to be grabbed for a workout or walk; the dish soap which I now go through at five times the rate I used to, and my dish gloves which make me look like I a might kill someone but are innocently protecting my dry hands. Yes, having coffee and freshly pumped milk this close together on the counter IS a disaster waiting to happen.

Second Stop: The Dining Room.

Positioned beautifully under a wall sconce and large print is the downstairs pack 'n play! If you look closely, you can also see a small toy basket peeking through the doorway. While the new accessories don't really go with the room, like the ugly ceiling fan in everyone's bedroom, they do make the space much more liveable.

Third Stop: The Living Room.

Where's Waldo?! We've got a boppy, burp cloth, bottle, rattle, jumparoo, basket 'o blankets, and tummy time mat. Can you spot them all?

Fourth Stop: The Guest Room.

This one caught me by surprise. I walked into the guest room to confirm there was no baby gear lurking and thought, "Why is the stroller in here?" I must admit, though, it coordinates fabulously with the curtains.

Fifth Stop: Our Room.

This is now the resting stop for the second Pack 'n Play. When he slept in our room it was crammed between the wall and my side of the bed, as physically close to me as possible without me hopping in next to him. Now, I'd like to store it somewhere but have few baby-free zones to choose from.

Sixth Stop: My Bathroom.

Sure, there are a lot of baby bathtime accessories, but the Ultra Super Plus maxi pads on the far left are a stronger indicator of a baby's presence. I haven't used these since middle school but probably went through three or four packs post-delivery. Kotex and Always, get on this! Seriously sore new moms are HUGE revenue generators.

Seventh Stop: My Pumping Station.

Also known as my office, here you see the pump, his bouncy chair, my travel bag and a cloth diaper to help me avoid adding soured milk to my non-showered smell. What you cannot see are stains on the chair and on the rug from my Medela mishaps. Lovely.

Eighth Stop: The Utility Room.

Perhaps the biggest transformation took place here, in the room where I used to keep my sewing machine and other domestic crafting things. Now it's a veritable baby paradise, complete with a gift from the president of our company who was not aware that a life-sized Mickey was not on my nursery mood board. Oh well.

The baby himself takes up very little space but is so darn cute, we happily keep all his accouterments around.

Thanks Mom!

Irish Twins.

2012-02-23T07:38:00.000-08:00

If Irish Twins exist, then so does the Loch Ness Monster.

If my little man were to have an Irish Twin, I would have to be pregnant right now. This feat is humanely impossible for two reasons:

1. I would have to ovulate.
2. I would have to have sex while said ovulation occurs.

Let's start with point 1: Ovulation. The occurrence of this life-producing phenomenon would not be surprising because of my stubborn eggs, but rather, because of the trauma my lady parts just experienced. Who goes back to the daily grind just three months after being hit by a train? My necessary parts and pieces are still in a coma and I can't say I blame them.

Onto point 2: sex. Ha! If I do not fall into bed already asleep, chances are good I'm wearing my homemade pumping bra and some form of pajama pant or legging while exuding a light scent of spit-up or sour milk. On the rare night my darling husband is either not already asleep or willing to overlook his formerly attractive wife's disheveled state, sex of some type might occur, but it was just this week that he said, "Well, at least this time I didn't feel like I was raping you." Lady parts in a coma do not wake up for a marital romp.

With both of these preposterous conditions needed for an Irish Twin, the mathematical odds are less than 0%. Rumors and sightings abound, but they are mere figments of our imagination.

Rat Race.

2012-02-19T18:29:00.000-08:00

As I sit here, two weeks away from the return to work, I'm thanking the AP of the past six years for what she did. No days were too long, no meetings too far, and no recommendation too trivial to charge forward and attack. Had I not, I may not be in a position to return to the office and make it work the way I want it to work. More importantly, though, I would not be as savvy when it comes to going after and getting that next job.

Truly, I do not know how this adventure ends. The fork in the road that either leads to daycare and more black shoes or juice boxes and cute flats is fast approaching and because perception is never reality, I'm waiting for the real world to arrive in its chariot before choosing my direction. I do, however, know a thing or two about being prepared and have started the sell-in should if I opt for playdates over Powerpoint.

In the past two to three weeks, I have appointed myself Director of Domesticity and taken on its roles and responsibilities with fervor.

Baby's laundry? Done!
Crying baby? Held!
Dinner? Made! Sometimes I'm even wearing an apron when my husband gets home.
Pantry staples including Fruity Cheerios and Fiber One Bars? Like fishes and loaves!
Kitchen? Always picked up!
Dog hair situation in living room? Less than two tumbleweeds at any time!
Taxes? Started!
Bills? Paid!
College Fund? Set up!
Bottles? Cleaned and sanitized!
Coffee? Always brewing!
Response to, "I'm going to be out of town one night this week"? "No worries! I've got everything under control at home!"

Upon my return to the office, life on the homefront will change drastically. Many of the extras I currently provide, will be victims of my juggling and land cracked on the floor. Cleaning and cooking will be the first to go, followed by grocery shopping and general cheeriness when he tells me he will be out of town again.

My strategy is simple. When it's time for that next promotion, making others acutely aware of the value you bring is an oft-employed approach. I want my maternity leave value to be so sorely missed that should I accept Director of Domesticity as a full-time position, I am the first candidate offered a signing bonus and stock options.

Hot Tip.

2012-02-18T09:08:00.000-08:00

I cannot horde a secret that has the potential to change so many lives! This, ladies, is how I did it:

Buy this book, love this book, implement what Suzy says and your baby will be soundly sleeping 12 hours in no time! She says it will work with babies up to 18 months old AND there is a special training plan for twins. I promise, it will be the best $11 you ever spent.

Plan Mastery.

2012-02-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

With several marathons under my belt, I know a training plan is the only way to approach seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Despite this, I had a dash of Mom guilt for forcing a training plan onto the new guy right away. "Is this one instance where you should live and let live?" my inner narrator asked. I didn't listen and just like his mom, this guy THRIVED with a plan.

He heard the laughter when I told people I would have him sleeping 12 hours by 12 weeks and said, "Don't worry, Mom! I'm on it!" In fact, he outperformed, beating his goal by one day. On the eve of his 12 week birthday he slept from his 7:30pm feeding until 7:30 in the morning. He woke up around 7:15 and spent the next 15 minutes, perfectly happy, cooing away until we entered to deliver breakfast. For those of you saying, "oh puh-lease, AP. Get over it. It was a fluke," it wasn't. He did it again last night.

I am so, so, so proud of him. He is proving himself a strong contender. I'd estimate he is in the top five percent of the field, if not age division champ!

I let him wear one of my old race medals for the day yesterday so he could gloat a bit over his accomplishment. I think I've got a competitor on my hands. (insert huge sigh of excitment/relief!)

Travel Bag.

2012-02-12T09:37:00.000-08:00

When I traveled frequently for work, I took pride in minimizing the pieces of luggage I carted on each adventure. No trip was too long for my black Kenneth Cole backpack and houndstooth Heys rollerbag. In profile, my width was three times its normal size with the backpack factor, but it was worth to avoid checking. I'm most proud of the time I traveled to Mississippi to Cape Cod to Seattle to Shreveport and back home with two carry-ons. Travel efficiency should have been a trait that went into my performance review.

Back at the homestead on maternity leave, I find more accessories tethered to me than I did boarding a plan for a night away. Working out in the basement involves a water bottle, an iPad to play soothing fan noise, a Jambox speaker to amplify the soothing fan noise, a baby blanket, baby swing, and a baby. A trip upstairs to pump requires six pumping parts, an iPad to play Toddler Radio, the Jambox speaker to amplify each variation of the Itsy Bitsy Spider or Wheels on the Bus, and a baby in a bouncy seat. Going to bed necessitates that 12 pumping parts, 2 bottles, and ALL electronics make it upstairs. Hopefully, the baby is already there.

It took me several weeks and several trips up and down the stairs, using every pocket available, before I applied my road warrior skills. Ladies, meet my Spring 2012 travel bag!

An orange canvas beach tote with faux leather piping that I picked up at Target over five years ago. When I depart the ground floor for an upstairs or downstairs arrival, I efficiently pack everything I need for the trip in question, grab the little munchkin and head out. It makes everyday in Mommyland feel like a vacation!

Duck, Duck.

2012-02-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

GOOSE! I've been tagged by Josey at My Cheap Version of Therapy. She had her little girl just a little over two weeks after I had my little guy and I'm secretly (well, not secretly now) hoping they meet and fall madly in love this day so she and I can be IRL friends!

The rules are below. However, I am not following them because, ladies, we have to make our own rules in this world!
1 - Post the rules. Check!
2 - Post 12 things about yourself. Deny. See this post for AP random factoids.
3 - Answer the 12 questions from the person who tagged you. Check!
4 - Create 12 new questions for the people you tag. Deny. Showering is a feat of skill and perseverance. If I come up with 12 questions, I deserve a Nobel Peace Prize.
5 - Tag 12 people and link them to your post. Semi-Deny! Consider yourself tagged if you read this and let me know who you are so I can link to your blog from here!
6 - Let them know that you tagged them. Semi-Deny! See above.

I apologize in advance for the formatting. Bold is out of control and I can't fix it. I'm not as crazy as this makes me seem!

The Twelve:
1. Who are your favorite blogs to follow? Any good recommendations?
I pretty regularly read everything on my blog roll and want to find great new blogs to read! If you read mine, let me know who you are and what your blog is so I can read yours and add you to my blogroll!

2. What tip(s) would you give to a beginning blogger?
Find your voice. Don't be sweet and sappy if you are more wry and sarcastic. Don't be serious if you're cavalier. If you don't write in your own voice it will not be authentic.

3. What is your occupation and what is your favorite part of that occupation?
I do marketing for a brand that everyone knows. It's stressful, but I love coming up with new ideas, convincing other people that my idea ROCKS, seeing the ad on TV and thinking, "I did that!"

4. What do you like to do in your spare time?
Read, workout, and currently sleep. With an almost 12 week old, sleep is a luxury! Loving him happens all the time, not just in my spare time!

5. What are the top 5 sites that you visit on the internet?
I wish I had five! I'm on Amazon, FB, and Gmail/Google most of the time.

6. What is your favorite vacation place and why?
Cape Cod. We grew up going there and my mother's family is from there. To me, it's a special place with reminds me of my childhood. It also has the most beautiful beaches in the world.

7. What is your favorite subject to blog about? AND how do you come up with ideas to blog about?
I blog about the amazing ridiculousness of everyday life. I don't blog until I've found the punchline. My ideas come from my experiences. When I fell asleep pumping, I knew I'd blog about it, but it took a few days to find the story that would make the reader laugh. When my due date got close and I was uncomfortable, I didn't want to just state that so I wrote a letter to my uterus. When I had my munchkin, I didn't want to regale the birth story with just the facts so I personified my uterus, who I'd been mad at for quite some time and told the story from her perspective. I just let my mind go until I have a story that makes me laugh. Then I start writing.

8. Tell us one unique fact about yourself.
In 5th grade I placed fifth in a New York State geography bee.

9. What is your favorite household decoration/decor?
My office desk and chair. I adore the colors and style. The space helps me be creative whether I'm writing posts or writing decks. Heck, here's a picture.

10. What is your favorite food?
Currently pretzel M&Ms.

11. What is your favorite book of all time and why?
Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. I love this because Holly is searching for something more that continually eludes her. Aren't we all?

12. What is your favorite movie(s) of all time and why?
Anything under 90 minutes. I get very stressed out sitting still and staring at the TV for longer than that!

Sleep Deprivation.

2012-02-06T18:05:00.000-08:00

When the world finds out you're pregnant, amidst the congrats and general happiness, there runs a theme about the Puritan work ethic this new being will require. "It's hard! SO HARD!" those on the other side say with your fear in their eyes, fully aware there is no going back for you.  Oh, I can't wait to try that on someone!

Like the rest of us, I heard this and was terrified.  Parenthood sounded as treacherous and backbreaking as working the coal mines, which I've never done but sounds hard when the West Virginia couple talk about it on Teen Mom 2. When we brought him home, I arrived with a headlamp and pickax, ready to go to work. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, relatively speaking, this was easy! Before you unfriend me, just hear it out.

I was so ready to turn into a zombie, that the ghoul with dark circles under her eyes I became seemed gorgeous! And, I went after this little munchkin with all I had. My husband still fondly remembers the week I raped him every night. How could I ever complain about something I wanted so badly? Sure, I was more tired than usual, but the way I saw it, this was no more exhausting than training for a marathon. If you just stick to the schedule, everything comes up roses.

I even had a little energy spurt two weeks ago when my husband was away for 10 days (in London and Paris...no one feel bad for him, please) and his parents and my parents split the time at our house. I was like my old self! Up until well past midnight and not out of bed until well past nine in the morning while the grandparents did their duty.

Things got even better when the little man slept through the night three times last week! We put him in his crib after his 7:30 feeding and he slept until 5:30 or 6! After a quick injection of an ounce of food, he was back in his crib until his 7:30am wake-up call.

With this, we have gotten into a nice little morning routine, which also helps reduce the so-called "craziness" of parenthood. I get up around 7:00 to prepare breakfast with the milkman while my husband changes and plays with the little guy. Bottle in hand, I head to the nursery so my husband can start the early morning feed while I wash bottles, brush my teeth, and never get dressed. I spend a lot of time in my robe these days, but that's a vote for comfort, not crazy! Once I've completed my Cinderella tasks, I take over the feeding while my husband gets ready for work. God help us all when I'm back on the job.

Anyway, with the little guy sleeping more soundly through the night, I have dropped the 2am pumping that used to accompany the 2am feeding. If he's not waking up, I'm not, either!   The price I pay for this is the size of my boobs at 7am. YOWZA! The milk is pounding the perimeter and searching for the escape hatch , which some of it has usually found. In case the picture has not been clearly drawn for you, I don't look like a million bucks first thing in the morning, but nonetheless, I thought I had it all under control until last Friday.

Me and the milkman were cozied up in my office chair for our 7am pump and I fell asleep. Yes, vacuum tubes were suctioning my nipples and I managed to sleep. Huh. I wonder if my husband is taking advantage of this. Regardless, it was a strange slumber during which I wondered where I was, what day it was, and how I got there. I knew everything was just dandy, though, because I could hear my husband talking to our son in his Mickey Mouse voice.

My engorged boobs were happily draining and I was happily dreaming. About rain. Awoken from my slumber, expecting a prince with a rose-shaped umbrella kneeling at my feet, I instead saw the Medela beakers overflowing onto me.

As I tried to clean up the mess and unhook myself from the machine, I knew without a doubt that I have absolutely nothing under control.

Consumer Research.

2012-02-04T06:55:00.000-08:00

Please note, this post is a filler post while I work on one about sleep deprivation that I am currently too sleep deprived to write.

It is time for me to begin planning for a new blog name and design. The content won't change but my uterus is starting to get seriously pissed off about the dusty reference. Knowing her, the dust will probably roll in as soon as the new look and feel are complete! She loves irony.

Please take a quick second to vote for your favorite new name on the right. It only took me an hour to configure a blogger poll and I'm going to use it, dammit! (See opening sentence for explanation of why it would take anyone an hour to learn the secrets of a blogger gadget.)

I want the name to convey my sardonic, yet sometimes sweet, personality AND be appealing. So, vote for the one you think you'd click on if you saw the link to it on someone else's blog.

If you have other suggestions, leave me a comment. There is no such thing as a bad idea at ts early phase of the project let's hear everything!

Oh, and if you have my blog listed in your blogroll but I do not have yours, please let me know so I can add you to mine. Or, if you'd like to add each other, let's do it! Free press is a wonderful thing!

Working Mom.

2012-01-28T11:45:00.000-08:00

It's done!

After talking about "the business" for 45 minutes, the major changes that have happened while I've been out, and the new intensity and fun of the office, I found the moment to interject with my new way or working.

"Well," the CMO said, "I am just so glad you're coming back. [Insert head of HR's name here] started a rumor that you wouldn't be back." We will come back to this comment in just a moment. Stay tuned.

"I'm coming back," I said, incredibly confident that he ~~wanted~~ needed me back, "but it's going to be a little different because I have two full time jobs now." I read the bullets in my head off to him in a pleasant and conversational tone. "So, I will be in the office four days a week and working from home one," I finished, "and I'll have a nanny at home so I will actually be able to work."

Without missing a beat he said, "That won't be a problem." Then his eyes got wide and he said, "Oh $hit. [Head of HR's name here] is going to have a problem with this. He's going to say that at your level you can't work at home."

I remained still and quiet, waiting for him to work out that if that were the case, our conversation had a very different ending. It took him only half a second. "Ok, you know what, I'll just tell them what you're doing. I won't even let it be a discussion."

"Great!" I said and we finished up our small talk before I headed out into the office to find my husband and child. For those of you who don't know, my husband and I work at the same place. He works for the parent company of the brand I work on and we all know the same people. His boss is good friends with my new boss so one of my talking points was, "And [husband's name here] will be in Dallas for one week every month, so I'll be managing everything then." He couldn't question this because he knows it's the case and knows my husband's boss needs him to be in Dallas. Sometimes being at the same place is wonderful!

I would like to go back to the HR portion of this post. If you've been following along and read the blood-boiling case of the untucked shirt, you know HR is not my biggest fan. "Why, you may ask, "did the head of HR start insinuating that I wouldn't be back and why was my boss immediately worried that he would say no to me working from home? Is it because HR is a bunch of morons?"

That accounts for at least 20%, but the balance comes from the simple fact that strong women disrupt the fragile harmony of the man's world in which we live and terrify men everywhere. And you know what? They should be terrified. Working motherhood, let's do this!

Tolling Bells.

2012-01-26T12:18:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, at 1:00, the bells are tolling for me.

I'm heading into the office, babe in arms, to talk to my new boss. Just thinking about it makes my chest tight, but it's happening.  If they want me badly enough, and based on a conversation I had last week with him after about 30% of the marketing team was laid off, he wants me back; I think they'll oblige.

There are now 19 people left in marketing and only three people are a higher level than me. That is pretty awesome, but if it doesn't work out, I am going to start a new career as a marketing consultant. Done and done.

The worst part about all of this is that I don't think it's going to work. I think he will tell me that I can absolutely have the flexibility I'm requesting, but the reality of my job probably won't make it possible without being 10 times more stressful. So, when I go back, I'll be entering into what I consider a three month trial period. Maybe it will be easier than expected, but if not, I may resign when the trial is over. I just hate this. I knew I would 10+ years ago and was right. This is the most difficult decision/scenario I've ever encountered!

On a positive, the little guy is fabulous - he's smiling and cooing all the time which is just a blast to see. I used to not understand those women who think every sound and movement their child makes is amazing and now I'm trying to capture all of his on film.

I'm bulleting out my "Polite Ultimatum" talking points here just to get them down:

1. I love my job (a little bit of a white lie) and want to come back and be part of this organization.
2. In the past two months I've picked up a second full-time job and everyone who does this has to figure out what is going to work for their specific situation.
3. In the time I've been in Marketing there has never been a female brand director, let alone one with children and now there are two (the dude I hate got laid off and now one of my friends is my counterpart, which is awesome) which is great. There is not an example to follow of how to do this so I want to be able to set the example for others.
4. Right now, to do this, I need flexibility. This means, i will be in the office a maximum of four days a week and working from home the other(s). I will have a nanny so I truly will be working and will let everyone know where I am and will be reachable/working.
5. I will not be able to do last minute meetings after 5:00. If the agency sends an invite for 6:00 at 4:30, I will decline it. It will also be difficult for me to do early morning meetings, but with some advance notice I can work on those.
6. When I'm here and when I'm working at home I will be full-on so that I can get more done in the same amount of time.

Notice how I don't ask. I'm going to rip a page out of the "How To Be A Man" playbook and simply state what I will be doing.  I will also gently tear a piece of cardstock from the, "But You're Still a Woman and Always Will Be" scrapbook and cross all of my fingers and toes nudge the universe toward the, "No problem!" response I want. If it's anything else, he gets my work badge and I say "See ya!" It is so scary to think that is an option. The achiever in me is screaming, "Don't you dare do that!" while the mom is softly and calmly suggesting I do what feels right.

Either way, I think I'll be able to sleep once the discussion is over. Oh wait, I have a nine week old baby. Probably not.

Feng Shui.

2012-01-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

Hi Uterus!

It's me again, AP. I hope you are enjoying some serious R&R after your star performance two months ago. What's that? You're in a hammock, on a beach, drinking a pina colada and being tended to by sumptious island boys? Well, I for on, am certainly not surprised. You and your cheeky little personality will never shock me again!

Before you dive back into that trashy romance novel, which I see hidden under your left wall, I have one last topic to cover off on with you: The Re-arrangement.

I appear to have underestimated your housekeeping ability more drastically than I originally thought. Initially, I assumed you were filled with dustballs and last week's takeout containers. This was an erroneous assumption. You are spic 'n span and always have been! All doubt was washed away (No pun intended; wink, wink!) when you ejected my little munchkin like it was just another day hangin' with the fallopian tubes. You, my dear girl, sparkle brighter than the little ones on Toddlers and Tiaras!

Now, I just learned that cleaning services come with a free re-arrangement of the furniture. While I appreciate your "go get 'em" attitude and focus on customer service, I would like to hire you back for a restoration. I'm a fan of your work, but also a creature of habit who misses the abode as it used to be. I'm confident you know what I'm referring to, but just so we don't have another bout of miscommunication, let me get specific.

While my stomach has shrunk, it's now spilling over my jeans just a bit more than it used to. It's also a little jiggly. Did you bring in new material in addition to moving things around? Please bring back the original material (I think it was tighter), and pull it closer to the center of the room.

It seems you shoved my hips to the corner of the room. Please inch them back.

My bottom is almost back to normal, but please push the junk away from the trunk. It's sticking out a little and just looks messy.

Last on the list are my boobs. Seriously, what did you do? My mother-in-law complimented them and a friend told me that my necklace looked fabulous dangling over the shelf on my chest. I can't complain too much about this one, but you may as well mash them back while you're moving everything else around.

What's that you say? The feng-shui is better now?? It most certainly is not!!

Why are you laughing?

Ute?

100 Calorie Pack.

2012-01-20T20:25:00.000-08:00

Even though I have not logged back into my Lose It app, which salaciously tempts me with every swipe by, I used it for so long that I am a human Lose It app. Without wanting to, I know the amount of calories in everything I consume. Please read the next paragraph in a robotic tone for the full effect:

Apple? 96. Veggie burger? 110. Slice of cheese? 70. Greek yogurt? 110. Oatmeal with raisins and almonds? 300.

I also know the calories burned by every form of physical activity. Please use same robotic tone when reading the next paragraph as was used in previous paragraph:

Elliptical for 30 minutes? Just under 300. Spinning class? 400. Swimming for an hour? 380. 45 minute walk? 60. Lifting weights for 20 minutes? 40.

Thankfully, I am only four pounds above my conception weight but this seems impossible because I'm not putting in the same time at the gym as I was while preggers. The answer to my fitness riddle is in the rhythmic whir of the pump. Euphoria struck when I learned 20 calories are burned for every ounce pumped. Just typing this while hooked up to the milkman, I appear to have burned 60+ calories.

Getting off on a quick and inappropriate tangent, why don't doctors prescribe pregnancy and pumping to overweight women? This is the easiest exercise I've ever done!

Back on track.

So ladies, every 5 ounce Medela bottle filled is our own personalized 100 calorie pack. Sure, I love the five yogurt-covered pretzels in the 100 calorie packs in my cupboard, but this one is my new favorite:

And when I open my freezer and see 2500 of my calories staring back at me in frozen milk form, it only confirms that my decision to pump was one of the smartest I've ever made.

I don't mind mooing if I'm a skinny cow.

Working Girl.

2012-01-18T12:16:00.000-08:00

I've known the dilemma ahead of me would wrench my stomach in knots since I was a sophomore in an introductory Sociology class in which we read The Second Shift. Of all the books I've read, this one had the most profound effect on me. For the first time, I understood the dilemma of the working woman. Prior to this book, I was aiming for the moon without thinking about my childbearing years. And so, at the end, I concluded that the career I wanted didn't mix well with kids and decided against the latter. Fast forward fourteen years ahead. I've double-crossed myself and am now confronting the age-old problem with forks in the road: one path remains untraveled.

On the right I have my career. Sometimes it feels like all I do is work and just under a year ago it paid off. I got a promotion that, quite honestly, surprised me because people my age don't usually get this promotion. It can be very stressful and annoying, but I'd be telling tales if I said it wasn't the slightest bit fun to be in charge. My mentor told me I may be the youngest person in the company to get to this level. And I'm a woman. Ha! I wish I could hang these superlatives on the wall. I love them.

On the left I have my perfect little guy and the all-important and all-consuming task of mothering. Do I really want this left to a nanny or daycare during the week? Financially, we could do this. It wouldn't be easy at first, but we could make it happen with some cuts. And what about competitive advantage? According to Econ 101 everyone should exploit the hell out of that, which my husband has at work and I have at home.  We work at the same place and he actually REALLY wants to make it to the executive level and has the support to get an all-access pass into the C-suite. Should I just give him my side of the reigns on this one?

There are two ways to finish the following sentence: I've worked my tail off to get where I am ...
1. so don't give it all up! Show your son that women have an important place in the working world.
2. so take a freakin' break!

I hate both these options.

