Norah: Mama, I need to change you.
Me: You mean, I need to change you.
Norah: [whatever-ing me with her eyes] I said that thing.
Me: Right. Okay. [changing commences.] You know, if you'd just use the potty, this wouldn't be such a problem.
Norah: I don't do that. I do not like that potty. It's big and I do not like it and I will go in it like falling in it.
Me: It's really not that--
Norah: Know what else I don't do?
Norah: I DO. NOT. EAT. THE POOP.
Me: [blink blink] Well, that's a relief.
Norah: Mama, I need to change you.
Because you can tell so much from the staticky gray snow - the 19-week ultrasound, for your viewing pleasure.
I've had to have three different ultrasounds this time around - the first one, at 12 weeks, was not entirely exciting (except that it told us what we had hoped, that this particular fetus was a clinger-onner). Six weeks later, we had the infinitely more fun and less ulcer-inducing gender scan (and we all know how THAT turned out, don't we?) At that scan, though, the tech said that she couldn't see the cord insertion clearly. I of course came straight home and Googled "cord insertion visibility" and came up with all kinds of TOTALLY REASSURING topics, all of which included the words "abnormality" and "defect" and "undesirable." And yes, I know that turning to the internet for medical advice is not a good plan, and I should have just questioned the tech until one of us passed out from the waves of paranoia issuing from my mouth.
So we got to go again on Wednesday, or rather I went alone - Rob ended up taking Norah to the walk-in peds clinic for a little bronchial ailment I like to call "the fires of hell in my baby's lungs." (She's fine, although she is getting away with blue bloody MURDER because every time she cries, she chokes on the throat gunk that only gets worse as she gets more upset, ergo we do not upset the Nonos. I'd tell you more, but I have to retrieve my shoes from the toilet. AGAIN.) Third scan turned out to be the charm, and we not only saw the flawlessly perfect cord insertion, we saw every little detail of the details south of Babycakes' bellybutton, and there is not a shadow of a doubt that she is in fact She. Even I could tell, and I was deep in the throes of a panic attack about Abnormalities and Defects and Undesirable Insertions (how porny does that sound? Hee.)
Rob was able to help out on Wednesday because he's back on a mildly flexible schedule - at least, during the day. He's overnighting every third night, which makes us all sad and lonely at about 9 PM, when the kid's asleep and I have nothing to do but think about how very quiet it is... except for tonight, which, as you undoubtedly have tattooed on your chests, is the Lost season premiere. Who's watching with me? Admit your geekery and join me, I say!
MAN, it's cold out lately. It's averaged about 35 degrees for the last few days, and while that isn't polar bear weather or anything, it's a big change from our accustomed 45-50. I've been stuffing myself into my usual winter wear because the purchase of a maternity coat just seems silly - I have at least two extra layers of walrus fat at the moment, and I really should stop whining because it's probably going to get warmer in no time... But when you can't zip and the wind's blowin', you start to think crazy.
So! Been busy this month, which was nice - here's a shot from the latest portrait session. Betcha can't guess where we were:
I'm entering a slow period, so I've been doing some nesting (c'mon, like you didn't know that was coming, in spite of the decreased need to depinkify). We dragged the first of Norah's 84 bins of clothes out of the attic to do a swap when a buddy and her baby came to see us, so I kept all the teensy ones out and stocked up the second dresser in
Norah's the girls' room. And oh my goodness, some of them are so small. A couple of the really little outfits would make excellent belly shirts for Nonos - except that they're dresses that I remember putting on her and thinking, "God, this is a tent, what am I supposed to do with this?"
Baby girl clothes are so weird. I was lucky and had a number of baby showers (the work one, the friends one, the in-laws' house one) so we ended up with enough teensy clothes to outfit the entire Cabbage Patch Kid line of 1984. I mean, holy crap, we were DROWNING in baby clothes. Some of them were soft, cozy little numbers that I wanted to cut up and stitch into my own footie outfit (like you wouldn't go around in a one-zip t-shirty thing with feet if people wouldn't look at you funny) but the others? The others had acrylic lace, four parts, halter tops, and sleeves that needed ironing. I don't iron Rob's work shirts, let alone something that is likely going to be used to blot vomit in the near future. My biggest sucker-inner was the foo-foo matching hat - but none of them fit, stayed on, or really served a purpose (other than the vomit-blotting, and on one memorable occasion, vomit-catching).
So friends, you'll be getting softy things with maybe polka dots on them when you join The Mommy Club. No lace, and no hats, unless you plan to keep them in the car for those frightening highway moments of "Mama, that chocolate milk TOO MUCH..."
Enough pointless rambling - I'm just bored and don't have a lot to contribute to society at the moment. (Quick, label me a mommyblogger! Call me a drain on the internet's resources! Then click away from the page and read something else, because frankly, it's your own fault if you're still here!)
Now let's play What Shall We Name the Baby. Rob has no ideas, except to veto everything I pick, and I turn to you, oh Wise Internet, to save us from any of these.
A new study has found that pregnant women who consumed more than 200 milligrams of caffeine a day, equivalent to about two cups of coffee, had twice the risk of miscarriage as the women who consumed no caffeine at all. The findings are published in Monday's Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology.
Not that I'm 100% convinced that it's accurate - the American College of OB-GYNs doesn't buy it, for one thing - but it's enough to make my innards do a little curling-up, you know?
- The envelope please: I've decided not to update my header until Wednesday, when a certain state of affairs shall become known - i.e., we're having the gender ultrasound and I feel I should update said header accordingly. I don't think the pregnant thing is really clicking in my mind yet, although I did make a special trip to the Ikea in Philadelphia to buy these lampshades, on the off chance that Spawn is in fact male and we have to depinkify Norah's room.
- Like a fat kid loves cake: We went to my parents for Christmas, which was awesome as usual - my mom even managed to stick to the "seriously, one or two toys for her and that's IT" rule. This is Nono's favorite:
She looks a little drunk and disorderly, but I think that's just her hangover from all the cake. My mom asked Norah what she wanted to eat when we got there, and Nonos said simply, "Cake." Whereas a sane person would have laughed it off and said, "Uh huh, right after we eat actual people food," my mother went directly to the kitchen and made the kid a cake, complete with rainbows of food coloring and Christmas tree-shaped sprinkles (or "sparkles" in Norahese). The next day, there was another cake. And then a pie. And then I think cookies, but I was splayed out on the floor, unable to do anything but roll around like that kid in A Christmas Story crying, "I can't get UUUUUUP! C'mon you guys, I can't get uuup!"
- Rockin' the Philthy: A week after we returned from Indiana, we drove up to Philadelphia to see Rob's family, a long and less-than-fun trip, which ended up to be less than fun overall, since his dad had a heart freakout and ended up in the hospital the entire time. But Rob's mom went all ape-crazy and bought a new car, which was fun - she and Rob went out "just to look," and came home three hours later in a shiny new rig. Beats the pants off our rig, too, because it doesn't have the big dent in the side like ours.
(Did I tell you about the dent? Some girl backed into Rob in the Blockbuster parking lot, barely cracking her taillight and busting the crap out of our front fender. She then chose not to report the accident to her insurance, and neither did her dad, which was upsetting because her dad was the policyholder. And since her dad would not reveal to their insurance company whether or not the girl was authorized to be driving his car on his policy, said insurance company would not give us any money. SIX WEEKS LATER, after calling literally every day and watching the dent turn into bare flaked-off metal turn into a big old rusthole, Rob mentioned that maybe we should have our attorney (who is very hard to reach by phone or email and is actually invisible, since s/he doesn't exist) work with them, and BOOM, we got a check the next day. As much as I hate people who play the lawyer card, it sure does work. Take THAT, Allstate.)
- We're gonna have to amputate: Here's my favorite of Norah's Philadelphia presents: the plastic doctor kit which is already in several small, dead-battery pieces on our living room floor... except for these:
Yeah, that's hilarious. It is. Just admit it and move on.