The fork in the road that Robert Frost encountered only had two prongs. I'm drawing in a third.  A former boss once told me a plan, strategy, or recommendation is meaningless until it's on paper. Here's mine on "paper."

A week from Friday I have a meeting with my new CMO, who doesn't know me that well but has told me numerous times he hopes I'll be back. What I know about him is that he wants results but also has a fondness for a work-life balance that seems to only be reality in HR. I am bringing him my own terms for a return to work.

I want flexibility. I want one day off a week or one to two days to work from home. I will be in the office from 9-5 and, so help me God, if the agency schedules a review for 6:30 at 4 in the afternoon I will decline it with reckless abandon. I think I may hear that my job is not one that comes with these options, to which I will reply, "You don't know until you let me test it out."

I owe myself a shot at having the career I always thought I wanted and the family I didn't quite see coming.  However, I simply cannot be a Director at the office and Director of the Household  if I feel stretched or stressed to the max in either arena. I will lose my mind. So if the new CMO says, "Sorry, we can't do that," then neither can I. There is no bluffing.

And in the event that he thinks I'm bluffing, does anyone need a freelance brand marketer OR would anyone like to open an Etsy shop with me and just sell cute stuff?? I make a mean hostess apron.

God that sounds better than writing marketing decks.

Maternity Leave.

2012-01-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

Does anyone else feel like maternity leave is one long Saturday afternoon in college? If you think this is the most preposterous comparison you've seen in a long time, please read the signs below. You might reconsider.

You spend a good portion of the day in your pjs.
At least five times an hour, you tell yourself you will get dressed in 10 minutes.
You don't think you'll ever be able to drink again.
Everything you consume is take-out; can be made in the microwave; or was purchased, delivered or made by your mom.
Your "roommate" is known to throw-up and cry.
You spend a good amount of time trying to talk said roommate out of his or her teary mood and cleaning up after him.
You frequently stumble into bed at 4am.
You blare music (in some cases, white noise) at ear-splitting decibels.
You take pictures like you are on assignment for National Geographic.
You spend your free time watching MTV, HGTV, and Molly Ringwald movies, knowing all the while you should be doing something much more educational.

Anyone have any other signs to add?

Harmful Secret.

2012-01-09T16:45:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the worst piece of information the pregnancy club keeps on its "members only" list is the joy of post-vaginal childbirth sex. This, by far, is the rudest awakening.

I am going to cross union lines and let this nasty little secret out. Every mother within a three-mile radius is sniffing the traitor scent in the air, but this must get out even if it means I'm bludgeoned with Pampers and rattles.

Here it goes...

Have no fear about being wider than the Mississippi after successfully passing your adorable little football. That's a waste of a worry. Be very afraid, however, of sex after your doctor tells you to resume all activity.

I will let you discover this on your own, but know there is an upside. If you didn't lose your virginity to your husband or partner, this is your chance to experience that wonderful moment with him. Heck, if the proof of his carnal knowledge wasn't lying over in the crib, you might both believe it was your first time.

I have to go. I hear a stampede headed my way.

Milkmaid. Moo!

2012-01-07T14:31:00.000-08:00

Here I sit, being milked by a bucket-shaped, yellow milkman, utilizing a homemade pumping bra, wondering how I got here. The universe and my uterus will laugh at this next statement: this wasn't the plan.

Let me first state that I despise all the judging that goes on about how a woman chooses to feed her child.  Motherhood comes with a hefty serving of pressure and self-doubt. We certainly do not need others in the club looking down on our decisions. This is survival, folks. Live and let live.

That said, I'm going to judge the Leche League. It sounds like a cult of well-endowed women who weren't let into Junior League (another weird one) and decided to form a group so self-righteous, they could look down on others but not be looked down upon themselves. There. I'm done.

I never wrote about what I would do, more than to say that breastfeeding was not for me, which was true at the time.  I have a huge aversion to anything coming near my nipples as well as a love of efficiency. Being able to divvy up the feedings, not being used mainly as a food source, and the lesser number of times a day a formula-fed baby needs to be fed made my choice easy-peasy.  I referred to the high-cost of formula as the price one must pay for freedom.

When I had the munchkin, I remained comfortable with my decision and the nurses promptly handed me infant Similac. It was wonderful. He slept in the nursery both nights in the hospital where he was fed by the nurses and my husband and had many opportunities to partake in the feeding action.

When my milk came in and I looked like Pamela Anderson, I laughed, put on the tightest sports bra I own, and iced myself down. Everytime he cried or drank from his bottle I leaked all over the place. At the end of each day, I had to peel my milk-drenched sports bra from my chest.  My boobs, however, shrunk to Punky Brewster size, so I was happy.

A funny thing happened around Day 10. Soul-crushing guilt invaded and my milk, which was on its way out, made a strong resurgence. "What am I doing?!" I thought to myself as I fed him and milk dripped out. "I have milk made just for him that I'm letting go to waste! I must be the worst mom EVER!"

What amazes me about this is the amazing feats our bodies perform. Knowing the opportunity was just about gone and I hadn't responded to the intense leaking of the past week and half, in its last-ditch effort, my body surged strong hormones through me triggering guilt and subsequent desire to bottle what was oozing out of me.

When my son was two weeks old I rented a pump. I almost left the store when they told me I would need to pump every three hours. I hemmed and hawed with the lactation consultant, my former formula-only self battling the raging hormones, until the hormones won out. Since then, I hook myself up to the milkman six or seven times a day to get the milk I so hated earlier on.

I quickly learned that without a hands-free solution, pumping is not efficient so I fashioned a pumping bra out of an old sports bra. (Note: if you attempt this at home, I recommend making the cuts once you take the sports bra off.  I almost took off a nipple, thus decreasing the chances I would ever milk myself again.)

Every three hours I come up to my office, a space usually reserved for deck-writing, and extract. My boobs are large again and the leaking situation is back, although in a much less aggressive manner than immediately after birth. And while I would still argue that the cost of formula is the price you pay for freedom, I now know that a baby naturally takes your freedom, whether formula-fed or suckling at your boob, and you just don't care.

I am fully aware that I have prolonged the experience of drying myself out, gone against my initial stance, and will have to decide whether or not I continue milking once work rears its ugly head.  For now, though, tie a bell around my neck and call me Bessie.

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

College Girl.

2012-01-03T08:08:00.000-08:00

I am just back from my six week check-up and the first post-pregnancy weigh-in. Everytime I got the urge to jump on the scale, I found some other babycare duty calling my name and haven't really thought much about my weight since giving birth. It's been luxurious.  Today the scale and I faced off and I was relatively pleased with what it spit back at me.  Here's a brief history of my weight intended to create a drumroll for the great REVEAL! (Said in the same dramatic tone a magician would use when whisking away a cape to reveal a bird where there was not on previously.)

When I was running 30+ miles a week, I never thought about what I was eating or what I weighed. I hovered around 125 without any management.

When I could no longer run, I noticed my pants getting a little tighter and I embarked on a quest to lose five pounds. Being an obsessive person, I could not stop at five, and when I went to the doctor because my period had gone missing I weighed 113. Oops.  She told me to stop working out like a maniac. Thanks doc.

In a short period of time, I gained eight pounds and punched in at 121 when I became pregnant.  When I first saw the doctor at eight weeks, I was 125. Over the course of the next 32 weeks, I gained another 24 pounds, maxing out at 149 and 1/2. The nurse never had to slide the big bar over to 150, thank goodness!

Today, I was 128. Not. Too. Shabby. My biggest concern is what number I should target, because I will hit it and then some and I just need to exercise some self-control when it comes to knowing when to stop. 113 is a bit too low and previously turned me into a period-free Olympic athlete, but 125 feels like I'm not even trying. I guess I'll take the middle, an area I hate to inhabit, and aim for 120.

Oh, and why is this called college girl? Because I am the same weight I was on a good day in college when I could pound 10 beers in an evening and go to class the next day. I still have a pair of jeans from that era that I am going to unearth and live like a college girl for the next few weeks, sans the ridiculous amount of alcohol they used to pair so well with.

New Protector.

2011-12-31T14:23:00.000-08:00

Our dog was our first child.  We rescued him, just a month after we were married, from an owner who beat him regularly and finally had him taken away when the neighbors found him beaten unconscious. Teak (the wood, not the frat), like all Golden Retrievers, has a huge heart and amazed us with his ability to trust and love us immediately despite his treacherous background.  The only scars remaining from his previous life are a fear of trash bags and an inability to bark. Physically, he can bark, but we've only heard him do it once or twice.

With him, the three of us started a new family. Lots of doggie treats, loads of doggie toys, walks in the park, and even a visit to the dog beach in Chicago were some hallmarks of our life.  We would throw him in the car for the 10 hour drive home to NY for holidays and invite him up to the empty space on the couch to watch a movie. When my friend died last February he let me hug him and cry for days and then followed me around the house for weeks, knowing at any moment I might say, "Teak, I need a hug." He is the third member of our family.

For the entire pregnancy, we wondered how he would react when we came home from the hospital three people instead of two. We tried to help him see the impending change as a positive by telling him he would soon have a boy of his own to teach the art of squirrel hunting, but wondered how he would react to the new direction of the spotlight.

When we first brought the munchkin home, Teak was very curious, but not overly interested. I excitedly introduced him and if dogs could talk, he would have said, "I've been TELLING you two this guy is coming! Couldn't you smell him?!?"

Since our homecoming, as predicted, poor Teak has not gotten his usual share of attention and has willingly handed it over to his future best friend. I've been feeling very guilty about his transition from first place to second and wondering how he feels about the new little guy who is receiving all the attention Teak used to and then some. This week, he made his feelings very clear.

One of my new maternity leave/housewife duties is to bring in the mail. The other day, I opened the door to grab it and was met by the mailman walking up our front steps. As is usual, Teak ran to the door as soon as he heard it open. In a marked departure from the usual, however, as the mailman stepped toward me and handed over the mail, my barkless, docile dog lunged and let loose six of the deepest barks I've ever heard. I pulled him away and apologized profusely all the while wondering what had gotten into him.

Two days after that, I was sitting on the couch burping the munchkin when I heard several rapid-fire deep, threatening barks. Teak happened to be in the backyard. "Is that him?" I wondered. Thirty seconds later, the front doorbell rang.

"Hello ma'am," the meter reader said, "I need to read your meter. I was petting your dog and he was fine but as soon as I tried to open the gate he really started barking."

"I'm so sorry," I said, munchkin in hand, "he's a little protective."

"That's because of that little guy," the meter reader said. "Don't worry about it, he's just doing his new job."

Whether we like it or not, there's a new dog in town.  He's decided his job is to guard the house, the yard, and his family and is taking it very seriously. I've hugged him several times since and thanked him for being such a wonderful protector. Although his danger recognition skills need a little work, I know that as long as he is around he will fiercely guard us and let us know of any threats or service workers headed our way.

Keeping a close eye.

Caught Unaware.

2011-12-28T10:56:00.000-08:00

When the battle of my uterus and I began, I was fighting just to fight. Always a contender when challenged, I eagerly stepped into the ring determined to win but unsure of what I hoped to gain. Yes, the endgame was pregnancy, but there were times when the ghost of AP Past haunted me with ugly questions. "Are you sure about this?" she asked in a matter-of-fact voice when I was drinking wine or planning a weekend trip. "This will change everything. May I remind you of our Just Say No policy on kids?"

I filed her warnings away under “Things To Worry About Some Other Time” and moved on.

When I jubilantly knocked my uterus down for the count with two lines back in March, a tiny fear of which I could not speak, also began blooming inside me. What if, all along, I’d only wanted to win? Suddenly, there was no “other time” to worry about this. Cells were rapidly multiplying inside of me so my trophy would be done in time.

Luckily, the only thing AP Past got right was that this has changed everything. How naïve I was and how little I knew about motherhood has been most surprising since having my munchkin. Unlike Rod Stewart, I don’t wish that I knew what I know now beforehand because had I, discovering it would not be nearly as sweet and shocking. I was caught unaware of so much and am overflowing with happiness to have found these treasures waiting for me on the other side*.

I am surprised that I don’t mind the exhausting work that is baby-care. I don't bound out of bed with joy when he beckons at 3am, but I adore taking care of him. I even laughed when he filled up his diaper three seconds after his bath.

My husband and I are BOTH stunned that getting back into fighting shape is the last thing on my mind.
Holy crap, I haven’t even weighed myself yet!

I didn’t recognize my own voice when I said, “The thought of going back to work makes me ill.” My husband didn’t recognize me, either. I am in the process of thinking through how work will work.

I am baffled by my own demonstration of womens’ competitive advantage in mothering. Prior to giving birth I said, more than once, “I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.” Boy, was I wrong. Somehow, I know what he needs and how to soothe him. My capabilities leave my husband’s in the dust! We may have to fight for equality in the boardroom, but when it comes to mothering, men should be terrified to enter the competition.

Along those same lines, I marvel at my confidence even though I have only five weeks experience on the job. I am not scared or overwhelmed by the enormous task of caring for him. At work, I sometimes question the decisions I make. At motherhood, I do not. One night he was crying (a frequent occurrence these days) so I picked him up, placed him on my chest, and he immediately quieted down. “How did you know to do that?” my husband asked with a tinge of jealousy. “No idea,” I responded leaving him a bit baffled.

I am bowled over it has taken me 32+ years to discover the best feeling in the entire world: him curled up asleep on my chest.

I am dumbfounded by the genius of my biological clock. It started ticking away when I hit 30, warning me that if I didn’t get on it, I might miss out on these discoveries. At the time, I thought it was just ticking for ticking’s sake.

I am taken aback by the naiveté I exhibited when I believed he would fit into my life. That’s not how this works. He is the key to a world I didn’t know existed.

I am shocked at the feeling of happiness and total fulfillment that someone so small has brought with him. There was a tiny hole in my heart I didn’t know needed filling until I saw him.

Lastly, I am startled that the girl who grew up with three brothers finds so much joy in another little boy who will be rambunctious, get dirty, and never wear pink. I didn’t know it before I saw him, but I didn’t want pink. I wanted him.

*In case anyone is wondering, writing that is unlike me. I’ve been called a bitch more times than I care to remember so to find myself overflowing with happiness is just odd.

Holiday Drinks!

2011-12-23T16:27:00.000-08:00

Has anyone else noticed the inappropriate resemblance between eggnog and breast milk?

My little munchkin feels like he's one of the uncles when he sucks this down and the uncles are terrified I am going to spike their drink with a very personal contribution.

Merry Christmas to all!

Acceptance Post.

2011-12-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

I've been awarded! I'd love to act meek and humble but I love adding these to my blog. Thank you Lola at Waiting for Baby for the Tell Me About Yourself Award.! Everyone please go say hello and follow Lola.

The Tell Me About Yourself Award encourages recipients to open up a little more in the blogosphere, something I'm not great at. Here are the steps to successfully activating the TMAY award:

1. Thank the person who awarded you. (Check!)
2. List 7 things people may not know about you.
3. Pass it on to 15 other bloggers and don't forget to notify them.

I suppose there is a lot you don't know about me, so activating the TMYA shouldn't be hard:

1. I believe it's my fate to be surrounded by men. I have three brothers, a male dog, three men who work for me, and now; a son. The Barbie Dreamhouse I've been saving in my parents attic may never see the light of day.
2. The beach, a book, and spf 2 are three ingredients to the perfect day.
3. People who cannot make a decision for themselves make my skin crawl.
4. My favorite book is Breakfast at Tiffany's. Skip the movie. In fact, skip all movies and go for the book. Kindles don't count.
5. Michael Phelps is the second most annoying person on earth. His mom wins most annoying.
6. I want to hide the facebook people who post ten times a day about how awesome their mundane lives are but would miss the mundane part of my day when I check up on them.
7. It's taken me days worth of hands-free pumping installments to wrote this post. TMI?

And while I was attempting to write this over the course of the past few days (babies take a lot of time!), Tigger at Life's Little Reflections gave me the Liebster award. Go say hello and follow along with her as well.

The Liebster Blog Award spotlights blogs with fewer than 200 followers and provides them with a few more avid readers. The Liebster works by following these steps:
1. Copy and paste the award on your blog. (probably a good idea with the TMAY Award as well)
2. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you. (done!)
3. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.

And now for the awarding. Here's the deal. Awarding 20 blogs is aggressive, so I'm awarding not following that rule. Sorry Gods of blog awards.

I'd like to give the TMAY award to the following fabulous gals:

JM at Meier Madness. She's having a rough couple days - please go visit.
Tigger at Life's Little Reflections. Yes, she gave me the Liebster - right back atcha, Tigger!
Miss Conception who has had a ridiculously difficult few months. Lady, I know an award doesn't make everything ok, but I hope it makes you smile.
Maria at Mission: Fertile Seoul. She and her DH are in the process of adopting from Korea, hence the nifty play on words.
Rebecca at Trying Not to Scream. She is pregnant with twins!
Baby Crazy Kiwi. She is riding the TTC rollercoaster for all its worth - go say hello and follow along.

Moving on the the Liebster. I'm giving this one to four women who were pregnant at the same time as me and have recently had their beautiful babes. While I was pregnant I really enjoyed reading their blogs and hearing from them as we were all going through this at the same time. I desperately hope everyone out there gets the same happy ending.

Kksaun at The Road Less Traveled.
Bridget at The Lost Stork.
Josey at My Cheap Version of Therapy.
Elphaba at Yolk.

Pinch Hitter.

2011-12-19T09:03:00.000-08:00

TGFG.

THANK GOD FOR GRANDMA! Keep those reindeer that could run her over FAR from us.

My appreciation for my mother is currently equivalent or greater than what it was around age six, when Mom was the love of my life. I don't know that I would have survived last week if not for her.

When I went into labor, wee called both sets of grandparents who immediately started caravanning from the northeast down to our neck of the woods. My parents stayed for two weeks and when they left, harsh reality set in. The amount of laundry one small person generates, the number of times bottles must be sterilized, and how to turn the sterilizer on had all been shielded from me by my mom who let me navigate through recovery and gaze at my perfect little guy while she ran the house.

My parents left on a Sunday. My husband started going to work regularly again on Monday, which was also the day I learned how naive I'd been to equate maternity leave with vacation. Diapers, bottle, laundry, screaming, and finding time to eat proved challenging. In the months before, I'd fancied myself a modern day Donna Reed while on maternity leave. I believed a healthy, yet tasty, dinner would be prepared each evening by me, but this started feeling farfetched when the logistics of showering presented themselves. If I couldn't handle water alone with an infant, I was certainly not attempting fire. Takeout and Campbell's soup would have to suffice.

So, two days after my parents left me sobbing at the front door, babe in arms, I called home and asked if Mom could come back the following week. Head over heels in love with her grandson, she happily obliged. She couldn't have gotten here soon enough! Last week, my husband was out of town for one night, leaving me absolutely exhausted. When mom walked through the door, I handed over the loveable boy and said, "do you mind if I do to my work Christmas party in about three hours?"

Mind?! She loved the idea of being alone with her boy. (I let her think he's hers.) I put on makeup, spit-up free clothes and ventured out into the world of adults for a few hours.

When I returned, I found I had time to sleep a little bit, wash bottles, and pump. Umm yes, that's right and totally weird for me, but when my milk still wasn't gone after two weeks, I rented a pump. It's the universe or my uterus playing one final trick on my breast-feeding hating self. I can still hear her in the background saying, "Nope, milk's not gonna go away AP until you extract some. Take that!"

That is a post unto itself. I am officially the cow I never wanted to be. Gawd, motherhood changes you.

So, whether your mom is a grandma or not, please give her a hug because even though you fight with her and probably went through a phase in your teenage years or twenties where she was the most moronic person you'd ever had the pleasure of encountering, Mom's totally rock!

Best Investment.

2011-12-15T07:13:00.000-08:00

I just spent the best five dollars and ninety-nine cents of my life!

After spending no less than four hours next to the microwave exhaust fan and contemplating how to safely hook my sleeping three week old to it, I discovered The White Noise for Babies album. I downloaded all 100 tracks including the chart toppers "Upright Fan" and "Real Vacuum."

I am no longer chained to the microwave or a slave to the noisemaker in the nursery. Me and my little guy are mobile and happy!

Dire Warning.

2011-12-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

If you have a child who is under three weeks old:

and

Believe the loophole in the doctor's "no exercise" orders is the number of times you go up and down the stairs in a day.

Believe that the average person would not be able to tell you gave birth less than three weeks ago.

Couldn't be less interested in what you actually consume everyday or ever hope to remember, but believe it can't be more than a few Fiber 1 Bars and a handful of calcium chews.

Have not weighed yourself yet since delivery.

Want to believe the benefit of working out four times a week while pregnant is bound to reveal itself sooner or later.

DO NOT:

Try on a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans. Even if they are the "big" ones. It doesn't end well.

Recovery Road.

2011-12-04T10:23:00.000-08:00

A mere two weeks ago, I was experiencing MAJOR labor apprehension. As the day got closer I found myself fearfully wondering about mechanics.

1. Would my water break?
2. Would I be able to discern between real and fake contractions? This, by the way, turned out to be a novice question. The real ones storm in like a furious gale and assault their victim with invisible heated metal objects.
3. Would it hurt more than running a marathon? No need to worry on this one, either. With drugs, the answer is no. It's unfortunate that an epidural doesn't make for a personal best marathon time.
4. C-section?
5. Would it happen at night? At work? On it's own or with copious amounts of pitocin?
6. Would I cry? Scream? Poop?

Good lord, it was overwhelming.

What surprised me most about labor, is actually quite surprising. Granted, it's different for everyone, but my key takeaway is that it's not all that bad. Sure, the contractions take your breath away and leave you in a state that only Bellatrix Lastrange can mimic. And yes, there is very little dignity remaining on your person when it's all said and done, but for me, the hours I labored had more in common with an Extreme Adventure vacation than a turn of the century sweatshop. Minor pain, moderate pain, fuck me it's happening again pain, giant needle, nap, push, push, and a pop (no poop) is how it went for me.

What I never gave a second thought to was the recovery. Could I do the prep over again, I would focus my nerves on the three or four days post-delivery instead of wasting them on the labor. Here I am one day before my due date blissfully unaware of what was around the corner:

Of course, I knew if I had a C-section the recovery would be difficult with no stairs for at least two weeks and no abs for the forseeable future. I did not know that if you deliver the "regular" way there is a recovery that involves cooling pads, Tucks, sitz baths, horse dosages of Motrin, stool softeners, and using your newborn's new Boppy as a cushion on every chair you gently sit that bottom down upon.

I don't write this to scare anyone, but rather to help you focus your anxieties as I did not. Of course, maybe you already know. Maybe I was the only naive pregnant lady out there, but I doubt it.

When I woke up at 3am the morning after delivering with a searing pain in my crotch, I knew I should not have taken my friends' warnings lightly. When a friend texted the following day and said to take stool softener early and often I quickly obeyed and thanked her hundreds of times over three days later when it finally took effect. I was almost as elated as when I produced my son! When I talked to a friend who has a son two weeks older than mine and we discovered we were both using the Boppy as a seat cushion, I knew we had both been brutally unaware of what lay in wait after the baby lay in our arms.

And so, do what you please with the warning. I know I would not have listened. However, there is silver lining around recovery so bright it could be toxic. It was worth it. I would do it again in under half a second for this little munchkin.

Spilt Milk.

2011-12-01T17:26:00.000-08:00

I know the expression but my body isn't obeying.

Prior to the hormonal rollercoaster I hopped aboard last Tuesday, I made the decision not to breastfeed. I think that is a personal decision and while almost everyone I know has chosen to do it, I did not. It is just one of those things I knew would put me over the 'new mom' edge. I definitively told every nurse I encountered during my 36 hour hospital stay that I was not breastfeeding. I don't mean to imply I was obnoxious about it. I wasn't, but when they would comment, "You're breastfeeding, right?" I calmy and directly responded, "No," and left it at that.

My boobs turned into bowling balls last Friday and everytime my little guy cried or I rocked him to sleep, bottle of Similac in hand, I ended up with wet spots on my shirt. I was 100% fine with this until today. Today, for some reason, when I stepped out of the shower and saw milk streaming down my chest for the tenth or so time, I burst into tears. I think my body is trying to hedge its bets right now. I feel everything starting to dry up and sense my body's dying energy spurt. It is using every hormone in its aresenal in this all-out emotional attack.

I was feeling incredibly guilty for most of the day today. I was questioning my decision and beating myself up for being so damn selfish. "Ugggg, AP," I said to myself, "it's not about you, what are you doing?"

Late in the afternoon, however, I overheard my husband having a discussion with his son. His head was bent over the downstairs Pack 'n Play and I heard this, "Hey there! You are my favorite person in the world and my favorite time of day is when I get to feed you!"

Damn the hormones, I got teary-eyed again. And so, even though I am harboring more liquid guilt than liquid gold, I think when the the hormonal assault is over, I will feel much better about the original decision. Either that, or it will crush my sould for the rest of my life. Ha! I hope it's just the hormones!

Clean Sweep.

2011-11-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

Looking back at it, the story of how my little guy debuted only makes sense in a world where my uterus follows this blog. She's here using a non-descript profile picture and marking every word I publish.

I say this because she had something to prove. Tired by the trite public mockery of her housekeeping, she'd been planning Tuesday since I hurled my first passive-aggressive cleaning tip. Like a Kenyan at the starting line, my ute showed up prepped to make the amateurs feel foolish. "Dustbunnies?" she whispered questioningly in my ear before commencing, "well aren't you a silly girl." With that the games began.

Tuesday morning, I awoke twenty minutes before my alarm to an uncomfortable and slightly painful sensation in my lower stomach. I exhaled just quietly enough to not wake my husband and assumed the next half hour would be another uncomfortable bout of squeezing and cramping brought on by fake contractions. My theory held for 30 seconds until the pain disappeared.  Excited that my anticipated 30 minutes had only been 30 seconds, I burrowed back into my six pillows and decided to sleep until the alarm.

Seventeen minutes later the same painful sensation came on. Again, I breathed out and even though I was two days past my due date I thought, "This isn't it." I had no logical reason for thinking this except that my forty week-two day work outfit was laid out at the foot of the bed and my calendar was jam-packed with meetings that would let me be very contentious. That was enough.

Fifteen minutes later, well into my snooze routine, it happened again. Then 12. Then 12 again, by which point my husband was working through his snooze routine as well. When I heard him start to get up, I knew I had to verbalize what might be happening.

"Hey," I said in my best Tuesday morning casual voice, "before you go to the gym, I thought you should know that something might be happening."

"Ok," he said in as just a fake calm and casual tone, "what?" I told him about the past hour. He whipped his iPad off his bedside table and started googling early signs of labor. While he read about stomach hardness and timing, my ute sent me another message.

"Uggg," I grunted, "it's happening again. Hurts a little more." I felt my stomach. "And my stomach's hard."

"I think this is it!" my husband said excitedly.

"No, no, not yet," I responded not able to believe the day had arrived, "but I don't think I can go to work. This hurts too much."

From her vantage point, my uterus slapped me across the face. "Are you serious?" she shouted, "the prelude has started and you think this is just a sick day!?! This one is UNBELIEVABLE!"

I somehow got out of bed, showered, had coffee and toast, emailed work that I might possibly be in labor and wouldn't be in, set my out of office, called off contraction start times to my husband so he could monitor progress, and checked my personal email. In it, I found one from my OB college roommate asking if I had any updates. "Funny you should ask," I replied, "I might be in labor now." I provided the details and channeling my uterus, she responded in seconds with, "Yes, it sounds like you are! If you can, wait until the contractions are 3-5 minutes apart before you go to the hospital."

"Thank you!!" my uterus shouted to the universe, "my power has made itself clear!"

Knowing I still wasn't convinced, my husband called the doctor so one more professional could confirm what my uterus was saying while I settled into the couch to wait out the dustbag. Luckily, a '16 and Pregnant' marathon was airing so I was able to boost my parenting confidence in those last few hours before becoming one myself.
The doc called us back and confirmed that this was probably it and we should head to the hospital when the contractions were 5-7 minutes apart. To scare us, my uterus hit me with three contractions, two minutes apart as soon as I hung up the phone. Now fearing the old girl had spent the night doing some serious dusting, we threw the last few necessities in my bag, hugged the dog, and headed out the door.

Happy to have our attention, my ute calmed down in triage. The contractions spaced themselves back out but lest I tell my husband to pull the car around, she enhanced the intensity.  The spiked iron belt around my stomach made me lose my breath, curl my toes, and take on the overall appearance of t-rex, gnashing teeth included, about every seven minutes.

Only when the nurse said I would be admitted, could get an epidural as soon as my bloodwork was done, and would likely deliver that day did I believe any of it was real. My annoyed uterus took a moment to say, "Told ya so," and pushed onward.

At 2:00, eight hours since my uterus woke me and five centimeters dilated, I had the epidural.  OH SWEET AMBROSIA OF THE GODS! For the next two hours, protected by a paralyzing force-field, I finished the book I was reading and dozed for a bit while my uterus hurled lightning bolts and Windex my way.

At 4:00 I was nine centimeters dilated. "What do you think about that dust now?" my ute asked, "I employ a full time staff of cleaners, own two Dysons and chair the Murphy's Oil Soap Executive Board. Betcha didn't know that, huh?"

At 5:00 the room transformed into the Star Wars Death Star. The bottom part of the bed was ripped away, a probing light came down from the ceiling taking direct aim at my crotch, and stirrups swiveled up a foot in the air over my legs from a secret compartment. I heard my uterus' surprise. "Oooh, didn't know about all this," she said apologetically.

"It's almost time to push," the nurse said, "this is where you lose all your dignity," in case I hadn't deduced that by witnessing the soothing spa to torture chamber renovation they'd just completed.

My husband was asked to take one leg and saddle 'er up while the nurse took the other and gave me a quick, and very helpful pushing lesson. "Oh wow, Dad" she said when my legs went up, "look at his hair!" Turns out the doctor hadn't been lying when she told me his head was RIGHT THERE at every cervical check.

Around 5:30 the contraction came and I pushed. When it was over, the nurse asked if I wanted a mirror down there.

"I don't think so," I grimaced thinking of my overall squeamishness and a recent episode of "Up All Night."

My uterus had different plans. "REALLY, AP!?" she shouted in horror, "you doubt my hygiene for over a year, talk to me like the author of a self-help book and now you don't want to see what I'm capable of?! Get. The. Mirror."

The mirror came over.

"I need to get the doctor," the nurse said, "otherwise, I'm delivering this baby by myself!"

At 5:45, a team of delivery people came in with more instruments, ointments, and tables and got ready to bring this little guy into the world. Iodine and mineral oil were smeared all over my nether regions and the top of his head as the doctor got into position.

"Ok," my uterus said, "it's showtime. Keep your eyes opened and focused down there. Here we go!"

With two pushes a head shot out of my crotch. I stared in amazement at this new limb growing out of my vag while it was suctioned and wiped.

"One more push!" the doctor said.

"Endust!" my uterus mockingly shouted and at 6:04 swept my son out into the world.

Through tears, I said hello to the crying ball of boy on my chest and thanked my ute for choosing benevolence. Were she vengeful, I would have experienced a 24 hour labor with several hours of pushing, inevitably ending with a C-section. Instead, she brought her A-game to the table and demonstrated the full breadth of her skill and the full error of my perceptions with less than 12 hours of labor from the moment I first denied it was happening to the second I held my baby for the first time.

My uterus is now happily resting with the knowledge that her power and cleanliness will not be underestimated again. My husband and I are resting very little but have never been this happy before.

Thanks Ute.

2011-11-23T20:03:00.000-08:00

I love my uterus for acting on my letter, but not nearly as much as I love the little guy it expelled from its clutches yesterday. I had no idea it is possible to love this much, this deeply, or this purely.

In a few days I will post how it all went down, but for now, on this Thanksgiving Eve, I want to publicly dedicate every ounce I have of thanks to my not so dusty uterus. She knew what she was doing all along.

Love Letter.

2011-11-19T13:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Uterus,

Hi. I know it's been a long time since we talked. I'm really sorry about that. I can't begin to imagine how used you must feel. I asked you to clean yourself up, you obliged, got stretched to the max, kicked from all angles, and I lost interest.  I am sure the past few months have been stressful as you've no doubt spent them fretting about how long it will take to snap back to your original size while I've gone about my days not giving you a second thought and doling out attention to your inferior brother, the cervix. I see the error of my ways and am genuinely mortified by what a selfish ass I've been. Please forgive me.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's talk like we used to!

You are hereby granted my whole-hearted permission to start acting up. Let's see what you've got!  The time has come for you to fulfill your destiny and do what you were born to do! I know, I know, for the past few weeks my message has been, "Don't you DARE!" but I'm lifting the restriction. Tomorrow's the day that the medical community has deemed yours for the taking. Don't disappoint!

"You're worried about me?" you say. Well, let me calm your fears. I have hit all of our "prep" deadlines. The nursery is done, the bottles and clothes are washed, the diapers are stacked, the car seat is installed, the batteries are purchased, and the curtains are up. I even bought some cushiony pillow-like maxi pads so you can just let it all out after an exhausting nine months.

I hope you noted that both times the doctor kindly offered to strip my membranes I kindly refused. That was for you. I don't want anyone interfering with, what is bound to be, your star performance.

I must warn you, however, that I was not allowed to leave the doctor's office without scheduling an induction date just in case you're feeling stubborn this week. I've gone back and forth on whether to give you the real date or tell you it's going to happen sooner to kick you into gear, but in the spirit of sisterly camraderie, I'll be honest. You've got one week. The bell tolls for you at midnight on Friday, at which point, you will be forced to contract by outside influence.  I know this isn't your style, so let's just remove that from the consideration set, ok? Contracting against your will is sure to be hard on both of us.

I will do my part. I walked two miles today FOR YOU!  I cleaned, cooked, and wandered around Target for an hour! Did that get you a little excited? Tomorrow I'll bounce on a bouncy ball and may even consider sex, but let's be honest, that is a joke right now. If that's what it's going to take, though, I'll do it for the team. Whales must have sex to reproduce so I guess it's not that unnatural.

Ute, this is your show. Seize the spotlight and don't look back!

Sincerely,
AP

Pregnancy Generosity.

2011-11-13T09:43:00.000-08:00

I am amazed by how many friends have generously offered up helpful tips and useful baby gear as D-Day approaches. My sister-in-law has made sure we have enough onesies for the first three months of this child's life. A very fashionable friend in Colorado sent us a jackpot of the best baby clothes we've seen that involve lots of Polo insignias and a onesie with crabs all over it ala the J. Crew pants! A co-worker pulled me aside and said, "Lotrimin! That's what you need for diaper rash!" And the outpouring of gifts from our actual registry leaves us with nothing left to purchase at the dreaded Babies R Us.

On Friday, however, I refused my first pregnancy offer. This one happened at the doctor's office. Right before we commenced Cervical Check #3, my doctor asked how the week had been. I told her I'd lost my ankles sometime on Wednesday and had continued experiencing uncomfortable cramping. "Sleeping with all the cramping was difficult on Tuesday. It's not painful," I continued, "just very uncomfortable."

As she snapped her latex glove into place I saw a twinkle in her eye.

"You know," she said in a sing-songy voice, "if you'd like I can go ahead and strip your membranes right now!" The twinkle transformed to an all out fire.

"WHAT is that?" I shouted back while doing my best not to bolt upright on the table.

"Well, it releases some chemicals that can kick you into labor."

"No." I said and then paused, "No, I'm good."

The doctor laughed and looked at my husband, "She's not THAT uncomfortable, then."

"You guys really need a better name for that," I told her. "Stripping the membranes sounds awful."

"Yeah," my husband jumped in, "some better branding would go a long way." The three of us brainstormed names while she dove into my lady parts.

I know that the medical field is more focused on procedures than presentation, but stripping the membrane sounds like a cross between something done during a 7th grade fetal pig dissection and something that will happen when aliens enter earth and take over.

If the medical community would like me to have my child before Thanksgiving week and thus have a little more time for their turkey and stuffing-filled festivities, which I completely understand and hope every doctor can enjoy, then sell me on the process! But please, don't ever offer to strip my membranes!

It's Inevitable.

2011-11-10T18:04:00.000-08:00

Two things happened today that made me think my time is getting near. Neither involves mucus, so if you were hoping for pics of plugs, I'm sorry to disappoint.

The first was work-related. The person taking over my team while I'm out has been coming to meetings with me and spending a lot of time in my office to get the feel of "A Day in the Life." After a meeting today, where the guys who work for me as aggressive as shy flower-girls I said to the new me, "Ok, here's what we have to do. For the next few weeks, we'll show up at these meetings unanounced and show them how it's done! That will kick them into high gear!"

Sidenote: I have a team of all men who are either older or taller than me.  I think I have larger balls than any of them but haven't quite figured out how to politely coach them to "grow a pair" so I do things like talk about accountability in a firm tone, set crazy deadlines, show up at meetings unnanounced, and try to lead by example when it comes to demonstrating HOW to kick other's asses in a corporate setting.

My understudy chuckled and asked, "Next few weeks?! Do you even think you'll be here in ONE week?"

Huh. I guess the reality of my days not being filled with corporate struggle hasn't quite sunk in. I'll be home, trying to impart the importance of having balls to an infant. You can never start too young.

The second thing that happened today was more disturbing. I woke up and discovered a new pair of anatomical parts had grown overnight:  cankles.

I don't recognize my ankles.  Whatever that slender, pointy bone is on the outside is usually sharp enough to stab people.  It's a great little feature - always makes my legs look slender and tapered coming off my calf muscle. Today, however, my legs look like smokestacks and my ankles and feet like pieces of overgrown meat.  Fat hung over my shoes today. Feet are supposed to be the one place shielded from the ravage of fat overhang!

For the record, as they hung, it was still over three-inch heels. Take that pregnancy, but please don't take the ankle swelling to my face! If that becomes an option on the labor decision tree, please pass GO and head straight for labor instead.

Blissfully Battered.

2011-11-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

My cervix is a dirty whore.

I was distraught last week after it was violently invaded by my OB's probing latex gloves. All week long, I reassured it that sometimes bad things happen even when you've done nothing wrong. Not wishing to shield it from reality, I spoke the truth and let it know there will be many more manhandling sessions in its immediate future. "There will be lots of different fingers and maybe a hook in there," I told it softly, "but you will be OKAY."

On the drive to Friday's appointment, I blared an old race mix featuring 50 Cent and Metallica to help my cervix get its gameface on.

Imagine my appalled shock when the doctor said, "Oh wow! You are two centimeters dilated and 50% effaced!"

Cervix, I don't understand why you are reacting to the probes and prods like a battered woman! Please don't feel obliged to continue opening up, inviting the abuser further in! Let's just take it slow. Hold out for another two weeks and all will be right with the world. If not for another two weeks, if you could just contain yourself until Thursday evening after my winter lowlights are complete, I will reward you with lots of drugs early on. Thanks!

Losing It.

2011-11-02T18:19:00.000-07:00

I've lost my pregnancy virginity.

It all started on Saturday with a second pre-natal massage. "Wow," Jamie the masseuse said at the end, "your back really needed that. If you come back one more time, I can probably get all the knots out." Later that day, the pain in my periformis (more commonly known as the meaty part of your butt) was similar to that I experienced after running 10 miles at less than an eight minute mile when I shouldn't have been running at all. Knowing my big plans for the day, my husband asked when I would be working out. Shock in my eyes, I said, "I honestly don't think I can. I can't really walk right now." Shock swept across his face, too.

On Sunday, I bounced out of bed early only to be slowed down by a baby who had dropped considerably overnight. I commenced Round 2 of the Great Freeze and spent most of the day waddling around the kitchen. Once again, the gym was not a feasible option unless I wanted his head to pop out in the middle of Spinning. With the way most people quickly
brush their nether-region sweat off their bike seat after class, I don't want his head anywhere near it.

On Monday, I hit snooze seven times, shuffled into work around 9:15 and doled out a lot of, "Don't fuck with me today" glares. In a crushing defeat, I had to wear flats. Three and four-inch heels have been my outward signal to the world that life is still good. My flat, Robin Hood-like black boots did not create the same wall of confidence.

For the first time during my pregnancy, I thought that going into labor early might be a good thing. At my desk, I calculated the number of hours left to endure his huge head crashing down onto my cervix and thought about performing a C-section with the tacks on my bulletin board. And, for a third straight day in a row, I could not work out. I know everyone is thinking that isn't really a big deal, but for me it is. I ran 20 miles once with full blown bronchitis. I stuffed tissues in my sports bra, coughed and spit disgusting looking mucus blobs onto the sides of every street in this city, and took no prisoners. Physical exertion is not something I take
lightly.

Monday night, I lounged on the couch with a heating pad on my back and let my husband manage the trick-or-treaters. "I've been a jackass," I told him. "Prior to 37 weeks, I was a stupid girl, but now, NOW, I'm a woman." My husband didn't know how to respond. The dog nudged closer and licked my stomach, trying to coax the little guy to stop whatever he was up to.

Luckily, when I woke up on Tuesday, I was delighted to feel that the little dude was no longer balancing 100% of his weight on my cervix. My waddle became a walk, flats became two inch heels, and my gym bag became packed.

I've had some "Do Not Cross" police tape installed in my uterus as a guide, and so far he's heeding the warning, but like one's virginity, once the journey to the other side has been made, making it the second, third, and fourth times is no big deal. The line has been crossed and there's no going back.

Wet Dreams.

2011-10-30T18:01:00.000-07:00

I've been daydreaming lately. Sure, there's been a little of the, "what color will his hair be?" and "will he have my nose?" element, but mainly, I've been imagining the best and worst places for water breakage. A world where my water does not break is too cruel to imagine. If I am not forced to leave my environs for a dry pair of pants, I will stay stubbornly fixated on whatever stares me back from the computer screen or continue participating in the latest blood-boiling meeting argument slash crisis slash trivial matter masked as world-ending event that exists to validate my daily existence. In my world, my water WILL break.

Now that we've accepted that, let's get into the detail. I've compiled the worst and best places I can imagine for water breakage along with the reason(s) why.

WORST CASE WATER BREAK SCENARIOS

1. At the pool.
If my water breaks while I'm swimming laps, I fear I will not know it's happened. I also fear that the pool will be forever tinged because the staff at Urban Active never clean
anything. The idea of my baby's pee and other fluids circling like sharks around the creepy dudes in Speedos is disturbing.

2. In my office at the office.
Sure, I have a pleather Dr. Evil chair that could easily be wiped down, but I imagine I'd leak all over the carpet and my drippings would fester and stew until I return 14 weeks later. The M&Ms I dropped a few weeks ago never made it to the trash and have already been pulverized into the corporate fibers. I do not want any part of me pulverized down there with my old snacks.

3. On our new elliptical in our new home gym.
It's new for chrissakes! I just bought Lysol wipes so my husband and I can wipe our respective sweat off it after each use. That's all I want to be cleaning from this piece of high-tech gymgogery.

4. In bed.
Who wants to sleep with incontinence pads or a rubber sheet below? I'm no princess, but that sounds irritating so I'm removing this scenario from the table altogether.

BEST CASE WATER BREAK SCENARIOS

1. While walking the dog.
My dog is the only person I know who will not be disgusted, and in fact, likely be thrilled by the substance. He's been nosing my stomach quite a bit lately, just waiting for whatever's cooking in there to come one out so he can get a better smell. And, he'd probably be much more calm than my husband in this situation.

2. On the elliptical at the work gym.
Without a clean-up to be personally accountable for, I'd love to be able to say, "I was working out when it happened." It would feel just like getting engaged at the end of a marathon felt: authentic. Although, my husband didn't pick up on the authenticity and the ring didn't arrive that way, so I don't have high hopes for his son, either.

3. Anywhere not next to my husband.
I love him, but he is going to turn into Cam from Modern Family when I say, "My water broke." I am going to need a moment or 60 to myself to harness the strength and calm for three before unleashing pandemonium.

4. In a meeting with men who each earn over half a million dollars a year.
So, these kind of meetings happen with relative frequency and I would just love to create some awkwardness that power and egos cannot dismantle!

Cervix? Check!

2011-10-26T17:32:00.000-07:00

Well, I've got one and it's defenses are up and it's ego and other parts a little bruised after the first check I went through yesterday.

I say first, but it was truthfully the second. The first took place during the great Attack of the Fibroid and there was so much searing pain coming from other places that the check felt like a relaxing deep-tissue massage. When the doc informed me she would be checking my cervix at yesterday's appointment I thought, "Been there done that, no problem!"

Had I known what was headed our way, I would have had a long discussion with my cervix pre-appointment to boost its self-esteem and help it understand that it didn't do anything wrong. Too late for that. The violation is complete. My cervix feels betrayed, achy and alone and is wondering if it will ever be able to to open up to anyone after being hurt like that. It's nice and tight and I expect it to remain that way until it is forced out of its broken shell.

I am left to wonder why there isn't an app for that. Surgical gloves and probing fingers have no place in the world Steve Jobs imagined.

Cinder-elly, Cinder-elly.

2011-10-23T17:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I am Cinderella.

Before the ball.

Scissors in hand, I placed myself firmly in front of the massive mountain of baby clothes, baby bedding, and baby blankets in our guest room and went to work snipping off tags and separting co-joined "sets." My time expectations for this task were a little off. I thought with a few quick cuts I'd be ready to wash. However, thanks to Carter's, Gymboree, and mostly Babies R Us, I spent at least an hour removing tiny bits of plastic from all kinds of clothing crevices and formed three strong opinions:

1. The hangers that look like one hanger but then have two others protruding beneath, the hangers that have another half-hanger hooked around the neck to hold some other outfit piece, and the hangers for hanging pants and shorts the size of doll-clothes should be outlawed. The only person who knows how to make those work is the one running the assembly line they come off of.

2. Every sock in a six-pack does not need to be tethered to its brothers.

3. The bib-makers have the best packaging practice. They just velcro that shit around the cardboard and trust that the consumer will not feel tempted to steal one or two of the 12 in the pack! Why are the sock-makers so distrustful??

Anyway, given my late-stage of pregnancy and the flannel pajamas I was still rocking at noon, I was left feeling sweaty and slightly abused by all makers of baby clothing. Nevertheless, I undertook sorting with the fervor of the Harry Potter hat. "Two loads," I thought, "one dark, one light."

HA! Were I actually wearing the Sorting Hat it would have knocked me upside the head. I ended with SIX full loads. Nonetheless, with six piles, I felt like I was getting somewhere. About three hours later, everything was washed, dried, and thrown in a basket ready to be put away. I didn't know it yet, but some kind of sorting machine would have come in very handy at this point.

Newborn, infant, 0-3 months, 3-6 months, 9 months, 12 months, sleepers, sleep sacks, bibs, onesies, hats, and teeny-tiny socks who are bound to lose their mate after a few spins in the dryer! What's a girl to do? Even for on organized, slightly obsessive person like me, this was getting out of hand.

Feeling that the only way to start was with chaos, I dumped the clothes in the middle of the nursery floor and spent the next two hours devising an organizational system. Hats, bibs and socks are in the top drawer each in their own little drawer box thing. Sleep sacks made their way to the second drawer on the left while sleepers are just to the right of them. Newborn kimonos and onesies are on the far right in yet another organizational box thing. 0-3 months and 3-6 months lie folded up in the middle of the drawer. Overalls, pants, random outfits I didn't know what to do with, and shorts for the beach next year (Thanks Mom. Those were definitely necessary pre-birth.) are hanging in the closet on time-stamped hangers.

After tackling the clothes, I headed to the kitchen to move in on the bottles. We chose Dr. Browns, for no apparent reason other than they were highly rated on amazon and I've heard Tommy Tippy is more for newborns who prefer flashy brands to functionality.

The six bottles I had to clean and sterilize had no fewer than 108 parts. Dr. Brown, are you manufacturing a European automobile or a bottle? I think you're in the wrong business.

Lastly, in my boldest move of the day, I doubled my great aunt's recipe for sauce which, for those of you who aren't Italian and don't know, means sauce and meatballs. These start the great freeze of 2011. I am filling my freezer with food that can be quickly re-heated in the oven post-birth so we don't overdose on veggie burgers, Eggbeaters, or pizza in those first few fragile weeks. Any one of those at a high enough quantity is fatal.

And now that the day is over I plan on heading to the couch and joyfull kicking up my glass-slipperless feet. Cinderella, those sound painful. I know they go very well with your ballgown, but how can you pull those off after hours of backbreaking work? Re-think that. Cute flats could bring that dress to life in a new, unexpected way.

Weebles Wobble.

2011-10-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

Like a Weeble, I wobbled last night and, unfortunately, completely tipped over. I did not fall from a wall or down the stairs and there was no harm done, but it was the first goal pregnancy has scored against me in eight months and I think her chances of winning the game are improving with every day.

My opponent caught me off-guard, doing something I should have known to avoid to maintain a shutout. Toaster in hand, I squatted down to open the appliance cabinet, reached in, set it down, and tipped backwards as soon as I let go. My husband laughed hysterically and said, "Wow. You are pregnant." The dog walked over and licked my head. I vowed to keep my vulnerability in check over the next four weeks, but who am I kidding? Mundane tasks like putting on shoes, rolling over in bed, and shaving leave me wide open for pregnancy to swoop in and take the lead.

I know how this happened. Pregnancy is pissed that the world questioned her participation in the game until just a few weeks back. Comments I soaked up like a sun-starved iguana such as, "Are you sure you're 25 weeks?" and "I look like that after a big meal!" have been festering, contributing to her wrath and the attack plan that I fear commences sometime in the next four weeks.

I can feel the pillars of her strategy, exhuastion and apathy, taking an incipient hold. This week I was tired and didn't want to do anything excelpt loll about on the couch. I skipped a work dinner and a workout and was unabashedly fine with those decisions. Prior to this, pregnancy has witnessed me roll into the gym at 6:30 in the morning, fight fibroids with elephant doses of hydrocodon, get on an airplane at 33+ weeks, and laugh when people ask if I'm going to get an Expectant Mother parking spot at the office. She has either planned a blietzkrieg for the final month or is waiting silently for D-Day to bring me to the ground with an eight pound baby with a head the size of a basketball. I don't know her well enough to predict which approach is more her style, but either will wreak havoc.

This morning, at the bank, one of the tellers asked if I was pregnant. I had on a dark bulky sweater, and the counter was above my waist, so it probably was hard for her to tell. Instead of my usual smile, my eyes got wide and my blood ran cold. Unlike the Weebles, I think I will be falling down, soon.

Lookout Ahead.

2011-10-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

Is it normal to feel like these last few weeks are my personal death row? I am in a strange, unshakeable mood right now. The little guy will be here in about five weeks and I am starting to feel sad about crossing the threshold into parentdom. I can't figure out what has put me here, because I'm looking forward to almost everything that's coming our way.

I'm not nervous about giving birth. With lots of drugs, I doubt it is more painful than running a marathon.

I'm not worried about being sleep deprived or figuring out what to do with a newborn. I see all of this as a fabulous challenge and just finished a book with an infant training plan that will have him sleeping 12 hours by 12 weeks old. Nothing will be more adorable than "baby's first training schedule." He'll be doing half marathons by the time he's 8!

I have no fears about being ready. The nursery is just about done and if he came tomorrow, we'd manage. Aside from my 12 week plan to 12 hours of sleep, I haven't read a single parenting book. I've never been this unprepared for anything in my life, from the SATs to cross-functional team meetings, but my mother will be around and she knows what's up with child-rearing. The Socratic method is the best way to learn, anyway.

I've even lost most of my Freddy Kruger-like terror around getting back in shape. A few weeks ago we bought a ton of home-gym equipment so we can work out during naps. Prior to this, our biggest fear was how we'd stay together amidst a raging war centered on who had more precious gym time. Worries erased with weights, balls, bands, and an elliptical in the basement. We may accept members.

As for work, I don't care what happens while I'm gone! I never thought I'd think that, let alone spell it out, but as far as I'm concerned, this is a much needed vacation. My team seems a little concerned that when I'm gone they'll be reporting into someone who is pretty darn awful to work for, and I'm doing everything in my power to prevent that from happening, but whatever happens on maternity leave is not my problem!

Despite all of these positive things just around the corner, I can't shake the feeling that I'm waiting for the Grim Reaper. Even though childbirth won't kill me, I'm pretty sure it will steal a part of me that I'll never get back. A part that has no issue with 6:00 meetings and pities air-travelers with children and strollers. I don't know that I'll miss it, but I'm very scared to let go because I don't expect to get it back.

I also feel very alone in this. Like a convicted criminal walking the Green Mile, I'm the only person headed to the chair. Of course my husband is doting and loving and supportive and my mom is the craziest, happiest grandma-to-be I've ever seen, but I'm the only one who has to get this child out. Again, the pain doesn't scare me, but the responsibility is one I'd like to split with someone. Post-birth, I'm the one that has to deal with swollen boobs, scars and incisions, and nether-region recovery. It will be me, not my husband, whom the lactation consultants will judge when I ask for a formula recommendation, ice, and some Ace bandages.

But for now, I suppose I need to enjoy every day I have before life changes. And so I will start right now, by going to the gym at 4:15 on a Saturday afternoon, with nothing to worry about except how long I'll be able to workout before this little monster man sits on my bladder. Maybe life already has changed.

I

Keeping Score.

2011-10-11T05:20:00.000-07:00

With six weeks to go, reality is looming large. There is the reality of prepping for my 3+ month vacation from work, the one where I learn of birthing and all its glory, that of being more sleep deprived than a Marine-in-training, and the more general one where I am Mom and my husband is Dad. One that I haven’t spent much time thinking about is the reality of our marriage. We have been together for 10 years, married for 5, and only ever had each other to focus on. What happens to “us” when the definition expands to include a baby??

This weekend my sister-in-law got married on a perfect fall day in the Berkshires. Baby talk ran rampant with our six-month old niece in tow and me, six weeks from go time. We received advice, presents, and a lot of general, “you are on the brink of something you cannot even begin to imagine” sentiment.

At some point, my husband said to me, “Hey, we can’t keep score, ok?” I knew exactly what he meant. Neither one of us can house an invisible tally of bottles cleaned, cries answers, or diapers changed. We cannot track on our iPhones the minutes of sleep we get each night and triumphantly claim the title of most sleep-deprived. We can’t accuse the other of pretending to sleep when the baby cries or suddenly find that time opportune for fixing a gutter or raking the yard. It just can’t happen.

Lying through our teeth, my husband and I both agreed that there will be no scorekeeping with this baby. You see, we’ve been keeping score for 10 years and we don’t know another way to operate. I started going to the gym in the morning, my husband started going in the morning. He gets in a workout on my day off, I suddenly find a way to carve some time out for the same. His iPad becomes a fifth limb, I crack mine open and start feigning interest. He gets a new job, I start talking to my boss about what’s next for me. We’re always neck-in-neck and this baby is going to be an AMAZING way for one of us to pull ahead. However, I know this is not optimal for a happy marriage.

To avoid this scenario, I am mocking up a baby “calendar” similar to the chore chart that spent my childhood on the fridge and erased all fighting around who would clear the table, load the dishwasher, clean up the kitchen, and who had the night off. The need for a similar tool is rapidly hurtling toward my future baby-riddled household. I’ve heard other couples say they use “Rock, Paper, Scissors” or hold weekly negotiating sessions that Congress could a learn a thing or two from, but given our overscheduled lives, a calendar will be the way to go for us. It will include late night feedings, early morning wake-up calls, laundry, bottle cleaning, baby-supplies buying, weekend scheduling, daycare dropping off, and meal preparation. Over time, gold stars will be earned and become the currency of our lives. Sure, I’ll cover for you on Saturday morning, but it will cost you 10 stars!

And here I am, back to the discussion my husband and I had this weekend. Scorekeeping will NEVER happen in our household.

Wink.

Over, Overachievement.

2011-10-04T17:52:00.000-07:00

I've always taken pride in standardized test percentiles. Until today. My child's head is in the 98th percentile for size.

G-U-L-P.

Kid Fears.

2011-09-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

Oh $hit.

This is really happening. I really need to find space in the kitchen for bottles and formula, inventory baby clothes, find an electrician to install my awesome nursery light, figure out what an Apgar score is (Start 'em young on standardized tests! I expect nothing less than the 99th percentile.) and how the piece of fabric with eight extensions becomes a swaddler, hope there is no correlation between Apgars and parental swaddling ability, buy the diaper-sized maxi pads everyone has kindly recommended for the post-partum timeframe, and not focus on how this child is going to force his way out or what the afterbirth situation is like. Raw steak. That's what I've heard.

Here's the thing. I'm starting to feel bad for the little guy. He needs a one bedroom apartment, but is stuck with studio-sized accommodations. When he finally bursts forth I don't think it will be pleasant and the options at hand:

1) Being sliced open by a deft surgeon wielding her scalpel like a samurai warrior

2) Pooping something out my crotch

Do not leave me with an adventure I want to choose.

I'm not afraid of the pain, but rather, the disgustingness of either experience. Oh sure, I know I should feel some mother nature joy about childbirth, but I think those genes passed over me. Any beauty in what will take place in eight short weeks is lost on me.

Despite the strides women have made over the past 50 years, when it comes to labor and delivery, I'd prefer the Betty Draper approach. I don't need a nice birthing room, fancy drugs, or attentive nurses. I dont want ice chips, back rubs, or a labor coach. Give me good old fashioned laughing gas and wake me when it's over. Or when the giant maxi pads are no longer needed.

Udder Mismanagement.

2011-09-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

I want my boobs back.

I am 100% over my pregnancy voluptuousness. I’m taking that statement to city hall to have it notarized.

At first, the journey to pornstar boobs was amusing. Early on in pregnancy, I was out of town for two weeks. When I walked in the door after the fortnight away my husband’s jaw dropped. “What happened to you?!?” he shrieked, giddy with excitement. I laughed as I lugged my suitcase through the door.

“I know!” I responded, “I guess I really am pregnant.” Even the dog’s tail was wagging.

Maybe it was the early presence of a waist that made boobageddon initially entertaining. For a week, I had the proportions of a Baywatch lifeguard, only because my boobs were growing exponentially faster than my waist. It became less amusing as my stomach popped out beyond my chest, and is now downright disgusting. My boobs audibly exhale at bra removal and then settle comfortably on the top of my stomach, like an old man reclining in a La-z-boy.

As a card carrying member of the Flat-Chested Club, I am ill-equipped to manage this. I am paranoid that my wrap dresses are going to leave me exposed. Logistically, they cannot, but I sit in meetings, half expecting a boob to fall out of a sleeve at any moment. Last week on the beach, I was a disaster. I don’t own a maternity bikini. It wasn’t vanity or financials driving this choice, just plain laziness. With the exception of shoes, I am very low maintenance, so when it came time review pregnancy beach options, I went with what I already owned. Into my suitcase sailed my most stretchy bikinis. Let me tell you, those two fabric triangles were maxed to capacity all last week. I asked my husband to take “wardrobe malfunction” watch and be on specific lookout for underboob showing. “What’s that?” he asked.

I raised my arms over my head.

“Oh,” he said in response to the pale bottom underchunk of my boobs that made itself shown.

I know there are women who would kill to have what I currently have, either in boob size or in pregnancy status, but I still can’t help myself from wishing away my Amazon woman boobs.

I will be judged as if in front of the pearly white gates for stating this, but I am not breastfeeding. This decision was made well before my boobs exploded. It’s safe to say I’ve known for 20+ years. Everything about it makes me gag and then cringe. Judge, it’s ok. I’ll pay for it in expensive formula.

Jenny McCarthy said that she wrapped her chest up in scarves post-delivery to stop the flow of milk. My mom told me she heard eating cabbage will cork me up. Personally I’d like to find a Chinese foot binder and let him apply his skills to my chest as soon as the umbilical cord is snipped. The skills must be transferrable. Give me a B cup and the bonding bliss of bottle feedings!

Baby Mooning.

2011-09-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

Here we are on an island for a week for the much-hyped baby moon. I don't know if that is one word or two but iPad spellcheck thinks two so we're going with it.

This week also coincides with our five year anniversary. My how times have changed. Fruity drinks have been replaced with an afternoon nap and I am as able-bodied as a 70 year old with chronic back pain. Last week, I spent Tuesday - Thursday presenting in four inch heels. Of course, I was presenting to men in flat brown loafers, eyeing their sensible footwear with lascivious eyes, but I was not ready to surrender to flats. Now I am. Those days of presenting took my back disability to a whole new level. I find myself begging my husband to slow down and settling into seats like a bear hibernating for winter. This must go away post childbirth.

We will spend this week relaxing and mentally preparing for the little man who is going make us forget what it was like before him. The last trip before Tripp. We have decided that's his name and told our families they better love it or fake it til they do because unless he comes out looking like a Chase or a Henry or some other un-Tripp like name, that's it. Every time we say it he pops to the surface so we are fairly confident it's the right one.

Changing Times.

2011-08-26T18:56:00.000-07:00

Months ago, I wrote a $100 check to get on the daycare waiting list and thought to myself, "This is the first of many, many more checks like this." Even though that check was the first piece of tangible evidence that things were changing for us, I forgot about it and moved on.

Since then, there have been more signs of the times. Baby gear has been arriving for the past several weeks and the guest room now looks like Amazon's warehouse. Everyone I see has an odd interest in how I'm feeling, the dog has been relegated to sleeping downstairs, and I check out other people's strollers with an eye normally reserved for shoes.

Amidst all this, the upheaval didn't feel real until last night when my husband came home with paint supplies.

"Are you painting the nursery yourself?" I queried, "you HATE painting."

"Yep. I don't feel like paying someone to do this. Come help me clear out the room." Big, yet silent, gulp from me.

Our house technically has five bedrooms although I don't really think a family of six could comfortably fit in here. One of them is our bedroom, another is the guest room, another is my husband's office, the fourth is my office, and the last is my "other" room that can be used as a guest room for one but will be the nursery. In here, I have my sewing machine and supplies, ribbons, wrapping paper, boxes, old race shirts and the start of several unfinished projects. I didn't realize the utility this room has provided until we started moving things across the hall, temporarily of course, to my office.

I adore my office. It's a little room someone created by knocking out a section of the roof and making a dormer. It has white floorboards and a lofted white boarded ceiling. When we moved in, it had been the nursery because, quite frankly, it makes an adorable baby's room. In fact, Pottery Barn could do a shoot here. When we moved in, it was bright yellow and over time I transformed it into a perfectly blue, white, and sand colored little beachy office. When we told everyone I was pregnant they thought this would be the obvious choice for the nursery.

"Hell no! That's MY room," I always responded.

Tonight, however, the spillover from my random room is taking up room in my perfect space and I'm STRESSED. This is just the start! Babies need so much stuff! Where will it go? Where will I put the spillover pieces? My husband didn't warm to my suggestion of the basement because that could be a playroom. The guest room is a functioning guestroom and my husband's office is out of the queation because standing in the doorway stresses me out. While I chose "beach" for my office, based on the golf clubs and other sporting accessories strewn about I think he was going for "locker room." Objective achieved.

I'm losing a room. This is really happening.

Just Stuck.

2011-08-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am lying in bed kind of stuck. This used to happen once a week, but now it's as much a part of the nightly routine as my anti-aging skin care regimen. I don't know exactly what goes on but it has something to do with the bulging disc in my lower back.

(Note to self: even if you were not a narcissist, gaining 15+ pounds when not pregnant would be unacceptable because you would end up in a wheelchair or on chronic painkillers that lead to constant drooling. Please add these images alongside touching thighs and backfat when standing in front of the ice cream freezer at the grocery store.)

My husband is sound asleep, the dog is snoring, and I'm getting kicked. Maybe in a few weeks with a little more strength the little guy will be able to kick me over onto my side!

Inappropriate Dreaming.

2011-08-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

Last night, as we do every Sunday night, my husband and I read the weekly update from 'What to Expect.' We both firmly believe the book is one of the worse ever written, but I own it and when else will I use it if not when expecting? The Week 28 update was more of the usual, "your baby's cute mouth (that you'll be kissing soon!) is practicing breathing and hiccuping." A little bit of a tangent here, but I don't think the baby is very cute yet and I hate when the authors imply that I think I have a teddy bear rolling around my uterus. They told me a few weeks ago the occupant is a hairy, banana-like being covered in a cottage cheese like substance and quite frankly, they can't expect me to want to kiss it when they've made it sound like hellboy.

A major focus of the "Month Seven" chapter is dreams. I have had some doozies lately. My husband has left me, my high school boyfriend has made cameo appearances, and some of them resemble porn. Sometimes when I wake up, I need a shower. Thanks hormones. You've turned me into a 15 year old boy.

As if on cue, after reading about unusual dreams, REM took me to an oddly familiar place last night that I feel weird regaling here, but it brought all the fears of not ovulating right back and I immediately thought of everyone out here navigating the uncertain waters.

My dream put me at the doctor where she was writing me a prescription for Clomid. "I'm 32," I said to her, "if this doesn't work I'll have to go see someone else."

I woke up right after expressing concerns to the doctor, fully believing that had just happened. "Oh God," I thought to myself, "this has to work." Truly, I believed I was on Clomid. For a second, the uncertainty washed over me and I wanted to curl into a ball and hope my way to pregnancy. From my side position of late, I brought my knees toward my chest and looked down. My bulging stomach was there.

"Oh," I reminded myself, "I'm pregnant." However, for a few seconds, I wasn't and I think it's entirely unfair that not everyone wakes up from that dream and smacks their bulging tummy with their knees on their way to the fetal position.

Mission Accomplished.

2011-08-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

This is not entirely true. The mission is not yet accomplished, but the blueprints are in place! I am just a few weeks away from having a Pottery Barn - free nursery!! They said it couldn't be done, but I proved them ALL wrong.

For the first four months of this journey, I was waiting with trepidation to learn the baby's gender.

"Trepidation?" you ask, "weren't you looking forward to it?!"

Well ladies, I certainly was glad to learn it was a boy back in early July, but it only took 24 hours for the crazy planner in me to come out. The nursery needed to get done and it needed to be done in a unique, mall and big box-free design. My husband never understands this side of me. It took me MONTHS to finish my home office because the paint color had to be just the right shade of Carribean blue, the writing desk had to match that color, the curtains had to complement without matching, and the accessories had to look like they were custom made for my vision. I knew I would take the same approach with the nursery, but I also heard the clock ticking. This project couldn't last a year.

I quickly chose a lovely green pain color that my mother-in-law has on the walls of her sunroom on the Cape. With the foundation in place I was off and running

Green paint chip = walls.
Polka dots = bedskirt.
Elephants = curtains.

I started with bedding. All of the matching sets at Pottery Barn, Land of Nod, and the Devil's Lair made me a little ill. "Why don't we just get the whale set?" my husband asked. "We both love the beach." Gag me with matching prints.

I own a sewing machine and I know how to use it. Check. Made the crib skirt and have a plain white bumper that will not kill the baby. All those owl-ed out ones over at PB will kill your child, fyi. Well, not really, but that's what everyone tells you.

Next I ordered adorable elephant fabric that I wasn't sure what to do with, but decided to whip into curtains with tab tops that match the crib skirt. I've never made curtains in my life, but it can't be that hard. They are giant rectangles. And I always did well in geometry.

Artwork was up next. No Pottery Barn, I will not hang one of your quilts on the wall nor will I spell my child's name above his crib in wall decal. I have nothing against people who do that, but it's just so expected these days. Instead, I went to art.com and bought nine adorable 12x12s of various brightly colored animals prints. I am currently on a mission to find espresso colored frames to match the brown of the lamp (see below).

Then I started thinking about furniture. I wanted white and my husband knew to just let me have white. We put a simple white crib on our registry and my parents bought it for us. My husband wanted to register for the matching bookcase and dresser, but that also made me queasy. And, I'm not paying $550 for a dresser from Babies R Us. WTF?

So, on Friday, one of my friends and I made a pilgrimmage to Ikea where I bought a white dresser and bookcase, dark simple rug that will ground everything but still let the curtains pop, fabulous white ball of a hanging light fixture that I got my husband's approval on by referring to it as a soccer ball, and perfect brown lampshape to go on the white floorlamp and act as a basic punch of masculine color on the green walls. I am beyond ecstatic.

The last item on this list is a glider. Or, as they used to be called, rocking chair. I really do not want to spend $500+ on a piece of furniture we will use for a few years and then relegate to the unfinished side of the basement nor do I want one of those absurdly ugly things they have at Babies R Us for the bargain basement price of $199. They should seriously pay people to take them off the showroom floor. And so, I will probably go a little vintage here and find an antiquey looking white rocking chair that I will then custom make cushions for to match the look and feel I have rocking (no pun intended) right now.

The painter comes in a few weeks, the crib gets delivered next week, the bedskirt is done, the curtains are pinned! Now I just have to install. And figure what role this tiny child will play in the fabulous nursery.

Devil's Lair.

2011-08-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

I believe the Memphis airport contains a portal to the Underworld. The waylayed and haggard-looking travelers, the flourescent lighting, the subway tile that makes a traveler feel like he or she is about to step onto a Greyhound instead of a 747, the disgusting airport barbecue, and the singing Elvises (yes, that's plural) lead me to no other conclusion. Mutter the phrase "Beelzebub" in the wrong place, and I swear, the hatch will open and you will be sucked down. I try to just mind my own business whenever I connect through Memphis.

I thought the Memphis airport was the only such portal, and found myself pondering how all the lost souls got their connections home with just one hub. My own naivete now strikes me. Of course there must be more! Think about JFK and O'hare on Thanksgiving! Memphis would be like that every day of the year were it the only opening. Last week, I learned there are over 260 portals in the US alone and above each of their

entryways is a logo we are all familiar with:

Oh the horror!! Racks of merchandise daring you to run the gauntlet, dirty floors, unhelpful and uninterested staff, and consumers consuming what is undoubtedly too much stuff for any small child. The devil's henchmen working in the store know they've got us in a vise-like grip.

"What are you going to do?" they smirk as they hand over the registry gun, "go register at Animal Crackers or Giggle? Your great aunt Nora will have no idea what those places are. I am ubiquitous and your only option. Buy, Buy Baby you ask? No, they are not yet in the small town in Upstate NY where you hail from. But they have a great website? Come on, your 90 year old grandmother is not purchasing anything online. Muh hahahahahahaha!"

I have been trapped in the Underworld for the past two weeks, registering, re-registering, sending the registry out to those brave souls who have gone before me for feedback and survival tips, and like Persephone, am just now emerging for harvest, known in these modern times as baby shower bonanzas.

However, the devil did not get the best of me! Amazon Baby Registry, like the Virgin Mother, you've saved me from full surrender to the evils of the world!

Wonder Woman?

2011-07-25T20:14:00.000-07:00

Damn. I did it again. Disappeared to work. Which makes me nervous, because if I can so easily lose myself to work, how am I going to manage everything when I have a small being that depends on me and my husband for everything?

I've always dreaded this. Ever since I read The Second Shift in my sophomore Sociology class I've wondered how a career and a child are best balanced. It was after reading this book that I vowed to never have children. Oops.

So here I sit, in a hotel room at another global meeting in another random city where I arrived last night and will be until Thursday night. Who watches the child while I'm gone? Yes, my husband will but how will I handle the guilt? And how about the guilt I'll feel on the days I actually like my job. Sure, lately work is miserable, but then I have a day like today when I got to present the 2012 plan to 150+ people from around the world. It's fun to stand up onstage and feel intelligent, especially when you're the only woman representing the US on a stage filled with men. My four-inch heels and slightly protruding belly were out of place in a good way. I'm sure it's just as fun to care for an infant, but in a different, more nurturing, feminine way.

So what will I do? I may talk a big game right now about not going back to work, but let's face it, that's not in my DNA. If I'm not achieving things that are hard to achieve, I'm not happy. This was partly why it made sense that getting pregnant was a challenge. My body knows I like it that way. I have one option, post-partum. I will don a cape or lycra suit of some kind, probably a cape immediately following birth and a lycra suit when I'm back in shape, and carry on as if I'm a superhero. With the suit, must come the powers.

Tee Pee.

2011-07-13T05:02:00.000-07:00

Tee-pee. That's what my stomach looked like last night. This little guy LOVES to move around when I climb into bed each night and start reading. I'm hoping this is his way of telling me he can't wait for bedtime stories because I have every single childhood storybook of mine packed away in my parents' attic, lying in wait for the second generation.

Regardless of what it means, he makes some strange shapes down there. I felt him moving around last night and pulled the covers off to see if anything was poking through. My stomach looked like a tent being held up by a tiny foot! (Or what I think is a foot.)

I woke my husband with a "You HAVE to see this," at which point we both looked in wonder at the stomach constellation below the surface and then started laughing hysterically.

"What do you think he's doing in there?" my husband asked.

"If he's anything like me, he's bored," I said.

"We're in trouble, then," he said and rolled back over to sleep while I happily continued reading and being taken over by my little invader.

The Comeback.

2011-07-10T18:44:00.000-07:00

Let's suppose, just for a moment, that the old adage about the positive correlation between relaxing and getting knocked up is true. If this is the case, it explains why it took me some time to get pregnant. The last four days would indicate I am AWFUL at relaxing. Under doctor's orders to just take it easy, I'm ready to crawl out of my skin. On my Development Plan for work this year, I may list 'Relaxation' as my biggest opportunity.

I've napped, watched TV, read one and a half books, cleaned the kitchen, cooked, sat by the pool for half a day, napped again, read Us Weekly, cleaned out my inbox, done my laundry, thought about weeding, caught up with friends, and I think I might lose my mind. It's Sunday night and I've never been more excited to waltz into the office for a Monday that is crammed with meetings from 8:30 to 5:30. Bring. It. On.

Of course, with all this time, I've been thinking about my performance over the last few days. Unfortunately, were I keeping score, which I always am, the fibroid would be ahead. Fortunately, its losing strength rapidly and I'm confident I'll pull it out in the end.

It tried to take my life three different times. There was the attack in the pre-dawn hours of Wednesday and its relentless follow-through until the painkillers kicked in on Wednesday afternoon. I thought after those two bouts it was done but that sneaky bastard staged its painful finale for Thursday evening, when my husband was off at the golf range, encouraged by me to go because I'd been fooled into believing I was cured. It was then that it struck, leaving me on the floor in a ball, in tears, unable to move. My husband got home and found me and the dog curled up, the dog unsure what to do but trying his darndest to make it better by licking my head. These were not proud moments for me.

However, I'm coming back. It's been 72 hours since it hit me with its missiles and even though it RAGED as I cut off its blood supply, it's been weakened because of it. It's also helped put other things in perspective. While I'd like to go to the gym, I can't walk much faster than 0.5 miles per hour right now, so I can't feel guilty. While normally, I could have shed a few tears at the three extra pounds on the scale this month, now that I know the depths of REAL pain, that felt childish. Who cares about three pounds when there's a demon in your stomach with the teeth of a Great White?

The only thing I find concerning now is the way the doctor hysterically laughed when I told her I didn't think there was any way labor would be as painful.

Fibroid Fun.

2011-07-07T17:19:00.000-07:00

I didn't think I would live to see this blog again. As my stomach tore apart and I writhed in pain below the neon glow of horrible hospital lighting, I seriously thought to myself, "This is the end."

Ok, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but anyone who's had the sheer pleasure of experiencing fibroids in pregnancy will know what I'm talking about.

My adventure began at roughly 4am on Wednesday morning. I woke up with a searing pain in my stomach. I gasped for breath thinking to myself, "This pubic symphonis is a BITCH. Why didn't anyone warn me?" By six I could barely roll over without an evil Bellatrix shriek escaping my mouth, and when my alarm went off at 6:45, I was so far gone that I thought attempting a normal workday was a good idea. My husband had been up with me since four and was at a total loss on how to be helpful. "I wish I could take some of this away from you," he said.

"Trust me, you don't mean that," I spat back. When he saw me get up, I think he thought the worst was over.

I shuffled off to the shower and somehow stepped in albeit hunched over because standing upright sent stabbing pains through my stomach and out my crotch. I quickly ascertained that in this position, washing one's hair is difficult. I thought I would fool my body by staying bent over but slowly tilting my hips out and leaning back. BAD IDEA.

The pain increased, I got dizzy, and the world started fading away. "Shit. I'm going to faint," I thought as I crouched down in the shower to lessen the blow. I awoke a few seconds later, flat out with the shower running over me, wondering where the eff I was. Cue terror. I screamed for my husband at the top of my lungs and we somehow got to the emergency room. That process is a blur of him getting me out of the shower and trying to dress me in something that fit but didn't make me look homeless. Tough for a guy first thing in the morning.

At the hospital, I was whisked away to Labor & Deliver Triage where a very kind nurse named Pam tried to figure out why I couldn't walk upright or get into and out of bed without crying. About every 10 minutes my body was wracked with pain that brought tears to my eyes and turned me into a panting excuse of a person.

There were no contractions, I was not dilated, and the baby's heartbeat was fine. "UTI? Kidney stones?" Pam threw out as possible answers to my painful questions. I doubted both. UTIs can be solved with cranberry juice and I've never heard of kidney stones causing lightning crotch. This was a medical mystery.

After about four hours they decided to do an ultrasound. At this point my parents and friends had been informed of the situation. My mother was ready to get in the car and drive 11 hours to me and my kind friends were texting hopeful questions like, "Maybe it's just the baby kicking low?"

"Only if it's wearing steel-toed boots and has a hammer," was my response.

In the ultrasound, everytime the tech went over a tender part on my stomach I winced in pain. After picking up on my context clues she said, "Huh. Let's see if there's anything right there."

JACKPOT! A giant fibroid has invaded my uterus and is either growing or not growing fast enough and causing more pain than I think is experienced in labor. And the baby, who is a bit of an acrobat, is KICKING IT. I swear I heard little giggles everytime a little foot beat up on it.

So, I am on drugs that are safe to take for just a few days and allow me to walk until this goes away which it has approximately two more days to do before I grab my Santuko from the knifeblock and operate in the kitchen. The drugs are supposed to make it possible for me to walk, which they do, but I can't drive a car and fall asleep immediately on them so I am "working from home" today and tomorrow. I shouldn't talk, let alone drive a car, while on these things.

And of course, the upside of all this is that somewhere during the painful ultrasound the tech asked, "Do you want to know what you're having?"

"Yes!!" my husband and I shouted, although I already knew the answer.

"It's a boy!!" she said as tears of joy and pain streamed down my face and I saw the little guy continue kicking his very first bouncy ball.

Strange Encounters.

2011-07-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

Back from the beach with an inbox that won't stop, a great summer glow, and the memory of the strangest encounter I've ever experienced.

I got in very late to Boston on Thursday night and headed to my college roommate's place in Cambridge for some catching up and her pull-out couch. Her husband was sound asleep and without his outside influence we rapidly transformed into 20 year-old versions of ourselves.

"Is it moving yet?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," I said, ready to share my newfound pregnancy tricks. "Let me lie down and it will start moving around." We continued gossiping about everyone we know while I gently prodded the right side of my stomach, the area harboring the litttle fugitive. Within a few minutes the uterine crawl began.

"Oh, oh, oh!" I shouted, "it's moving! Here, put your hand right here. This is where it went and it will kick or punch or do whatever it does in there in a minute or two." With her hand exploring my lower abdomen, we continued talking. She stopped mid-sentence.

"What is this hard thing?"

"There's no hard thing," I confidently said, "let me feel." What I felt was the freakiest thing to feel inside your body - someone else's body part, as hard as a rock beneath the surface.

"OH MY GOD!" I screamed, "That's IT! That's IT! That's a head or something!" We both started screaming and moved our hands, kind of disturbed by the hardness of whatever was pushing up at us.

"I just want a kick, not a hard mass," my roommate said.

"I've never felt that before!" I said, "what do you think it is?"

"I don't know, but I don't think we should touch it." We both started laughing hysterically and decided that little thing just wanted the two of us to leave it the flip alone.

My husband's jaw dropped when he met me on the Cape two days later and felt the same hard little mass making its presence known through my abs. My inlaws and parents told me to stop poking my stomach, but I couldn't help it! Now that I know I can get the alien to rise to the top, I want to feel the darn thing all the time! Last night I felt what must have been a bony knee and the front of its lower leg forming the outline of a rectangle on my stomach. From the twin bed across the guest room at the Cape House, my husband said, "STOP doing that. Will you leave it alone?"

But I can't, I'm obsessed.

Oh, and I'm also in a ridiculous amount of pain. I actually called my doctor from the airport to ask if this discomfort bordering on pain just above my pubic bone is normal. She told me I probably have pubic symphosis, an awesome, yet common, pregnancy condition that makes your pelvis feel as if it is ripping itself in half on a nice symmetrical line down the center. I may have my pelvis removed this week if the pain doesn't abate I will not survive another 20 weeks filled with days like today. My worst selfish fear? That I won't be able to work out, let alone walk upright, for the next 20 weeks.

The remedy? A bath and Tylenol. I'd prefer a margarita and Aleve but I don't think my knobby-kneed alien would find that nearly as soothing as its host.

Happy 4th!

2011-06-30T05:07:00.000-07:00

Oh, this is my favorite holiday!! We head to Cape Cod where we spend a few days with my family way out on the end of the Cape and then drive back to my in-laws place closer in. There's a huge fireworks display on the beach that all the neighbors put on and we can see all the fireworks going off around the bay in different Cape towns. This year my parents are coming to my in-laws, my sister in-laws, their husbands and my new niece will be there!

And the best part? I've claimed I get no reception so no one will get answers from me on the status of test markets or sell-in decks. The boys in charge are going to have to do it without me there. Work over the past two weeks has been the most exhuasting I've ever experienced but I know beach fires and s'mores will make me forget all about it.

Hope you are all doing something wonderful and firework filled for the 4th!

Gender Roles.

2011-06-28T18:54:00.000-07:00

In a little less than two weeks we find out if the alien is a boy or a girl. I'm looking forward to being able to refer to it as "him" or "her" instead of "it." I know "it" sounds harsh, but I haven't come up with an endearing term so "it" does the job.

In my younger, less understanding days (you think I'm cold NOW, you should have run across me in my early 20s!), I didn't understand why older co-workers, whose ages I have now surpassed, would get so riled up about finding out the sex of their unborn spawn. "It's one or the other," I would think, "how surprising can it be? Unless you and your spouse have produced a third, previously undiscovered gender, I am pretty sure I can guess with a 50% success rate, what you'll have." One woman came to my desk with tears of joy running down her face after having found out it was a boy and I looked at her like she had three heads. Nice.

Now, however, I wish I could go back and smack the disinterested, one-eyebrow raised look from my 23 year-old face. I cannot wait to find out and will be SHOCKED to find out it's a boy and ASTOUNDED to hear it's a girl.

At first, I thought it must be a boy. Everything going on with my body from giant boobs to uncontrollable acne, felt so foreign that my fact-based conclusion was that a foreign invader (ie: one with a penis) was the cause. I equated it to when a virus attacks a host cell. Logical, yes?

As the acne spread to my chest and back and my thighs started to resemble those of a runningback, my hypothesis changed. You see, I've heard that girls can do this to you. With the recollection of the imaginary blond-haired daughters my husband and I created for ourselves as the "vision family" a few years ago I firmly started believing it is a girl.

But then, I thought about how fun it would be for my husband to have a mini version of himself to dress up in J. Crew and teach to throw a baseball and drive a golf cart. I was back on boy.

However, I quickly recalled the hours of torture and years spent at the Little League field I'd endured with three brothers. I deserve a daughter, damnit! Back to girl!

And then, we did that old housewife trick with a needle. It swung for a boy.

And recently, I heard that if the weird-ass line that mysteriously appears on your stomach when you are pregnant stops at your belly button, it's a girl. Back to girl!

I'm exhausted, not from pregnancy, but from expending all my energy forming infallible conclusions. July 8th can't be here soon enough!

Fruit Salad.

2011-06-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

Last week I was a bit disappointed with the little swimmer's measurements. What to Expect equated it to the size of a turnip. I don't really know how big a turnip is even though I shop the perimeter of the grocery store and try to only dash down the aisles for coffee, granola bars, condiments and Paul Newman's Ginger-Os. Despite this, turnips have never made it into my cart or kitchen. Maybe the mailman stole the "Today's Turnip" Martha Stewart Food issue. Who knows. Alas, last week, my future child's size was murky and unappetizing.

This week, I was happy to learn that I have a veritable fruit salad rocking in my uterus. My child is the size of a small cantaloupe, a banana, or a plantain! I'm partial to cantaloupe so I am going to go with that. One website equated it to the size of a can of Red Bull, which feels a little bit inappropriate. Let's keep the comparisons all-natural, baby industry.

I was very excited about the fruit comparison until I read that the little carb is festering in a uterus the size of a melon. My confusion began here. What kind of melon? It must be bigger than a small cantaloupe because it has to envelop its contents. Is it a large cantaloupe? A honeydew? Am I at full-blown watermelon? And while we're at it, if my child is the size of a small cantaloupe couldn't it also be the size of a large apple? A medium orange? A large red onion? A head of lettuce? I wanted to cry as I strolled through the produce section today because I couldn't recognize my own child!! For the love of God, someone create a standard fetal produce measuring system!

Horrible, terrible picture of me and my melon.

Escape Hatch.

2011-06-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

So the one thing I never considered while I was stressed about getting a baby inside of me, was how it gets out. Contemplating childbirth as a painful experience seemed an extravagant trifle of vanity for those who could conceive. Now, I still believe there is no way birthing a child can be more painful and scary than living through the uncertainty of infertility or than running the ninety-five degree 2007 Chicago Marathon, but nonetheless, I'm not ecstatic about the venture.

There is no pill, automatic eject button, or pixie dust to get this thing out of me in a pain free and non-messy manner. Why this is just dawning on me, I have no idea, but I'm more than a little terrified. I hate needles, blood, and weird smells.

If science can combine egg and sperm in a petri dish to bring new life into the world, it should be ashamed there is not a more eloquent way to remove said egg and sperm nine months later. Let's face it, our options are to either squeeze a watermelon out of a garden hose or let a team of professionals plunge their hands into our intestines, ala Mortal Kombat, and rip out our screaming spawn. If men gave birth, they'd have this all figured out already. So, in the name of feminism and for the dignity of modern medicine I'm imploring that we force the medical community to come up with an alternate method of childbirth. If that could happen between now and November, it would be much appreciated.

As usual, I'm not starting us at ground zero. I've been thinking about this and have some ideas.

Laughing gas is the first thing that comes to mind because it's a cheap, quick fix. Quality would surely be sacrificed on the Time, Cost, Quality Pyramid, but as long as we hit November, I'm fine with this. Knock me out and hand me a child when it's over. No scars or tearing, please.

Secondly, let's ask that they consider outsourcing. Did you know when you order food at some drive-thrus your order is heard by someone in India and relayed to the employees at the store?! If the burger boys can figure this out, why can't the doctors? Get on this. Labor is cheap over there!

Lastly, if all else fails, we can call on Harry Potter. That guy can apparate to anyplace and anytime with just a wand and a fireplace. I'm sure he'll have just the thing to get a baby out with no scarring, tearing, screaming, or drugs. We just have to get him on this fast. He's done in July, never to come back.

Are there any other thought starters before this goes to the AMA?

Flip Turns.

2011-06-19T08:45:00.000-07:00

In middle school and high school, I was a swimmer. I spent countless hours in the pool going back and forth and back and forth, practicing for the next big meet. If I had to describe my ability, I would put it at above average. I swam mainly butterfly, always qualified for sectionals, but never really pulled ahead of the pack with my times. It didn't matter, though, swimming was FUN. There were five of us who swam in the same lane throughout high school always making sectionals and competing in the big meets, but much more concerned with the latest gossip as we kicked down the lane.

I loved swimming.

It wasn't until college that I found a new love in Running and spent 10 years achieving successes that Swimming and I were never destined to share. Running was a fit for me and together we were unstoppable. After a blissful decade together, he left me high and dry with only old training schedules, race t-shirts and medals, 80 pairs of well-worn Asics, and a severely injured back to show for our time together. I was crushed.

After the initial devastation, I headed back to the pool to rekindle the spark that once burned with Swimming. I knew our passion could never reach the heights of those that once lived between Running and me, but I was ready to accept a more mature relationship. And I had no choice.

With trepidation, I entered familiar waters, wondering if Swimming and I could make this work. He was there waiting and welcomed me back. I embraced the calm that comes when you enter the underwater world and your only reminder of the outside is the wall at the end of the pool. I remembered how the smell of chlorine can linger for a day on your skin even after a shower and that the ache in your arms is better than any that comes after lifting weights in a bootcamp. I was thankful for muscle memory that let me dive into the water, swim for an hour at a time without drowning or stopping, and gracefully flip into the wall and push off to the next lap while others around me lost all momentum with a stop and a turn. Swimming was a reliable friend who I knew would be there forever. I didn't need passion if he could provide reliability.

I've found that next to an early morning 10 mile run, there is nothing better than starting the day at the pool and having the tangible smell of chlorinated accomplishment with you all day as a reminder that there is no evening gym session! Since being pregnant, my pooltime has increased. I feel better about swimming to keep my arms toned than lifting weights and I want to get in as many laps as possible before my Speedo doesn't squeeze around my stomach.

In the first trimester, it was a challenge. I thought I might drown because I was so out of breath. Instead of breathing every five or six strokes, I was gasping for air every two to three. After my first pregnant flip-turn I had a moment of "Is this ok to do??" and then realized I'd been swimming regularly for two years prior and more regularly than most, all my life. I laughed a little bit to myself down the lane during the next lap realizing that this little thing growing inside me is enjoying its time in a uterine pool and would soon be doing flip turns of its own. I flipped on.

A few days ago, I had my first surge of maternal pride. A mini wave rolled across my stomach and then I felt the teeniest, tiniest little tap.

He or she has been diligently paying attention to my movements over the past few months. The little fish swam down the uterine lane, made it to the wall, and executed a perfect flip turn! I think its days are spent going back and forth and back and forth, just like mine used to be spent, hitting the wall with its tiny feet and starting on the next lap.

Keep flipping little guy! We are going to set you up with Swimming and keep you far, far away from Running. Flip, flip, flip!

A Request.

2011-06-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

One of my friends had her twins today. At 26 weeks. She's been on bedrest for the past nine days since her water broke around one of them, but this morning, they decided it was time to join the party.

I have two small requests for the blogworld:

1. Please keep my friend, her husband and her two newborns in your thoughts and prayers. Their daughter and son couldn't wait to get life started and needs lots of love in return for their arrival.

2. If you've been through this or know someone who has been through this, let me know what is going to be most helpful to 'help' my friend. She goes home on Monday and her babies stay in the hospital for the foreseeable future.

Suddenly, all those times I've had that extra sip of coffee, eaten a sandwich without microwaving the turkey, or shrugged off the rules with a cavalier "They're just guidelines. People do this all the time and their babies are FINE," seem stupid. I am a retard with a new perspective.

Drilled & Grilled.

2011-06-16T05:02:00.000-07:00

After canceling my dentist appointment twice, I could finally put it off no longer and headed there yesterday afternoon. I hate the dentist. I'm one of those people who flosses everyday and still ends up with cavities. It's one area of my life where I never outperform despite my best efforts.

I had a new hygenist who I told I was pregnant when she asked about changed in my medical history. I don't fully understand the bleeding gums pregnancy connection, but I figured she should know about my "condition" lest she think I was just overweight.

She was ecstatic - definitely one of those women who lives for baby news. As the cleaning commenced, so did the questions.

1. So, I have to ask were you trying?
My inner narrator: Actually, you don't have to ask.
My response: "Uh, yeah, but it's still a shock when it happens."

- When is your due date? Was this a Valentine's day baby?!
My inner narrator: I can't believe this lady is asking when my husband and I had sex. What a perv.
My response: "I have no idea."

- Will you go back to work?
My inner narrator: If you knew what my job was like right now, you wouldn't even ask.
My response: "Oh, definitely."

- Do you have names picked out?
My inner narrator: THIS is none of your business. We are not talking about names with anyone.
My reponse: "Nope."

- What are you going to do for daycare if you don't go back to work?
My inner narrator: I don't effing know.
My response: "There's a daycare center opening in my office in August."

I don't like answering these questions when there isn't a pick in my mouth and I really didn't feel like sharing any of this information with someone I'd known for five minutes. I know she was excited and trying to be nice (And maybe a bit simple-minded as well), but I wanted it to stop. Unfortunately I was immobile and she had sharp instruments in my mouth so I thought it would be in my best interest to respond.

I don't like the dentist but that took the pain of a visit to an entirely new level.

Spanx Me.

2011-06-13T17:51:00.000-07:00

I deserve to be punished for my inattention to the blogging universe. I have a litany of reasons that mainly involve my crazy-ass job that I hate with every ounce of my being more and more each day. By the time I get home, I can't think about turning my computer and spending any part of my precious spare time staring at the screen again. The level of hate I have for it forced a phrase out of my mouth that I never thought I'd say which was, "They're crazy if they think I'll be back."

Who am I? I can't not work! That would be like Cher not singing or tragedy not befalling the Kennedy family. It's not the way of things.

It may be all posturing right now, but I've thrown it out there.  I even told my old boss this whose response was, "Let me know if you need a reference. You can easily get a job anywhere." She wasn't surprised at all by my desire to jump out of the window.

But alas, these are excuses for someone with no results. I will be better no matter how the day goes and I must follow this new rule to keep my sanity intact.

Today, without knowing it, I inflicted the said punishment referenced above.

On Friday, I had my four month check-up. Heartbeat is great, weight is depressing. Tears sprang to my eyes when the scale went to 130. I've never seen that number on a scale in my life. Go ahead, call me a skinny bitch, I've established over and over that I am. The nurse said I gained 1.25 pounds per week over the past month which is normal and healthy, but my vain response was stifled sobs. Before the doctor came into the examination room, my husband tried to cheer me up by saying it was normal. I spat back, "Don't even try to tell me you would have a response any different from mine if this were you!" He shut up.

The three facets of my personality are absorbing this differently. The logical part knows this is good and complacently accepts it.  The fiercely compulsive and competitive side already has a strategy outlined to start losing Day 1 post-partum.  And the vain side ruffled through her underwear drawer this morning until she found the Spanx she'd worn at 12 weeks to hide the tiny beer gut at a company event.

Ladies, don't wear Spanx when you're four months pregnant.

I have the biker short model and the problems they caused were almost too numerous to count today. First of all, my stomach is too big for them and they were so constricting I had to roll them down underneath my dress to breathe. This created a lovely seam  as well as a gush of front AND backfat pouring over the top. Second, the bottom of the shorts rode up with every step I took and left a matching gorgeous seam on my upper thigh. Third, the portion of my thigh charging out of the bottom of the shorts looked like sausage escaped from the roll, also a nice effect underneath my dress. Lastly, the tight synthetic fabric was just as itchy as a yeast infection.

My vain alter ego never faltered, though, and we kept those suckers on all day long. I have been adequately punished for time away from my blog. Consider me spanxed.

Savoring Stretch.

2011-06-05T18:40:00.000-07:00

I resisted maternity clothing, specifically pants. For the past month, I've been keeping my pants up with the skills of MacGyver, using whatever is in my bathroom vanity drawer. Elastic bands, safety pins, bobbypins, you name it. If I'd pulled a stapler or a hot glue gun out of one of those drawers, I would have gone for it. After all, survival of the fittest requires deft adaptation to one's natural habitat.

Sometime last week, the jeans that I'd been able to button were no longer buttonable. With my handy tools, I rigged them up and shuffled off for the evening only to feel like a plumber working under a customer's sink. No one could see anything under my long shirt, but when I sat in my chair at a concert, I knew there had to be a better method.

Begrudingly, I purchased a few pairs of maternity pants and shorts and a pair of maternity jeans.

My world was shaken to its core.

Why haven't I been wearing maternity pants MY ENTIRE LIFE? Or at least during those college years when my beer gut was equivalent to my size at 10 weeks?? The zipperless crotch and button-free waist make these work-appropriate pants feel like sweats! Oh, and the stretchy panel. The stretchy panel that feels like it will stretch forever!! How I love that large piece of spandex! I don't even mind that it's caressing the underside of my boobs and making me drip sweat like a firefighter trapped in a six-alarm blaze when I rock my maternity shorts on 90+ degree days.

As long as my torso can be hugged by its new lycra lover, I will not miss my waist or my size 2 pants. They were so presumptious with their constricting zippers, buttons and hooks. Last season's Ann Taylor capris are looking down in my closet at this season's Old Navy & Kohl's maternity capris, but what they don't know is they may never see the light of day or wrap around my waist again. Sure, maybe I'll never again fit into those inflexible pants, but even if I do, I can't promise that they'll have a spot in the rotation.

Now that I've gone there, I may never return from the land of flexible panels.

Deed Done.

2011-06-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

I have a hard time telling people I'm pregnant. Maybe because it's so personal, maybe because I have mixed emotions about it, but mainly because everytime I say the words, "I'm pregnant," I feel like I'm broadcasting details about my sex life to the general public.

Now, I know that when people are married, outsiders assume sex is being had, but a growing person in your stomach is timestamped proof that sex took place. I hate when people ask how far along I am. That's like asking when we did the deed that left me in this delicate condition. I can see the mental math happening in their twisted minds when I answer, "About 15 weeks."

Today, I ran into two people I worked with quite a bit last year who are in town this week for a meeting. They both coyly said, "I heard something about you!?!" I know they are being sweet and congratulatory but I can't help but think, "Yes, I had sex and it worked, ok? Don't bother with the math, it was sometime in late February. Any other questions?"

Part of my issue is that (and this is weird, too) my husband and I work for the same company. We started out very separately, working on two separate brands and knowing none of the same people. With time, he migrated over to my brand and we now work with the same people, but never with each other. I enforce a strict, "Mingling Not Allowed At the Office" policy. We now even sit on the same floor and frequently, I work with people on his team and he with people on mine, but we don't interact and never attend meetings together. What's supremely odd for me is carrying around tangible evidence, building momentum everyday, of what happens between my husband and I outside the office. (And no, it's never happened in the office, although he has suggested it many times.) I just don't want anyone thinking about that part of my life.

On the flip side, what has been incredibly cute, is that my husband has no issue telling people we are having a baby. I told my boss and my team and told him he could tell whoever his heart desired to spill the beans to. Since then, I run into people all over the office who start an awkward conversation with, "So, I talked to your husband... (insert coy look here)...I'm so happy for you guys!" I've had this conversation with my Operations and Supply Chain partners, Packaging Engineers, Product Developers, and even the ladies who sell coffee in the company store. I finally asked my husband to give me a rundown at the end of every day of who he'd told just so I would know what to expect and from whom.

So, while I hate people thinking about our sex life, it warms my heart that my wonderful husband is so excited that he can't contain the news. Or, he just wants the world to know that he's getting some action. Whatever works.

Fun Game.

2011-05-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

Weight has always been an issue for me. Not yo-yoing weight or being overweight, but weight as a driving force in my life. I clearly remember arriving home from college after my freshman year, getting on the scale and finding 15 extra pounds. I remember the joy of swimming, running, and avoiding bread to lose that weight and re-appear on campus looking like the 18 year-old who showed up a year prior. I remember that glorious summer in Chicago, training for the marathon on the lakefront path and magically dropping 10 pounds without realizing I'd done it until I stepped on a scale in September. And of course, I remember last summer, walking out of Ann Taylor with several pairs of Size 2 pants in my bag, ecstatic about owning pants that would stay up without safety pins. If I were coordinated enough to jump to the side and click my heels together, ala Mary Poppins, I would have.

Fast forward to this summer, a markedly new experience that I have zero control over. I exercise, I eat my usual foods (with a little more Buffalo sauce doused on top of them now...weird, I know), I suck in my stomach, and still I grow.

I have made peace with the change by chalking it up to a new experience. When will I ever be able to gain 30 pounds and not want to die of shame other than right now? When will the bottom of my boobs hit my chest again before I am old and saggy? When will I ever buy a Petite Large dress again and hope it lasts through the summer? I have fooled myself into believing this is an exciting, one-of-a-kind experience!

And it's working...most of the time.

There are dark moments when I think, "How the eff will I ever lose this weight? What if I don't? What if my clothes never fit again?"

It's during moments like these that I like to play a game I made up, that is quite possibly the meanest game ever invented, but it gets me through the soul-crushing black void. It's called, "People Who Aren't Pregnant That I STILL Look Better Than." Told ya. It's mean.

I started playing on Friday night at a concert with a friend who is having twins in September. I pointed to a girl, "Pregnant or Beer Belly?" It took us about 30 minutes to deduce this girl was not pregnant. She chugged a beer and we high-fived.

So, to any pregnant ladies who need a little boost, please feel free to try this out yourself. Take advantage of the warmer weather, open pools and beaches and give yourself a sure-fire self-esteem boost. Even if you have rainbows and fairy dust shooting out of your ass, can't imagine every playing such an awful game, and are gasping that I find this highly entertaining, give it whirl. It feels GOOD.

Oh come on! It's just too easy.

Blogging Myopia.

2011-05-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

I feel like an imposter. Here I am with this blog about a dusty uterus and mine is currently inhabited with more than mothballs. I made the classical marketing blunder of focusing in on short-term problems instead of crafting a long-term vision.

And let's face it, my 'work' has suffered for it. I don't post as often because I feel like I don't have as much to say. Sure, I could write about my giant boobs or pants held-up MacGyver style with elastic and bobbypins, but that's not really being true to my chosen topic.

I think a rebranding is in order. I propose that I start over, with a new blog that will still have the same tone, but will pave the way to more broader subject matter than this one does. Now, until I come up with a name and the technological know-how to be able to pull this off, I'm here. Probably for a while.

My long-term vision is to create a blog to capture the absurd and humorous components of day-to-day life. This will include, but not be limited to, pregnancy, children, business travel, and staying sane. Maybe I need to hire an agency or write a positioning worksheet. I'll definitely need a new design. So much to do!

Whaddya think? I'm open to name suggestions. I started this one with a name, a dream, and a tiny laptop. Anything's possible!

Giant boob update to come.

Communication Plan.

2011-05-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

I've spent the past two weeks informing my key stakeholders about my status, hence my lack of posts. College friends? Check. Extended family? Check. Current friends and work colleagues? Check? The two cousins I almost forgot about? Check. Husband's family and friends? Half-check.

You see, he forgot to tell his mom when it was ok to let the cat out of the bag so we spent much of this past weekend at a family wedding fielding excited shrieks and hugs. The night before the wedding, my father-in-law told one of his sisters the news and it took off like wildfire. The mother of the groom saw us seated in the church and did a little "hands over the mouth" quiet shriek, moments before watching her youngest son wed. It was actually pretty amazing to see their excitement firsthand. I felt bad they knew last, but given I didn't grow up with them, I couldn't draft a witty email for his family that incorporated all the family traditions our next of kin will have to look forward to and if I sent them my family's customized email, it would have fallen flat. He just didn't do his part on this one.

Anyway, the one black hole in my communication strategy is facebook. I don't have a social media plan and I don't think I'm going to implement one. It's so six months ago and personal announcements on facebook are a bit disturbing. Mine will stay off the news feed.

Now, were I to do it, which I'm not, but were I, I would change my profile picture to a flying pig with the accompanying, "AP is knocked up," update.

In other news, my jeans don't fit, my husband's family is convinced I'm having a boy which makes me tear up a bit (No, it's not endearing because they are not tears of joy. I grew up with three brothers. I bore my cross.), and even though I'm not nauseas, I am thoroughly enjoying Preggie Pop Drops. They are sour yet still delicious. Huh. My new aspiration is to be like a Preggie Pop Drop.

The final tactic in my communication plan is a giant unfriending. I am going through everyone and asking myself, "If a third party published my pregnancy news on my wall, would I want this person to know?" Few will make the cut. I am so looking forward to cutting extraneous odds and ends from my life! I think that is both sour and delicious.

Suck It.

2011-05-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

No, this is not a diatribe on breast feeding or vampires, but I'm sure at some point those shall come to pass. This, rather, is what I'd like to tell HR. In fact, I almost did. Right now, my distaste for them is palpable. If you're reading this and you are in HR, you're too smart to be there. Get out...fast!

My story begins with a voicemail this morning from a woman in HR requesting that I call her back. It was out of the blue for a Monday, but HR can be like that, so I just went with and called her when I had a free minute, approximately four hours after I first heard the message.

After asking about my weekend, she told me she had feedback she wanted to share. Millions of thoughts raced through my head. Was it about my team? My projects? Me? What did she want?! She launched into how impressed she was with a presentation she saw me give last week and stated that she finally understood why I was highly regarded. Not exactly tactful, but I just took it as a compliment and we moved on.

She then said she had awkward feedback to share with me that our head of HR asked her to provide. "Ruh-roh," I thought to myself, "what email did I shoot off and who have I offended?"

A little background before her feedback: last week we had a big meeting that involved sharing our strategies and new products with the big guy in charge, aka my boss about 5 levels higher. As she referenced the meeting and provided HR's feedback, steam began whistling out of my ears.

"You're just so polished and professional," she started, "and, this is awkward for me to say, but Dick (head of HR) thought your outfit was a little inappropriate for the audience. I guess your shirt was untucked."

For this meeting, I wore a pair of pants that are uncomfortably tight in the waist, a tunic-esque sleeveless linen shirt with a collar, and a cropped cardigan sweater. The shirt was untucked because my pants were unbuttoned.

Keeping the rage at bay I calmly responded, "Hmmm. Well, let me tell you what that was all about. I'm 12 weeks pregnant." That changed her 'you dressed like $hit' coaching session into a 'congratulations/ I'msoexcited/ when are you due' conversation that I really didn't want to have with her.

I was livid. And still am. Although I am pregnant and my shirt was untucked, I looked fine. In fact, I looked fabulously better than most of the men in the room who had on wrinkled, half tucked-in dress shirts, pockets emblazoned with the company logo.

And so, just to make sure that I captured our little conversation in writing, I followed up with this email over to HR:

Hi,

I just wanted to reiterate that while I am normally very put together, especially for big meetings, my wardrobe for the past three weeks has been a challenge given that not much still fits and maternity clothes are still too big. While I’m flattered my clothing decision was seen as out of character, I think the response would have been much stronger had I tucked the shirt into the top of my not quite zipped pants! At future, non-pregnant QBRs, I will be back to my polished attire! Thanks for understanding.

Has anyone else every experienced such ridiculousness? I'm thinking about raising it up to the head of my department just so he knows HR is doling out this kind of feedback. Oh, and I want them to feel bad about this for a long, long time. At the next meeting I may wear a miniskirt and a low-cut shirt with a push-up bra and see what kind of feedback I receive.

Coming Out.

2011-05-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

I did it. I leaned forward at 11.5 weeks and told my boss, my team, and a few other people at work that I am knocked up. My decision was largely driven by an event yesterday where I wanted to be able to open up about pregnancy lest anyone comment on me not drinking. That turned out not to be a problem. Only one person, who I am good friends with, commented on my lack of a drink. It was fabulous to be able to say, "Well, I'm pregnant," in response instead of, "Well, I'm driving," or "Well, I got wasted last night and can't even think about a drink today!" Veritas vos liberabit!

The excitement in everyone's reaction shocked me. First, I told my old manager and swore her to secrecy until I told my current one. She knew there had been some issues and gave me a huge hug. "You know," she said, "I thought today you might be pregnant."

"It's this damn shirt, isn't it?"

"Yep, you never wear loose clothes." Without missing a beat she asked, "Is it twins??" My friend who died in January was a twin and twins have been oddly popping up all over the office since then. Prior to the first ultrasound I was worried about triplets. My friend would find it highly entertaining to guide us through that from afar and also know that when faced with that, my husband and I would have risen to the challenge.

I laughed and said, "No, it's not twins. I was worried about that, but she had something to do with this."

"Yes she did," my old boss responded.

Now I'm going totally off-topic, but I'm sitting here with tears streaming down my face thinking about what we've lost. It hits at the oddest times. Yesterday my husband said, "I wish she were still here just to go through life with us, you know?" I thought of all the times the three of us sat around our living room drinking wine and talking about the topic du jour. There's a black hole on the couch now when we have the wine-free "how are we going to be parents" discussions of late. She should be here boosting our confidence and laughing along with us at the thought of being responsible for another life.

Back on topic. Sorry about that.

I told my current boss first thing the next morning. I think at first he thought I was resigning because I lead with, "You've probably guessed what's going on with me and I just need to come clean." His face dropped and quickly picked back up when I said, "I'm pregnant." His reaction surprised me the most. I thought he might be a little concerned about the far-off work implications but he just kept congratulating me and telling me how awesome the news was. And he never uses the word "awesome."

My team was very excited and supportive. Some of them have kids and told me it's the best thing ever and you have no idea what it means until you actually have that baby in your arms. I told them I am banking on the wisdom of those who have gone before me to be true.

Another girl I told said, "I KNEW you were pregnant! Congratulations!!"

"I know you knew," I said, "you've been staring at my stomach for two weeks. I've been trying to hide it from you with my laptop."

"It wasn't that," she said, "I could just tell. You look pregnant." I guess I should just take it as a compliment and move on!

Ahhhhh. I'm finally an honest woman.

Happy Derby, everyone.

Overwhelmingly Pissed.

2011-05-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

After being pregnant for only 11 short weeks I have come to the conclusion that there is too much information available about pregnancy. In the information age, we have become so used to assault by innocuous facts and figures that we don't realize it is slowly drowning us. Sure, we all go out to Google and quickly become experts on our latest medical mystery in the hopes of finding the cure, but I think this leaves us overwhelmingly confused and less tethered to the real world than when we first hit that devil "search" button.

To combat this, I am taking a bold stand. I am actively trying to avoid all the "helpful" information out there about pregnancy and child-rearing. Irresponsible? Maybe, although I've NEVER been called that. I prefer to think of this as the common-sense approach. Women have had children for hundreds of thousands of years and the majority of them did it without "What to Expect" or dear Dr. Google. I'm vintage.

Now, I make bold decisions when I've been pushed to the edge. Please, come on the journey that landed me at the precipice.

Six weeks ago, I found out I was pregnant and being stupidly naive about the power of information, I purchased the God-awful book, "What to Expect When You're Expecting."  The first sign that this would not be very helpful came upon reading the first chaper which suggested I not eat fish who call polluted waters home. Wow. Thanks for that insight, authors. Don't you all have PhDs? You may want to exit the ivory-tower every once in awhile. Just a thought.

The second sign this book would not helpful was the fact that the week-by-week updates only took up half of the 300 or so pages.  I've flipped through the back-half and it's so useless I can't even tell you what's in there. Maybe something for dads, maybe something about nutrition, or maybe something about high risk pregnancy. Whatever it is, it's not germane to the conversation.

A week or so later, my husband went home to visit his new niece and came back with three books. One on baby deals, one for dads, and one on how to eat when you're pregnant. "Please keep those on your side of the bed," I said, already feeling bombarded with relatively useless information, "I don't want them."

"But, these could be really helpful!" my husband offered and quickly noticing the look on my face added, "but you eat really well anyway, you probably don't need to be told how to eat when you're pregnant."

"Yep," I said. "If you think the information could be good, why don't you read it and act as my filter? Let me know if there's anything I should really know like, if I eat eggplant the baby will look like an alien." Not finding me all that amusing, my husband agreed and dove into the first book.

At my first doctor's appointment, I was handed a "Welcome Kit" overflowing with baby goods that I honestly can't recognize. Maybe formula? Maybe wipes? I have no idea and never will because it was trashed later that day. The kind receptionist also told me to fill out the forms in the pack, give them back and I'd receive tons of free samples in the mail.  I smiled politely, thanked her and sat down in the waiting room. "Aren't you going to fill those out?" my husband asked.

"Are you CRAZY?" I asked. "We'll be put on every Johnson & Johnson mailing list and won't stop getting junk mail and spam from them for the rest of our lives. No way am I filling this out." He couldn't argue. I work in Marketing. I know my lifetime value to those Gerber Brand Managers and am not going to make it easy for them to mine.

A few weeks later my husband told me about a great app called Babycenter that sends email updates a few times a week with information about what's happening to your body along with uber-helpful tips on what to do when the baby's born.  Thinking about my overflowing work inbox and my spammed-out personal account I suggested he sign up for it and let me know if there was anything worthy of sharing.

A few weeks after this, when we started telling friends, we ended up with four well-intentioned pregnancy/parenting books to borrow. Wide-eyed, I thanked our friends and promptly handed the five pounds of literature to my husband telling him to do with them as he pleased.

Last week, my MIL emailed me and asked if she could buy me "Belly Laughs." It's actually very sweet that she's thinking of me and so I responded that as long as there was nothing to learn hidden in the pages of this book, I would gladly read it.

This week, the final straw broke the proverbial camel's back in the form of a mysterious 800 number that showed up in my missed calls every single day. My sixth sense for telemarketers kicked in and I deleted every voicemail before listening. I just don't have the time to waste.

Yesterday, as I relaxed with my morning post-gym coffee, my phone rang and the 800 number revealed itself as the culprit. Pissed off and just wanting to be left alone, I answered to put an end to the intrusion.

"Hello," they said, "can we speak with Ms. [a totally butchered attempt at my last name.]"

"This is Mrs. [overempasized correct pronunciation of my last name]."

I was LIVID when the caller turned out to be my healthcare provider calling because they had noticed that I was pregnant. "Is that right?" the gentleman asked, all rainbows and fairy dust.

"Yep," I said, not amused at all.

Taken aback by my pissed, mother-to-be response he went on to tell me that my healthcare provider has a wonderful Pregnancy Program for all mothers and it includes 24 hour access to a special pregnancy nurse and some lactation specialists. (As a sidenote, I have ZERO intention of breast-feeding so he was talking to the wrong person about lactation specialists, but that's an entirely separate post.) He droned on and on and I just wanted to get off the phone so I rudely interjected, "I don't want to be put on some mailing list. Do I have to do this?"

He went on to explain there was no mailing list but I would have access to this fabulous nurse and would recieve some kind of welcome pack in the mail. I think it's important to state here that my dad is a doctor and I believe this is a driving force to my aversion to information. Growing up, when we were sick or injured, his response was always, "I think you're going to live." He's batting 1000 with my brothers and me on that one, so I tend to treat medical malaises much less seriously than most. I also have access to him 24 hours a day as well as my college roommate who is a high-risk OB. I would call them before some random nurse on the other end of an 800 number.

I interrupted again and said, "Can I opt out of this?"

He said, "Well, I haven't told you what' in it for you, yet." Now, I knew I was being sold to and felt my blood start to boil!. I sell people all day long on ideas and recognize in a nanosecond when it's happening to me. With the intonation of a circus ringmaster he said, "YOU get a $100 gift card!"

"I'm all set." I said and hung up. I may be the only person to ever opt out of our shitty insurance's Pregnancy Program, but $100 isn't worth being added to some list somewhere and being bombarded with information and samples.

I am going to rely heavily on the iota of instinct I'm hoping shows up post-birth and probably hand the newborn over to my mother for the first 48 hours and just observe. The notion that some books and samples can prepare you for motherhood is preposterous.

Ladies, take a stand with me. Say no to all the information. We are all equipped to figure this out without the aid of baby formula companies, insurance providers, or poorly-written authors. This is meant to be an adventure and I, for one, am going to forge ahead without the damn map!

Feed Me II.

2011-04-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

One of the very first posts I wrote was called "Feed Me" and it's one of my favorites. This post also discusses food and eating habits but I am in a much different place than I was back in November when the doctor told me I needed to eat a little more. If only she could see me now.

Well, I've reached a new phase of pregnancy that "What to Expect" didn't really warn me about. Sure, I know that the spider is about the size or a raspberry, (or maybe a prune, I can't remember) but I would have rather been warned about the EATING MACHING I would transform into around Week 10. Maybe the authors knew that in a moment of hunger rage, I would have tried to eat my child and left this detail out in order to protect the innocent unborn.

Let's talk about my day on Friday. I know you've been dying to hear.

It started out a little off kilter with a bagel for breakfast. This is highly unusual for me, as I'm more of an oatmeal kind of gal, but it was "Bagels with the CMO'' Friday so I took one for the team and ate a bagel with cream cheese. Fine. Whatever. Eat light the rest of the day, right? WRONG.

I headed to my office to check my calendar. I knew it was a packed day and I had about 10 minutes to make it to my first meeting. What I saw, horrified me. At noon, I was in an hour long "demo." In my line of work, a demo means you head down to the Chef's Kitchen and try anywhere from 10 to 20 potential new products. It is not for the faint of heart. I prepare for these like Kobayashi before a hot dog eating contest: I try not to eat for hours before. The bagel was concerning. That would take up a lot of stomach room that should be going to new products. "Oh well," I thought, "I'll just use a spit cup." That is exactly what you think it is, by-the-way. Professional food tasting is like wine tasting.

At noon, I headed down to the kitchen with my boss and saw the list of products the chefs had prepared. "Pace yourself," I reminded myself. One bite of everything and spit when you need to. Spitting usually commences for me about halfway through.

I knew yesterday's demo was different for me when the chefs placed before us the largest sandwich I've ever seen, in a new Buffalo flavor. I unwrapped it, laughed out loud, and said to everyone at the table, "This sandwich is ridiculous." I took one bite and was in heaven. I don't particularly like Buffalo sauce and I'm not a huge fan of this sandwich but I WANTED MORE. I took another bite but it wasn't enough. "What are you doing?" I asked myself, "you won't make it to the end if you don't stop!" I couldn't. I took another one. I have no idea if anyone at the table noticed my different approach to this demo and my lack of spitting. Usually, I'm That Girl, the one from marketing who doesn't really want to eat the products but yesterday, I was a stranger to everyone around the table.

So, typically, I don't eat the rest of the day after a demo. This is not a starvation choice, but rather a survival necessity to ensure stomach explosion does not occur. Not yesterday. Around 5:30 I decided to head to the gym and burn off a small chunk of the insane calories I'd consumed earlier. However, I was hungry. "WTF?" I asked myself as I rummaged through my desk for a granola bar.

Later that evening, my husband and I made a quick Target run to get a few necessities before our friends from Chicago arrived for a fabulous Easter weekend. Walking through the aisles, I turned into a demon. My eyes glowed a fiery red and snakes sprouted from my head as I hissed, "We have to speed this up. I'm STARVING." My husband, quickly realizing that I saw melted cheese where his head once was, happily obliged.

At home, I had a slice of leftover pizza, cucumber slices, and some deliciously sour jellybeans. When our friends arrived later, I dove into the Tostitos while they focused on the wine. And don't forget the Easter candy. I decided busting out the Easter Twix and Peeps was a must! I paid for it on Saturday morning with a corn chip hangover. I needed more water than my friend who impressively drank three-quarters of a bottle of wine herself!

I don't know where all this food is going and I feel a twinge of guilt and disgust at my eating ability, but I have no control. I can't believe I ever said out loud "Oh, I'll only eat an extra 200 calories a day and be fine!" If I could go back and wipe that stupid smirk off my face, I would. And I'd kick myself in the shins just for being so naive.

Busting Out.

2011-04-18T04:59:00.000-07:00

My body is overflowing. Not in a fertile, attractive, mother nature-ish kind of way but rather in an "over my pants and out of my bra" manner.

I am nine weeks and one day and my pants leave button indent marks around my waist at the end of the day. Yesterday, I spent some time trying on work appropriate outfits for the next two weeks. Word of advice, ladies, do not ask your husband whether or not he thinks the outfit in question masks pregnancy. I would be outed within three minutes of walking off the elevator were I to wear some of the clothes he cavalierly gave a thumbs up.

When I walk around at the office, I suck my stomach in so hard I think I am compressing my future child' head.

I'm not writing any of this to complain, trust me. I'm getting more and more excited about the ends of this little cleaning experiment. Now that I know there is actually something in my uterus and my body's shape and size are adjusting accordingly, I just want to tell people I am pregnant! No more carrying my laptop in front of my waist, wearing baggy sweaters, more making excuses for my hunger, and certainly no more fake drinking!

I've decided to tell my boss in about two weeks because in two and a half weeks we have a big work event that involves drinking all day. I told my husband, almost in tears, "I can't fake drink once more! I have to tell before then!" He was aligned. So now, I'm counting off the days in successful outfits and hunger management.

All obviously pregnant women just seem smug to me these days. They shamelessly flaunt their bellies instead of hiding them and pass on the alcohol with an annoying, "not right now!" look while I search my closet for extra material in a slim-fit wardrobe and drink clear libations with limes. Those bitches. I can't wait to be one of them.

Due Date.

2011-04-12T19:02:00.000-07:00

It's real. I have an 8 week 2 day-old dustbuster in my uterus scheduled to arrive on November 20th.

The doctor's visit itself was anticlimatic. We arrived and had to wait over an hour to see the nurse. I was LIVID and spent the time emailing and telling my husband that if I missed my 1:00 meeting, someone was going to pay. I hate inefficiency.

When they finally called me back, they drew half my blood, the doctor told me not to eat coldcuts, and we headed to the ultrasound room. Here, the experience got much cooler. Since they had no idea how far along I was they weren't sure if there would be a heartbeat, but there was! I was fascinated by the little flickering light beating on the screen.

Holy Shit, I'm growing another person inside me!

The fun part today has been telling my brothers. I texted them a picture of the ultrasound with the caption, "You guys ready to be uncles?" Of the three, I've heard back from two. The first was ecstatic and told me over and over how excited he is for this. While talking to him, another brother beeped in with a, "This is amazing!! Are you serious?!"

His first question was, "Ok, if this is a boy, at what age do you want me to get him drunk for the first time?" Oh, he is going to be a wonderful uncle.

After we'd both discussed the shock, he asked how I was doing with "everything" meaning the death of my friend in January. I told him that in a weird way I feel like she had a hand in this. His response made me teary eyed. "You know," he said, "I was kind of thinking that, too."

You see, my brothers came to visit us in December and we spent several nights with my friend Jamie. Unbeknownst to me, at some point she told them that I'm not great at opening up (true) so would probably never tell them how I was really feeling, but I was upset by the struggle to get pregnant. Truthfully, had I known that, I would have been mad, but according to my brother she wanted them to know so I could talk to them about it if I needed to. It makes me happy and sad that I got here with her support and she's not here to witness the end result. Well, she's here all the time and I think she helped this along, but it breaks my heart that I can't shoot her a text message with the ultrasound picture or run over to her desk telling her to save the date for our November 20th adventure.

Anyway, my brother ended the conversation with a sincere thought that this was the best news he'd heard in his entire life. My family's excitement makes me excited to bring a new life into this world and introduce them to the cast of characters who will play the important role of "uncle."

His last thought was, "Oh and I am going to be the bullshit uncle who gives the kid savings bonds for Christmas." I don't believe that for a second. He had every He-Man and dinosaur made in the late 80s.

I'm Back!

2011-04-10T17:58:00.000-07:00

YESSSS!!! Sixteen days of travel are over! I feel so flippin' accomplished for having done that and it all ended with a beachy weekend in Florida with friends. It was fabulous. Until they ordered white sangria. Then I wanted to cry, but this too shall pass.

My husband, who hasn't seen me in weeks, was incredibly impressed with the size of my chest. I knew I was a little larger, but his eyes practically popped out of his head when I walked in the door. That, and my aversion to olives of any kind, make me think I might actually be pregnant. I haven't had morning sickness, but if there is nothing in my stomach, I don't feel my best. When I heartily dug into the kalamata hummus at one of the fancy grocery stores we ran around last week, it took all my muster to get it down. I adore olives, but the salty, briney, Grecian taste did not work. Same thing with capers. Those little salty bursts are one of my favorite ingredients but the thought of them makes me gag. I hope I'm not permanently ruined.

I am slowly accepting the weight gain. I walked by my husband in yoga pants this evening and he said, "Oh yeah, I can see it." I have a little pooch that ~~should be~~ will not be flat for at least eight months. This is ok. The fun for the next four weeks will be hiding it.

I go to the doctor on Tuesday (I think - it's one of these days) who will confirm the existence of a tiny creature or send my ass to the gym, promptly. Good times either way.

I bought a small melon at the grocery store today because I read my uterus is now about that size and I just wanted the visual on the counter. Makes me feel better that I am concealing all that with just the slightest bit of a paunch.

Anyway, I am back on the blog scene and looking forward to catching up with everyone! Thanks for all your comments. Sometimes I just need a punch in the gut. Not literally. But you knew that.

Fatuous Fears.

2011-04-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

I know some of you are thinking it, but it's not true! "That little wench," I hear you saying, "she gets knocked up and abandons her blog for cyber eternity. I hope her child has four heads."

This isn't the case! However, a four-headed child could have an excellent career in the circus, so I may thank you for that someday.

I am on Week Two of my retarded travel schedule and have not had a single moment to myself. I don't know if I'm exhausted because I'm prego or because our days begin on 7:30 in the morning and closes no earlier than 10:00 at night. What I do know, is that by 3:00, I lose my will to live.

You see, I am at an Innovation Summit, a relatively cool event in the world of work where people get together, head into the kitchen and come up with new products. We shop for fresh ingredients, have professional chefs helping us out, and overall just have a good time throwing things together and pretending we are the stars of our own Food Network show. However, if I sample one more chicken sandwich, I might die. My unborn child is either going to have an odd affinity for chicken products or gag everytime s/he comes across one.

Another stressful factor this week is my tight jeans. I can't discern if they are a bit harder to zip due to all the aioli we've been smearing across delicious breads and cheeses or the sevenish week old spider rocking around my uterus. Either way, I know there is no turning back for another several months and this scares me. I know it's natural and I should embrace it, but this just isn't my style. I love losing weight as much as the average American loves Big Macs. It's vain and self-serving, but aren't we all? I am terrified of 30+ pounds on my frame. My breakthrough goal is 15, but my food intake over the past few days is not in alignment with this.

I'm sorry if I'm being pregnant bitchy. I think I'll go to the gym and sweat it out. Please send over a cyber slap to whip me into shape.

Saliva City.

2011-04-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, there was a toy store 30 minutes away from home called "Kiddie City." Twice a year, my brothers and I would make the pilgimmage over and be allowed to run rampant for an hour while deciding which one shiny bauble we'd select from the millions of treasures.

Kiddie City was a much better residence than Saliva City, where I am today.

I wish I was a good spitter because I would go sit on the back deck and spend the afternoon setting up targets and spitting at them. That could be a fun little game to play. I bet I could get my husband interested. Alas, I have zero projectile force and everytime I've tried to spit, a little dribble pathetically ends up on my chin.

Why are my salivary glands in overdrive? I think I know. My mouth is so well lubed that I can only guess the baby is delivered through your mouth and this is just another one of those things you don't know until you're in the pregnancy club. Truth be told, vomiting up a child sounds moderately more appealing than squeezing one out your vag or having one ripped out through your abs. Right? I think I've guessed correctly on this one. So, if this is the case, I would greatly appreciate those who have gone before me to confirm this now. I want to be totally in the know when the time comes.

Last Event.

2011-03-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

Forty-five minutes until the week's last event. This is the true test. The after-party starts at 11 and I've got a cocktail hour, dinner, and an awards thing to get through before that. Last night was my best performance to date. Before the waitress could take our drink order, I excused myself for the ladies room, found our server and explained that even though I would be ordering vodka cranberry, I did not want any alcohol. She happily obliged. I don't think anyone knew although one Mom in the group stared at my drink when it was set down in front of me. I wanted to kiss the waitress when she loudly asked if I'd like another "vodka cran."

I'm not sure what tonight's antics will be. Definitely carrying around a glass of wine and pouring some out in the ladies room, several soda waters with lime, a fake vodka cran or two, and possibility bringing a friend into the ruse. This is exhausting!

Good lord. I can't handle fake drinking. My future does not look bright.

30 Minutes.

2011-03-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Pre-Evening:
Thirty minutes until I walk out of my hotel room into the opening event of the conference and don't drink. I was less nervous at marathon starting lines.

Post-Evening:
I don't think I set off any alarm bells. I let the server at dinner pour me white whine and held it in my hands a few time and twirled it around. I added in something about my crazy weekend with my college roommates in Philly and still feeling its aftermath. Key learning for this evening is as people get drunker, it gets easier. One event down, three to go!

Sinking In.

2011-03-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

I am 48 hours past two lines and it's not sinking in. How could this have happened? Sure, unprotected sex is the obvious answer, but my uterus was not primed for this. It was dusty and dirty and just pissed off at me. None of it adds up. Of course, I'm not complaining, but I'm utterly terrified and will get through all of this with a lot of laughter.

This evening's topic is the awful nature of the What to Expect book. There are 8 billion copies in print only because every first time preggo buys it thinking, "it's the bible" (said in a hushed, dramatic tone ala Voldemort) and she is not at a point where she wants to ask her friend for her copy and reveal her secret. So, she spends fourteen dollars and ninety-five cents of her hard earned money and buys it not knowing that it should be called, What To Expect When You're Expecting and Are Also Mildly Retarded.

The genius authors suggest that women try to break their cocaine habit, curb their marijuana use, and stop drinking. I think every two year old knows this.

When it comes to diet, their tips are just as helpful. "You can drink tea," they say, "just don't brew a homemade tea from a plant growing in you backyard." Who does that, pregnant or not?

My favorite tip, however, is their seafood advice. The approved fish are listed and then they offer this complete waste of ink, "Steer clear of fish from waters contaminated with sewage or industrial run-off." Does anyone have this conversation:

Diner: "Ooh, the tilapia sounds great? Where is it from?"
Waiter: "Oh, we have guys who fish down in the river."
Diner: "The one here, by the industrial plant and water treatment center?"
Waiter: "Yes."
Diner: "Everyone knows that's teeming with sewage! I can't believe you fish there."
Waiter: "It actually adds a nice tangy flavor to the fish. Really balances everything out."
Diner: "Huh. Well, I'm not pregnant, so sign me up!!"

We need to all write our own book. It would be so much more entertaining than what's lining the best-seller shelves now. We would tell them they could do crack and eat contaminated fish if they wanted a baby with three heads. The What to Expect authors take their advice way too seriously.

Also stressing me out, aside from this whole "there's a life in you" thing I have rocking right now is the fact that I am traveling for the next two and a half weeks! I'm not just off to the usual meetings. I'm traveling to conferences which will be attended by everyone from around the globe in marketing at our company. There will be lots of receptions and dinners. I'm thinking of two possible excuses for not drinking and two ploys. What do you think:

Excuse 1: I can't drink because I'm on a medication that makes you incredibly sick if you drink. (This medication exists, I was on it once and everyone thought I was preggo.)

Excuse 2: I gave up drinking for Lent. (While normally not believable, if I mention my friend's death as a reason for finding God, everyone will leave me alone. She would appreciate me using her to cover my ass.)

Ploy 1: Pomegranite juice. It looks like red wine. I can slip some to the bartenders that will be standing outside the conference room ready to get everyone liquered up and ask them to give it to me in a red wine goblet.

Ploy 2: Order Bud Lights, head to the ladies room, dump them out and refill with water.

I'm still terrified. I'm laughing about all this so I don't cry my eyes out.

Lucky Sevens.

2011-03-21T18:13:00.000-07:00

Today was a weird one.

I decided it was time to test. I arbitrarily picked last Friday and pushed it back a few more days because I knew the guilt of not meeting a goal would take a few days to settle in. I was correct. It drove my batty all afternoon.

After work, I went to spinning and then stopped at Target to buy another test. After two periods in eight months and six tests, you'd think I'd have a few on hand, but I don't. I just hate looking at them everytime I reach for a towel, you know?

After EPT's lack of interest in my awesome innovation idea, I shunned them for First Response because I saw the creepy, "Am I pregnant?" ad with the ghoul-like women a few times last night. No one tell me national media isn't effective. I truly thought that by switching brands, I would alter my fate. "Lucky Number Seven!" I thought to myself as I entered my debit pin at the Target check-out. As a sidenote, the kind older woman checking me out must have thought I was crazy with my lyrca-ed up body, sweat-slicked hair, and look of determination. Or maybe not. She probably sees it all.

My husband knew it was close to test time, but by the time I got home, I just needed to get it over with. He was out golfing and the thought of him timing another two minutes and trying to distract me from the stick on the counter made me vomit.

Annoyed with my predicament, I plunged the stick into the stream and started thinking about what to have for dinner. I washed my hands, looked at the stick and SCREAMED. Two pink lines stared me back in the face, mocking my disdain for the whole production.

I think I'm knocked up and I know I'm experiencing an odd mixture of excitement and sheer terror.

When my husband got home, I served up the stick with our salads, which would be completely disgusting if not for the handy cap on the end of these things, and we both stared at each other shell-shocked. I think we'd gotten to a point where we just assumed that I was Seasonal without the actual pill. We didn't think this was a potential outcome of unprotected sex.

So, I know this is a little weird and I know that some of you want to take that positive stick and shove it straight up my ass. I'm totally ok with that. If you want to unfriend me, that's cool, too, but please keep in mind I need you gals more than ever right now. When I walked out of the bathroom, my dog was loyally lying in the hall waiting for me. "Teak!" I yelled as I bent down to hug him, "I need you! I'm going to need your help with this." He looked at me, a bit confused, and seemed to say back, "Ummmm...I'm a dog. You know that, right?"

So I suppose tomorrow I'll buy the books and try to figure out what the hell I've gotten myself into. I'm already a crazy lady with a used pregnancy test wishing for a keepsake pouch. I hardly recognize myself. Good God, what have I done?

Enhanced Search.

2011-03-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Google,

I know you’ve noticed a trend with me. You’re so good at picking up on these things! I have an odd interest lately in ovulation signs and early pregnancy symptoms. I appreciate the wealth of information you give back to me. Sore boobs, cramps, fatigue – these are all signs of ovulation, early pregnancy, and an upcoming period. Since my symptoms could be any one of those, though, they are not helping me determine if I am ovulating or pregnant.

In the future, when I google anything having to do with ovulation or pregnancy, I would like one of two words to appear on the screen:

“YES” for “Yes, AP, you are ovulating/pregnant.”

“NO” for “No, AP, you are not ovulating/pregnant.”

Please let me know if you need my ISP address. Thanks!

AP

Filter Free.

2011-03-18T05:01:00.000-07:00

This is a simple confession for an honest Friday. I’m thinking about quitting my job. I don’t love it anymore. It’s not what I want to be doing and life is much too short to waste on things not worthy of love.

It would SHOCK everyone. Imagine, the girl who gets the promotion and has the world handed to her on a silver platter, leaves. It would certainly send a message that they can take their silver platter and shove it because it’s filled with dog poo. I think people would be envious of my balls. Ok, I need to stop talking about my balls. It’s not helping me get pregnant.

My husband is supportive. Sure, there’s money to think about, but money’s not everything and we’d be fine. We are incredibly lucky in that we both have great jobs. Our income would be halved, but we’d be ok.

The only thing that stops me is I don’t know what I’d do instead. Write a book? Maybe. I could attempt to turn this thing into a book or start working on the one I’m almost done with anyway. Work at a boutique or bakery or some other cute retail outlet? Maybe. Consult? Hmmm. Wonder if they’d take me back as an outsider. Not likely. Freelance? Sure, if I could figure out how to do that, I’d do it in a second.

So, it’s out there. My husband and I have talked about it. He wants the happier more carefree version of me back. She, unfortunately, is trapped in the new office.

Could my type A self ever just walk out? When pushed to the edge, most definitely. And I'm dangerously close.

8 WW.

2011-03-16T13:12:00.000-07:00

Reader's Note: This is my first post from 30,000 feet in the air!

I know that waiting more than 12 hours to learn if you've hit the baby jackpot is painful. I know that two weeks is an achingly long time to fill with mundane distractions such as cooking, knitting, gardening, blogging, working, losing yourself in a Jersey Shore marathon or two, and planting bulbs. I would never refute the claim that those two weeks of limbo are worse than Dante's inner circle of hell, but I sure would love to have only two weeks to wait.

I am nearing the close of an eight week wait. EIGHT WEEKS. It probably seems like I putz around out here, never really talking about what's going on with my reproductive situation, but that's because there is NOTHING going on.

Eight weeks ago, I dreamt a dream of regular cycles and, alas, was crushed for daring to dream. My body is still pointing and laughing while I wait…and wait…..and wait just a little longer for some sign that I am actually a female. Could this be the problem? Am I a man with a woman’s outward appearance? Huh. Maybe I should talk to someone about that.

I can’t say I blame my period for not joining the party over the past eight weeks. I wasn’t exactly a good time. In fact, if I located the Afghani cave my period has holed up in, I may have rescinded the invitation I sent out and brought my chips and dip over to its party. So, while I understand its hesitancy, I can’t forgive it. We are still not on good terms and being left in the lurch at a time when monumental events were taking place serves as a reminder that my period is not my friend.

At five weeks, I didn’t write this post because there wasn't anything to report. At the end of eight weeks, though, I feel that I am at a crossroads. Two weeks ago, sore boobs and egg white omelets led me to believe I was ovulating. This was based on what happened two weeks prior to the arrival of my first non hormone-induced period in January. As would any sane, infertile woman, I cajoled my husband into sex almost every night. One night, I was furious with him for his “I don’t care if we ever move back home,” statement from earlier in the evening and he wasn’t interested in even looking at me in my homesick state, but I still prevailed! It's just too easy sometimes.

Anyway, still basing all of my theories, assumptions, and infertile math on what happened that one time back in January, I should get my period between today and Friday. My hit rate on period hedging is 0% so I don’t know why I expect to be right this time, so just accept that I do. Since I was way off on the under the odds of getting the date right must be stronger than they were a few weeks back.

Are you thinking it? I don’t want to think it, but I am. My period won’t show and there will be another stupid build-up to another flipping pregnancy test on Saturday or Sunday. I don’t want to pee on anymore sticks! I don’t want to set it on the counter and leave the bathroom while my husband times two minutes on the iPad. I don’t want to walk back in and see nothing for the seventh time. I don’t want to sigh, throw it in the trash and think about the next step (Progesterone horse pills! Yay!) I don’t want to go from feeling like everything is fine and maybe normal to feeling disappointment over something that doesn’t even exist. I don’t want my complex ovulation, sex, period equation to be proven wrong and be left with a pregnancy test carcass and a sinking feeling that it’s all random. Most of all, I do not want to give EPT anymore of my dollars!

If I could not take the test and float along untethered for another few weeks, I would. However, my OB said I have to get a period every two months so I need to artificially induce it soon if it’s not coming of its own volition. Actually, her verbatim was I need to “bleed” every two months, but that makes me feel like Anne Boleyn trying desperately to hide another miscarriage from her crazy husband, you know? Oh wow. There’s an idea for another post: “It could be worse, our husbands could behead us for our infertility!”

Ok Ute, get the rubber gloves ready, spring cleaning is headed your way. I think it’s reasonable to request that the cleaners come once a month from now on instead of once every eight, nine or ten weeks. Your hovel is starting to gross me out.

Listen Closely.

2011-03-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

This was a weird gym week for me. I’m a Heavy User, so a wrench in the staid gym environment creates a ripple effect into the rest of my life. Sad or totally awesome? I'm not sure.

Anyway, this week, two different instructors yelled, "Listen to your body!" during class. One exclamation happened in spinning and the other in boot camp. I almost fell off my bike the first time and dropped a weight on my foot the second. If I'd wanted to listen to my body, I would have headed to yoga and politely grimaced when the inevitable “listen to your body” cooed from the peaceful teacher. I'm never pleased to hear this mantra, but at least in yoga I should expect it.

Here's my deal. I don't listen to my body and I pride myself on not doing so. During my first marathon I ignored my rapid heartrate for four miles until I was thrown into an ambulance and told I was lucky to be alive. For the last two years of my running career, I ignored a nagging pain until I couldn't feel my foot and then learned that I had a bulging, compressed disc. When I wanted to lose weight I ignored the hunger pains and dropped roughly 15 pounds from my 125ish frame. In hot yoga the other night, I risked passing out or vomiting to stay in camel longer than anyone else in class. It was by far my FAVORITE yoga moment of all time.

I've always believed mind over matter. It doesn’t end well all the time, but there is nothing more rewarding and exciting than feeling pain and pushing through it. Were I dropped in the jungle, I think I could make it out alive ala Bear Grylls. It’s just how I’m wired

Since I heard the “listen” advice twice this week in environments where the words created discord, I have to consider that the universe is trying to tell me something. It’s odd that the spinning and bootcamp instructors are its chosen vehicles, but Alanis Morissette played God in Dogma so I suppose anything is possible.

Let's entertain that I should listen to my body, which is effectively communicating an anti-child message. What does this mean?

When I am feeling 100% honest I know it's likely my body’s anti-child communications haven’t changed since Day 1. Kids were never a big idea to me. My future-back vision of life always involved work, a husband, and a dog. I never saw little ones. If I were accused in court of having stated, "I'd love to not be able to not have kids; it makes the decision so much easier!" I'd end up in jail. Maybe, recently the thrill of the hunt and potential victory have launched me into overdrive, desperately seeking two lines while my body, the more rational beast, knows a child isn’t best. Don't get me wrong, I REALLY want those two lines, but I’ve always believed the reality that comes with them is frightful. Body knows best? Maybe.

If my body isn’t trying to do what’s best for me, then the alternate scenario is one where it is punishing me for all those years of telling it to shut the hell up. There was the shoulder injury from swimming, the early on knee-injury from running, the heart explosion, the debilitating back injury, and the most recent weight loss. You’d think it would be willing to overlook the negative consequences of fitness. In the end, it was the benefactor.

"Could it have been something other than exercise?" I've wondered. Well, I was never into drugs, so it can’t be upset about a past heroin addiction, hours spent on the crack pipe, or Ritalin overdoses in college. That wasn’t my style. Same with sex. I wanted to be a slut, but could never pull it off.

So, I’m stuck at an impasse. What the fuck is my body trying to tell me? It made me feel terrible about losing weight so I gained eight flipping pounds for it. That wasn’t enough, though. After undoing all the weight I dropped, it decided to throw low thyroid my way so now I’m taking weird-ass hormones on a daily basis.

The message from my body may simply by “I’m in control here, not you.” And so, to keep the boss happy, I’ve made some changes. I’m making more of an effort to take my multi-vitamin, calcium, and folic acid everyday just in case it’s feeling nutrient starved. I’m trying to eat non-processed foods lest the chemicals, imported from China by P&G and Kellogg’s, found in everything we eat are disagreeing with it. I started doing hot yoga just in case the toxins that all the yoga instructors talk of releasing actually exist! Oh, and I called an acupuncturist. I didn’t make an appointment, and I almost hung up before they answered, but I’m considering it for the sake of my ~~whiny~~ ~~childish~~ awesome body.

And body, happiness is complex and can come from many places including staying in camel longest and running fastest. Please keep that in mind during the next evaluation.

Total Causehead.

2011-03-11T05:39:00.000-08:00

I read this yesterday and it really pissed me off. Don’t feel like you have to go read it. The Cliff notes version is that for many women in the developing world, childbirth is just as dangerous as it was 100 years ago.

One-hundred years!!

Mankind has invented cars and spaceships, survived nuclear threats and Y2K; witnessed Dean Martin, the Beatles, and Eazy E come and go; and mixed up a cocktail that will keep Magic Johnson alive for the next hundred years. Why do women in developing countries still have the same childbirth survival rates as their great-great grandmothers??

I know what some of you are thinking and we just can’t go there. “I’d risk childbirth in Kenya if I could just get knocked up and/or make it to nine months!” you’re saying. Don’t lie. I know it’s running through your head. It ran through mine, but ladies, their plight is more tragic than ours . And, if the Risk Management Team at the World Health Organization is prioritizing the female needs list, I understand if safe childbirth in third world countries beats out infertility in the West. They’ve gotta put their resources into those causes that will bring them the most visible ROI and reducing the number of mom’s who die gets them a bigger bang for their buck than cleaning out our uteri. I suppose the silver lining for us is on bad days we can now say, “It could be worse. I could be in labor in Uzbekistan.” Makes infertility sounds like a day in the park!

What really pisses me off about this article is that while women die in faraway lands, thanks to the marvel of modern medicine, 90 year old men in Western civilization have sex thanks to that little blue pill. Really, society at large? Your prioritization of scientific minds is fucked up. At the top of the list should be achieving worldwide safe childbirth. Next, I’d like to see an end to infertility. Satiating creepy old dudes sexual appetites should be last. But it’s first.

Men are fertile until the day they die. Why do I only have a window of 15 – 20 years? Why did some pharmaceutical genius figure out how to make boners possible for nursing home patients before he figured out how to make sure children in developing countries have moms? Why is there no little blue pill to knock me up? The mousetrap can be built, but I don’t think anyone cares enough to build it.

And so, I might take a bold step. The next time someone asks me about kids, I may respond with something dangerously close to the truth like, “It’s not easy for everyone.” It’s a small step to getting someone, somewhere to care about infertility, but the more people who are aware that this is an issue that effects millions of women everywhere and is affecting someone they KNOW, the better the chances that someday we’ll have our own little blue pill. Maybe if I start telling people about my malfunctioning uterus, it will want to perform. Maybe it just needs some accountability!

Seriously, though, if moms DYING doesn’t get the world’s attention, how will infertility? Sadly the women in developing countries don’t have a voice, but we do. Listen to us out here! We don’t shut up! Why don’t we demand something more?

Sorry to go all social cause on everyone on a Friday. It’s partially the caffeine coursing through my body and partly the rage over that article. Let me know what you think and what we can do.

The only thing that worries me is all cures have side effects and I don’t know what the female equivalent of a four hour boner is. A four week period? Oh, and once we have our pill, we will NOT hire the agency that makes the Cialis ads. We will not be shown sitting in his and hers bathtubs. Barf.

My Sanity.

2011-03-08T18:55:00.000-08:00

My husband doesn't get nearly enough credit for the important role he plays in my our infertile life, and by nearly enough, I mean none. So here is just a quick, little post full of love for the person wading through the muck by my side.

Out in the real world, I can't share the witty and sarcastic words he comes up with to bring a smile to my face. No one there knows that when I can't sleep he touches my back and mumbles, "it's ok," or when I say at day's end, "today wasn't great," or, "I just hate this," he knows why I need a hug.

In here, though, I'd like to give him some much deserved recognition for going through something that few men have the honor of experiencing and keeping me sane.  We have similar senses of humor, so if you like mine, I think you'll like his.  In fact, if he had a blog and you liked mine and it was somehow on Amazon and Amazon could recommend others you might like, I know it would pick his for you!

Here are three of his best observations so far:

One
Him: "Ok, so we've gotta bang two weeks straight after you ovulate, right?"
Me: Through hysterical laughter, "No! Do you even know how this works?"
Him: "Well why have we been doing that then?!"
Me: "I'm hedging my bets.  I have no idea when I ovulate."
Him: "So I'm basically a prostitute?"

Two
Him, after hot yoga, "Don't worry. I'll shower so we can try to procreate."

Three
Him, walking into the pet store, "Well, if it doesn't work out for us, we can always buy some kids."
Me, turning around to look at him, "Adoption isn't buying kids."  Noticing the laughter he's containing I follow his gaze.

The children's clothing store a few doors down has a big sign in the window that reads, "Kid's Sale!!"

We both devolve into fits of giggles and life is good.

Oh Charlie.

2011-03-05T15:56:00.000-08:00

Charlie Sheen is crazy. Right?? Watching the interviews and listening to commentary from all the people in Hollywood who appear concerned but are really in awe of their good luck for cracking a story that has all of America transfixed, it's hard to entertain the presence of an iota of sanity in Charlie's tiger blood.

I laughed during the GMA interview, gossiped over the water cooler, replayed the you tube videos for my husband , and then had a sickening thought: GMA may be able to tell a similar story about any one of us with 24 shared hours and an interview.

Before you engage in the jovial and highly entertaining Charlie mockery, please consider that each of us may have more Charlie in us than most.  If we don't keep ourselves in check, we will be the next sensational journalism maelstrom hitting the wires.

How an Infertile's GMA Segment Might Look and Sound like Charlie Sheen's:
The anchor began Sheen's segment by referencing his recent "drug-filled night with porn stars."

On our segment the anchor could begin with "the underground world of women who rape their husbands," or "drug-filled nights, needle filled mornings, and dildo-wanded afternoons happening in YOUR neighborhood."

On Support.
Sheen said: "People reach out to me. Sure. Radical people. They don't give advice, just love."

We might say: "The people in my support network don't necessarily know that they are part of it and they give more healing cures than advice, but I couldn't live without them!  They include my acupuncturist, masseuse, bikram yoga instructor, medicine man, Mom, imaginary blog friends, Whole Foods sales clerk, and the local Jedi master."

On Drug Use.
Sheen said: "I took more drugs than anyone can survive."

We would say: "I started with herbal supplements. Eventually I had to move to progesterone pills and thyroid medication. After that it was several rounds of Clomid. Don't even get me started on the box of meds I received for IVF! I've got every heroin addict in the state rifling through my trash!!"

Drug Cocktails.
When asked how he makes his drug choices Sheen said, "there are certain blends that I will not entertain."

We might respond with something like, "I'm really not sure about mixing thyroid medication with Clomid. That hormone high, while legal, is crazy for anyone to attempt. I know my limits!"

Life Strategies.
Sheen stated that he does not have a strategy for drug-taking, but does have a firm list of rules.

Well fuck me. I'd have to respond with my infertility strategy. Who's crazy now? He doesn't have strategies for life, that's me!

Making Magic.
Chas claimed his drug-fueled binges "exposed people to magic."

We say, "Our fertility drugs will be the magic trick that gets us that babe-in-arms!" Hell, we talk about babydust out here! At least Charlie is talking about rocks of crack. They exist, ladies, baby dust does not.

Mind Over Matter.
When asked if he would relapse, Sheen was adament that he would not. The correspondent questioned him on this and he stated, "I blinked and I cured my brain."

We say, "I'm meditating and doing a lot of yoga hoping some positive thinking and a little eastern magic will solve my infertility. I've also tried picturing my eggs and coaxing them out with positive thoughts. Oh, and I stopped eating Egg Beaters."

Happy Saturday Eve, everyone!  Here's to hoping we are ALL bi-winning.

Decked Out.

2011-03-02T18:14:00.000-08:00

Good God, this job is killing me. I've spent this week, and part of last, trapped in deck writing hell. Remember "paper writing" day in college? When you waited until the last day to write your papers and then pounded it all out in 18 hours or less? No? Well, I never did it either, but my roommate did and I think navigating through Powerpoint, Excel, and old research decks to write the damn strategy for my damn new job is at least eight times worse.

In the middle of all this, I did go to the doctor and came away with some answers and the outline of a plan. Since I am afraid to leave the level of deck-writing zone to which I evolved over the past few days, I'm going to outline this for you as my own personal fertility strategy.

AP's Fertility Strategy
March 2011

Objectives
Primary Objective: Normal ovulation.
Secondary Objective: Impregnation by spouse.

Overview
State of the Business: AP and her husband have been married for four and a half lovely years. After several years of selfish fun, they have reached the state where selfish fun looks like carbon copies of themselves instead of trips to Napa and sleeping in until noon on Saturday. The business is primed for growth.

State of the Competition: All of AP's friends are having children and while it doesn't outwardly bother her, she would like to become part of the club. Always a competitor, someone else's rounded belly is a reminder of what she is unable to achieve.

State of the Consumer: AP's primary occasion driver is her age. She is not in her prime child-bearing years, but not yet of advanced maternal age, either. However, action is needed quickly to achieve stated objectives. Secondarily it's the foreboding feeling that she will be left in the dust as her friends all start buying expensive strollers and burp cloths. Lastly, it's a nagging feeling that life might be a little sweeter with some little ones running around.

Barriers
Barrier 1: Weight was initially thought to be the major barrier to achieving the objective. However, a visit to the doctor this week yielded a +7 pound increase, joyous applause from the nurses and AP's OB, but still no regular cycle.

Barrier 2: Newly diagnosed with "low thyroid," AP's family doctor stated that this could be a reason or irregular cycles as well as the culprit behind a chronic headache and lightheadedness. Her TSH is 5.55.

Research Note: The weight and the thyroid issue have not been laid on top of each other yet, but could produce a unique outcome when cross-referenced. We still need to understand if the weight drove the thyroid or vice versa. Additionally, the impact of weight loss, weight gain and a low thyroid is not clear at this point.

Strategies:
1. Continue moderate exercise program. AP's doctor told her it was good to be in shape without looking like she is training for a triathlon. AP took this as a compliment.
2. Start thyroid medicine tomorrow. While taking a daily dose of synthetic hormone makes AP feel like she is a 90 year-old with a goiter, she will do anything to make the lightheadness goes away. Her husband will do anything to make the irratability dissipate. The old people pills are a win-win.

Next Steps:
1. If a period does not show up in three weeks, AP will put the second Provera prescription to use.
2. If she is not regulated by June 1st, she returns to the OB to discuss aggressive options.
3. She returns to her family doctor in six weeks for bloodwork to make sure the magic pills are working.
4. Acupunture and weird teas become further strategies to consider.

Request for Further Research
The team kindly asks anyone who has experienced something similar to respond to this strategy with their best practices.

New Recruit.

2011-02-28T19:52:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is D-Day. I have my second appointment with the baby doctor who previously instructed me to gain 5-10 pounds and call if I wasn't regulated by March. She laughed when she told me it would be easy to gain weight over the holidays. I didn't. She had no idea who she was working with, but I heeded her advice and very literally, gained at least five pounds, probably seven if I'm being honest.

I've been putzing around out here, waxing philosophical on eggs and cleaning agents, but tomorrow I will finally enlist. I've kind of felt like an outsider, reading about all the treatments, shots, drugs, and acronyms without anything to offer back. Well, I won't stand for it any longer. Ladies, here I come! Assisted reproduction, I can't wait to meet you! Eggs, I'm sending in some foreign aid! Let's do this!

I am embracing my new rank with open arms and an open uterus.

Bad Weekend.

2011-02-27T15:50:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it. This weekend was not one for the record books. Or maybe it was, in an "I want to rip my hair out" kind of way. I don't like too much negativity, but I do love extremes, so hey, it might work.

This weekend everything came crashing down. I've been waiting for this and am kind of glad it got itself out of my system. My trifecta of stress was feeling overwhelmed by my new job, desperately missing my friend who has been gone now for five weeks, and being plan pissed off at my stupid dusty uterus. I cried for no reason at least four times and spent an hour curled up in a ball on the couch. I don't ever do that. I couldn't even find humor in the seven foot tall, highly tanned, steroid-riddled man clad only in tighty-whiteys who plopped down two inches from me at hot yoga yesterday! I do now, and this experience is an upcoming post unto itself, but yesterday even he couldn't elicit a chuckle. Given how hard I had to concentrate to NOT DIE during the class, this probably ended up being a positive for the day.

Reading through everyone's posts, it seems like many weekends were just as shitty. It doesn't seem that the stars aligned for us and so I'm hoping that the infertility gods have been running themselves ragged with their no good antics over the past 48 hours and will catch up on some much needed sleep this coming week. During this time, their non-evil counterparts, the fertility gods, will be able to cavort and sprinkle down some pixie dust so get ready to catch it! This week will be better, I just know it.

This evening things are already looking up. I've gotten my head a little bit more around the new job and am enjoying a relaxing Sunday evening. I can hear my husband banging pots and pans around the kitchen preparing dinner, and despite the cacophony, it's starting to smell quite delicious.

Also contributing to my renewed spirit are my tender boobs. My nipples feel like someone took a zester across them. Ouch and yay! The last time I ovulated, I had the same sensation so I think the eggs are readying for release, stating their case to be the chosen one when the gate swings open. Only on the infertile side of the fence is this a more exciting part of the evening than watching the gowns on the red carpet and only on this side will I watch Natalie Portman waddle onstage and think, "Bitch. There's no way the Black Swan weighed enough to get knocked up." The privileges of being infertile are too numerous to count!

I am being summoned for dinner. Happy Monday to everyone!

Training Plan.

2011-02-26T10:42:00.000-08:00

What seems like a lifetime ago, but was less than two years, Running was my life. Given my tendency to be obsessive, everything I did revolved around the next run, the next race, and the next fast time. I sacrificed more than was probably healthy to be with Running.

Along with being obsessive, I have a hankering for efficiency. When I finally got to the point where 50+ mile weeks were stealing from me instead of replenishing me, I stumbled upon this godsend:

Run less AND get faster? It was too good to be true. And so, for my last marathon, I flipped to the "Boston Qualifier Training Plan" and had at the three month program to qualify. Life. Was. Good. My runs were less frequent but more intense and I was elated with my newfound efficiency.

Recently, a friend suggested I read Taking Charge of Your Fertility and Rochelle offered to send me her extra copy. I can't wait to flip through it and feel empowered! However, that is not what this is about.

When reading about it on Amazon, listed under the "You Might Also Like This" section I found a very different three month program from those to which I am accustomed:

Is this what I think it is? Is this the infertile version of a runner's training schedule? Is this a baby making training plan? Did some infertile runner, who I already feel as a kindred spirit, publish this?

While I appreciate the framework, this is one of the most fucked up pieces of infertile reading I've seen. For a runner, a program like this consists of speedwork, tempo runs, and the adored-slash-despised long Saturday morning run. What are the parallel infertile training components? Yoga, weird herbs, and sex? Is the equivalent of the Boston training plan outlined with the more drastic steps including Clomid, IUIs, and IVF?

Let's judge this book by its cover. A three month proven program to maximum fertility is also one of the most hysterical things I've read in the fertility world. Does the football coach from Glee come with the book? Does she pop out with a clipboard and whistle, checking off milestones achieved and cheering you and your husband on? Is there something akin to a running group? Will we meet on Tuesdays at the track? If we don't achieve maximum fertility is it because we just didn't push hard enough through the speedwork? And what's "hard enough?" I always believed if I didn't almost throw up at the end of a hard workout, I wasn't pushing myself to the max. Should I be nauseas daily during the regimen?

What irks me most, though, is that this book implies fertility is something that can be achieved in three easy months. Unlike getting faster around the track, fertility won't come for all of us with the old college try. I was lucky in running. My fast twitch muscle fibers were faster than those of most thanks to my genetic makeup.

What I didn't know, as my times got faster and faster and my feelings of invincibility grew, was that I drew the short straw on fertility. In this world, I am the five hour marathoner, the one I used to mock and silently suggest a little more training to before attempting the next race. I blew by her, my ponytail whipping in the wind, my endorphins high, and my mile times right where they needed to be. She hated me because she knew that a three month training program would NOT qualify her for Boston just as I know a book on maximizing my fertility will not knock me up.

All of those slow, yet fertile runners are mocking me now. There is no training plan that will catch me up to them. Damn. I wish I was still able to get out there and blow by them on the road. It would make me feel so much better!

Hardened Criminals.

2011-02-22T17:29:00.000-08:00

I think I'm ovulating.

I could have made an egg white omelet from what just poured out of me. Oh wow. That's disgusting. Sorry for the visual. If my mother knew about this blog, she would gasp at my bawdiness.

I am now over six weeks late, but maybe this is my new normal. Maybe I'm on a 54 day cycle. If I weren't at the point in my life where I'd like use my reproductive organs to reproduce, I'd boast of my 54 day cycle. After all, the number of tampons and granny undies in your life is inversely proportionate to your overall happiness. It's been scientifically proven.

Given that my stars seem to be aligning to a full moon once every two months, I have to work hard to make the most of the time I'm given. This week, I will act my little heart out in the "horny high school boy" role while my husband demurely stars as "innocent schoolgirl."  Motives unbeknownst to him, I will use all two of my wiles to seduce him: shave more than once a week and remove my fuzzy socks before hopping in bed. He will be powerless!

Were he to take me to court on a "Forced Reproduction" charge a few years down the road I will be very quick to point out his complicity.  His pleas would fall on the same ears that heard Britney's, "I don't understand why everyone thinks this school girl getup is sexual! It's just fun!!" and be mocked in a similar fashion. I will make the victim a victim and feel no remorse.

Come on eggs!! Let's do this! I don't know or care what you did to be imprisoned for so long but I'm willing to risk a ~~statuatory rape~~ sexual assault charge (He's not under 18.  That got weird) if you can just break out! Your criminal ways are rubbing, not sloughing, off on me.

Ewww. That was gross, too. Sorry.

Twenty-Six.

2011-02-21T18:23:00.000-08:00

Hi Everyone and Happy ICLW! I am such a whore for this week. Pretty soon my dad and brothers are going to hunt down ICLW with a baseball bat in a dark alley, imploring it to keep its filthy hands off me. I won't stop. I'm addicted.

So, for the first day, I thought it would be fun to use the fun fact game I found over on Rebecca's blog so everyone, loyal and new readers, can learn a bit about me. If you're also pressed for time, starting a new job, or just plain exhausted because it's Monday, this is also a post that requires very little creative writing. Please use it when you need it!

I added a few of my own categories and modified it with a new name: Twenty-Six. If you haven't noticed, I sort of have a thing for two-word titles. Please use this on your own blog and let me know you did so I can come over and read yours!

Twenty-Six

Age: 31.
Blog Title Inspiration: The movie "Get Smart." Steve Carell refers to Anne Hathaway's dusty uterus. My general interest in movies, as well as ability to remember lines, is minute, but this line stuck with me when I heard it. Who knew?
Chore You Hate: Taking out the trash.
Day at the Beach or Cozy Rainy Day? Beach!
Essential Start Your Day Item: Dark coffee. Three cups, please. Toothpaste, also, but it's secondary to coffee.
Favorite Color: Caribbean blue.
Gold or Silver? Silver.
Height: 5'3".
Instruments You Play: Flute and Piano. Played them both. Past tense.
Job Title: Director of Marketing.
Kids: Do husbands count?
Live: A long way from home.
Mom's Name: Paula.
Book Currently on Your Nightstand: The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom.
Nicknames: AnniePie (sickeningly sweet, I know) and Fatty (because I work out a lot).
Overnight Hospital Stays? Yes. For an SVT that happened during a marathon. My heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's and so the paramedics threw me in an ambulance at Mile 19. I made it four miles with my heart rate at 220 before they whisked me away and lived to tell the story, but God, I wanted to finish.
Pet Peeve: People who stand still on moving walkways.
Quote from a Movie: "There are 24 useable hours in everyday!"
Right or Left Handed? Right.
Siblings: Three younger brothers.
Time You Wake Up? By 7:15. Earlier for morning sessions.
Underwear: Thong.
Vegetable You Dislike: Black-eyed peas.
What Makes You Run Late: Meetings that run over and unexplained traffic.
Yummy Food You Make: Any kind of soup, especially jambalaya, made using turkey sausage, of course.
Zoo, Favorite Animal: Polar Bears.

My Revolution.

2011-02-19T11:33:00.000-08:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. This week ends with my Tale of Three Pities. Like Dickens, I write of social injustice and hoped for redemption. Unlike Dickens, my work does not require Cliff Notes.

Pity 1: EPT

Best of Times: The Johnson & Johnson Consumer Care Center mailed a response to my letter!
Worst of Times: They appreciate my thoughts but only accept patented ideas that fall within areas of strategic interests to their company.
Best of Times: The letter made me laugh out loud. I cannot believe they sent back a letter to a consumer citing strategic interests. Clearly, they are not consumer driven which is really too bad because women make 80% of purchasing decisions and probably 100% of pregnancy test purchasing decisions. Alas, this is a sign that EPT isn't right for me. Clear Blue Easy, here I come. My long-term value to you is immense and my acquisition cost has been low thanks to your friends at EPT.

Pity 2: Work
Best of Times: I contacted HR for the follow-up meeting to last week and met with them on Friday.
Worst of Times: After going back and checking everything out, my salary does not change. I am 99% sure I am not paid equally to my male peer. Oh, screw that. I'm 100% sure.
Best of Times: I handled this meeting in a professional and dignified manner, thanking them for looking into it and stating cheerily, "Of course I'll still do the job! I just had to ask the question. I'm sure you understand." I smiled big but know that I will not be there in a year. Too bad for them.

Pity 3: Infertility
Best of Times: Last weekend, when I was a week late, I built up the courage to take a pregnancy test.
Worst of Times: Oh come on, this goes without saying. I am now six weeks late and have no sign of a period. The prison warden's inmate parole policy is more stringent than I thought.
Best of Times: I am going back to the doctor on March 7th and am ready to wage war against my dusty uterus. No more waiting around. My imprisoned eggs clearly need outside aid. It's time for a coup to overthrow the warden! It's time for someone to stand up for the eggs! I want to be that person. I will stand up for social injustice. I will send down a Clomid key and give us all a chance.

Road Tale.

2011-02-16T21:57:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Airworld! Thought I’d share a funny travel story as I bide my time on moving walkways and jetbridges waiting for the next egg release date. My friend had the most hysterical travel stories you’ve ever heard. Trying to squeeze some samples into one sentence wouldn’t do them justice but her emails recounting them left our whole team rolling and encouraging her to start the book she wanted to write: Whaddya Gonna Do? Drive?! With her in mind, here is a tale from the land of rollerbag derby and loyalty points.

With my new job just about here, I know my days on the road are coming to an end. So, this week every connection, every baggage claim, every pat down, and every Hudson Newsstand is a little bit sweeter. The travel gods must know my time is near and are lamenting my future absence in the road warrior echelon as much as I will lament helplessly watching all my elite statuses drop because they just rewarded me with one of the most amusing experiences to date.

This story begins back in early September as I sat in one of many nameless airports awaiting my connection to some other nameless city. We’ll use San Antonio for the purposes of the story. Finishing up my delicious Starbucks oatmeal and simultaneously reading USA Today at the gate, my main concern was which section housed the crossword. Papers were rustling, I was balancing hot oatmeal on my lap, and my backpack was strewn to my left, wide open. I did not notice the gentleman sitting across from me until he interrupted my puzzle-oriented thoughts with, “Are you from San Antonio?”

“No,” I said and went back to searching.

“So you can’t tell me where to go to dinner, then?”

“Ugggggg,” I thought to myself, “this guy is a gate-talker.” I smiled a, “I’m really a nice person but am not in the mood for you during my puzzle half-hour” smile and politely told him I did not know where he could get dinner. He didn’t let up. He wanted to know where I worked and why I was headed to San Antonio. I located the crossword puzzle, pulled it out of the paper and resigned myself to 10 minutes of chatter. I figured if could turn this guy into another customer, then I was helping myself in the end.

I asked why he was heading to San Antonio after gaining a verbal positive for my company and twirling my engagement ring around my finger in a manner that subtly caught the light from the tarmac. “I’m an NBA Assistant Coach and am recruiting right now. There’s a high school in San Antonio where a lot of our players come from.

The story would be cooler if I could remember what team he coaches, but I have NO idea. He talked for a little bit longer and then it was time to board. It wasn’t until we were in the air that I realized his inquiry on San Antonio dining options was a total ruse since he goes there all the time. I chuckled, made a mental note to share this story with my husband, and bounded onward to a team meeting.

This brings us to this afternoon.

I left a meeting in a different city this morning, although it feels like it was eight days ago. In the weird travel warp zone, I forgot to eat and so when I arrived at my next desitnation I was STARVING. I checked in at the front desk and went immediately to the benign Marriott restaurant. It was empty lest for a few others who found themselves stuck between dimensions with me. In front of me were two men having a conversation in a language I do not know. To my left was a weird guy eating bread. To my right was the jackpot! Two wearied, attractive travelers doing the Marriot mating dance. I’d heard of this and seen it in movies, but never witnessed it firsthand!

These two folks were sitting in adjacent booths, facing but completely blocked from each other’s view by the back of the booth and the transcluscent glass separating them. More or less, they were yelling to each other from different booths. They began lamenting their cell phone service and stayed stuck on this topic for quite some time. After that had run its course, the gentleman asked, “Are you from here?”

Dude, are you serious? We are all sitting in an airport Marriott at three in the afternoon. With the exception of your server, none of us is from here. The lady politely explained to thin air that she was not and listed out all the places she’s lived: London, Miami, California. She has also been to 26 countries. After talking about herself for quite some time, she asked about him. “What do you do?” she said. His response made me whip my head around.

“I’m an NBA Assistant Coach. I’m here recruiting.”

I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t him. It was a different recruiter, but it must all be part of the same scheme. I think these so-called recruiters are clients of an aggressive, yet innovative, dating service for high net worth clients who travel during the week to meet single, successful women!!

These gentlemen want mates who will appreciate their success AND bring some brains to the table. The company, “NBA Love,” or whatever it’s named concocted a basketball recruiting profession so their clients can be anywhere in the world and bring something interesting to the table when the target innocently asks, “What do you do?”

There is no other explanation.

After ten minutes of chatting, the coach came out and said, “What are you doing tonight?” The woman, who was bleach blonde and very well endowed, had plans but she invited him over to her booth. He left his Caesar salad, hopped the partition and joined her. He had two phones and when I left, he appeared to be putting her contact information into both.

Thank you travel gods for the final travel lesson: All airport hotels are filled with transients and people just looking to pick up other weary travelers.

Safe travels wherever you may go and beware the NBA recruitment scheme!

My Valentine.

2011-02-14T05:13:00.000-08:00

In honor of my fabulous, wonderful, sexy husband, I am sharing two photos from our wedding day. These are not the portrait shots, but a sample that convey the look and feel of our wedding without blowing my cover. Sorry.

Four and a half years ago, we promised each other better and worse, thick and thin and sickness and health. In the chapel, with all our family and friends present, I thought of the joy-filled life that lay in wait. I knew there would be disappointment and sadness, but decked out in full make-up and my ivory Vera Wang, joy took precedence and my thoughts wandered to better, thick and health. It's when the dress comes off (not literally you perves! I did cry when it came off, though) that marriage begins and we have seen both extremes of the happiness scale. The past few months and few weeks are a testament to how seriously we take those vows.

Valentine's Day can be more disgustingly sweet than those new heart-shaped peeps that look like a giant marshmallow blob if you let it. However, it can also be a day to recall all the reasons you made your Valentine yours. Let me count the whys:

He knows exactly who he is and never apologizes for it or puts on airs.
He loves the gym as much as I do.
He calls our friends' children "munchkins."
He cried more than me at our wedding.
He hates to run, but ran a marathon with me so he'd see me during training season.
He understands that my gray sweatpants will NEVER be thrown out.
He plays golf with me even though I miss the ball 50% of the time.
He has conversations with the dog about "our girl." (me)
He accepts that the only protein I handle and cook is chicken.
He asked about ovulation today and then said proudly, "See!? I'm getting really good at this stuff!"

Happy V-Day! Eat, drink, and be married!

Shattered Glass.

2011-02-12T10:14:00.000-08:00

I should have warned my new boss and all of HR about Filter Free Friday. It would have significantly reduced the number of shocked faces I saw yesterday. This is good, ladies. Please read on. I was emboldened by our day. It's quickly becoming a lifestyle choice.

Yesterday morning my new boss called me into his office to give me my offer letter. It's fabulous. My raise and the perks are incredible. I've kind of sold my soul, but I knew it would be inevitable at some point in my corporate career.

A peer of mine was promoted to the same position yesterday. He is my counterpart, working on the other side of the business. Note that he is a man. I will call him J.

After telling my new boss that I was thrilled with everything and flattered with the offer I said, "I just have one question. Is J making more than me?" What I saw in reponse was uncomfortable fumbling and panicked thoughts racing.

"I don't know." Keep in mind, my boss is also J's boss. He KNOWS.

"Ok," I said, "then who would? HR? Because I'm not signing this until I talk to them about it." I was instructed to go talk to HR.

When I arrived in HR's office, they had been forewarned of the Code Red heading their way.

I sat down with our rep, affectionately nicknamed The Grim Reaper because his presence on the floor is a sure sign heads are rolling. After some trite pleasantries I said, "My concern is that J and I are not being paid equally. It should be equal pay for equal jobs."

Despite being warned of my imminent arrival, he was taken aback. I was given an HR bullshit answer about all the factors that go into making this decision. I pressed on and then he got kind of mad and said, "I'm not discussing other employee's compensation with you." Keep in mind, no one ever told me that J was offered more than me. I just assumed he was because he has a penis and I have a dusty uterus. At this point, given the reactions I'd witnessed, I knew his offer was more.

I responded, thinking to myself, don't fuck with me on FFF, "I'm not asking you to tell me what he's making. I'm asking you to recognize that I am asking the question and see no reason why we should not be paid equally. We are being promoted on the SAME day, to the SAME position, reporting to the SAME boss, with the SAME number of direct reports. I don't see any reason for a discrepancy." I smirked. We both knew the reason for the discrepancy was my vag.

He then tried to talk about our different experience.

Oh. No. You. Don't.

I did not mince words when I reminded him that I have been here for five years, done the work they are asking me to do at a lower level for four of them, went out into the field to broaden my experience, and know all the players in the system. I did not communicate that all those players like me whereas they despise J, but I did acknowledge his three years at a CPG company and nine months with us and agreed we have different, but equal experience. The sad truth is that were I man, I would be outearning him based on my experience and reputation, but I need a cape for that discussion and I left mine at home on Friday.

HR then said, "So what do you want me to do? Do you want me to go back to our Chief People Officer and let him know that you're asking? Your salary has already been signed off on by everyone, all the way up to the top." Like I care. I think they can be troubled to re-sign something.

"Yes," I responded.

"Ok, I'll go back and let them know that you're asking a question, which I think is fair, and see if there's anything we missed."

My internal HR translater told me that he is going to sprint back to the head of HR as well as our legal counsel and make sure that I can't sue their asses. But you know what? I can. And they know it.  I cannot WAIT to hear back on what they may have missed when they made the decision that I'm not worth as much as J.

Just to be clear, this isn't about money.  J may only be making a few thousand dollars more than me and at the end of the day, I don't care about the pay. I care about being treated equally to my male peer and I'm tired of rolling over and accepting that fact that women make less. They made me a director because I push back and am a "hard-charger." They didn't know it would come back to haunt them so soon.

After it all went down, I went into my old boss's office, shut the door, and practically screamed with joy, "I can't believe I just did that!!" She told me that it was bold and courageous and she wishes that she'd done things like that more in her own career. It was scary and I had to act tough and confident despite the tiny voice inside my head saying, "Don't rock the boat, just take it. Be good. Just take it."

My offer letter remains unsigned and will remain that way until I hear back.

So, here's to Filter Free Friday and standing up for what you believe in.  Hopping in a shuttle aimed at a glass ceiling is terrifying, but I'm thrilled to be onboard.

Wished For.

2011-02-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

It's almost Filter Free Friday and I'm going for it again! Please join along on your blog.

The old adage, “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it,” has always sounded like a mantra for a few specific groups. Slackers with zero ambition, Italian great aunts, and old salty dogs whose life perspective has been shaped aboard a whaling vessel are a few that come to mind. A striver, never shying from success, I don't understand why one would ever consider discarding their received wish. Or should I say, I didn't understand until last week.

For the past few months, restructure rumblings have run rampant on our floor. Last week, I was pulled into it. "We want you to have a bigger role," they said, "would you like Job A or Job B?"

Made bolder by grief, I did not mince words with my boss's boss. "Job B, please. I've done Job A, I don't want to go back to it at a higher level."

The next day I was informed that I would have Job A at a "big-girl, get an office with a door, and a team of people who you currently chat with at the water cooler," level.

"This is great!! Aren't you excited?" my new boss, who is also an old boss, asked me in his office.

"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "let's think about this. I love my current job, I'm good at it, I can work from home whenever I want, I accrue enough hotel and airline points to purchase my own jet at the end of every year, and my boss is wonderful. I'm good, thanks!" As soon as I thought this, I hated my complacency and anti-capitalistic thoughts. "Achieve!" I reminded myself.

"Yeah, I'm excited," I responded, my face emoting nothing. "This is a great opportunity." I threw in a smile at the end.

The thing is it SHOULD be great. I should have nothing but raptures of ecstasy when I think about my new job. Me, the girl who always said she wouldn't have kids because they'd interfere with her career. Me, the one who lives hundreds of miles away from home in strange city for a job. Me, who lives and breathes work.

My filter free thought today is with what I wished for sticking out of my back pocket, I am FUCKING TERRIFIED!

Gulp.

However, since it is a big girl job, I have zero choice and must handle it in a professional manner. With this thought in mind and some time to mull the matter, I can see how this seeming senseless situation is bringing some random pieces of my life into place.

Were I eight months pregnant, which I could be if my ovaries weren't a high security prison, I would not have gotten the job. Let's call the workplace for what it is: a man's world. HR never wants to play Russain Roulette by putting a pregnant woman in an office. Scary!

My career, real or imagined, has always been my number one baby killer. I've always been more interested in working and achieving than reproducing. Maybe with this achievement the universe is telling me to chill out, or at least ease up. And it spared my Golden Retriever this week. I might owe it one.

Still, I just vomited in my trash can thinking about this. And as far as I know, it isn't morning sickness.