As Promised – Belly Shots

I’ve been self-conscious of my stomach for most of my life. As a kid, I was fairly skinny, but I always had a little bit of my “baby fat” left in my stomach. When my teen years came, puberty chose to keep my abdomen as the first place to store extra fat. I would wear short shorts long before I’d wear a shirt that exposed my belly. That was an area of my body to be kept hidden in the dark under a shirt, sucked in, and held in place with support garments.

So pregnancy functions as a “time off for good behavior” period for my belly. Instead of embarrassing me, my expanding midsection is proof of a new life being nurtured under that layer of skin, fat and muscle. What was once flabby and jiggly is now firm with a defined shape. This is the one time in my life when I’m not ashamed of this part of my body. Good thing, too, since my long torso practically guarantees that my belly is poking out under every shirt I own.

And this is also the only time in my life when I could willingly post pictures of my exposed stomach for all the world to see. (Although I am a little embarrassed at my unfinished wallpaper job in the bathroom.) Here is the baby belly, in full glory as it holds a little girl already estimated at seven pounds:



And I Was So Ready To Write About My Lousy Day

I was planning a long post about how today was a miserable day and nothing was going right. I had all sorts of things to complain about:

– how our three cats took turns waking me up in 20 min. increments beginning at 5:15am, meaning I had very little sleep and woke up grumpy.

– how the elder Siamese then chose to throw up on the carpet in the living room this morning, not once, but three times. And of course he moved a little between each barfing session, so I had three areas to clean up.

– how Cordy and I have seen Aaron less than a half hour a day since Sunday, due to his being busy at work and directing a play that opened last night.

– how Cordy has not napped in two days, and the weather has been dreary, so she’s bouncing off the walls. And the stupid cable is acting up, and of course one of the channels that doesn’t work right now is Disney.

– how sad/pissed I was to receive a baby shower invitation to my coworker’s shower, when she’s due a month after me, and yet no one at work is throwing a shower for me. I normally wouldn’t care, but every other pregnant woman in our department in the two years I’ve been there has had a shower given in their honor, even if it wasn’t their first child. I guess we part-timers aren’t worth it.

It was going to be a rant-a-rific post.

But then I took some time to read my Bloglines this morning, and saw this. Which lead me to this. Suddenly, my day was brightening.

And after I cried a little from the wave of warm fuzzy feelings washing over me (of course, it doesn’t take much nowadays, so this was a small fountain), I had one of those goofy, half-embarrassed, half-amazed and flattered grins on my face the rest of the day. Still do.

I can’t even begin to say how awesome all of these women are for putting together such a fun and generous event like this for myself, Liz and Tammie. You rock.

If you haven’t had the chance to check out the virtual baby shower, go do it. Because there are games where you can win some fabulous prizes, all without being forced to eat baby food and guess the flavor. And while you’re at it, feel free to leave some advice – or assvice, or both – for the three of us. Liz and I are sophomore moms, so we can pretend we know what we’re doing, but Tammie is a freshman at this, and I’m sure she could use your best tips for this parenting gig.

Tomorrow, I promise a picture of my ginormous baby belly, just so everyone can feel like they’re all really here with me in person for the shower. But can we please skip the game of guessing how many squares of toilet paper go around it?



Damn You, American Idol

I look forward to my weekly dose of mindless TV, aka American Idol. One hour of listening to singers, criticizing their song choice, clothing, hair style, etc. while enjoying the comments from Simon. Ah, pure, snarky bliss.

But no, not tonight. Tonight was their charity night. A two hour episode filled with stories of children living in poverty, some now orphans after their parents died, unable to attend school, and dying from preventable diseases.

I’m 36 weeks pregnant, carrying more hormones in my body than a national sorority convention combined with the entire steroid-enhanced WWE wrestling roster.

So it’s no surprise I bawled my eyes out, and yet could not stop watching.

Of course, this was clearly part of the show’s design. By tugging on our heartstrings, they knew people would open their wallets to give to a very worthy cause.

But now I’m haunted by the images. One video showed a mother travelling to get help for her baby, who was dying from malaria. Ryan’s voice-over then gave the news that they didn’t get there in time, and the baby died. Another video told the story of a mother of two children, too sick to even walk, who died two days later from AIDS. They interviewed a twelve year old boy who had lost his parents and now was the head of the household and responsible for taking care of his sister.

I’m not naive. I know there are children dying every day from disease and starvation, living in horrible conditions and forced to endure nightmarish situations every day. However, in my overly emotional state, I can only see those poor children, and want to reach out and take every one of them in, wipe away their tears, hold them close and tell them it will all be OK.

But we can only do what we can do. I can’t save them all. I can help when possible, encourage others to also help when they can, and know that even a little bit of help can go a long way. And I can teach Cordy how lucky she is to have her family, to be healthy, and to be able to go to school when she’s older. I am thankful for what we do have, even if we live under a tight budget and don’t have the luxuries some do. It’s my hope that Cordy will want to help others when she’s older, too.

So damn you, Idol. I didn’t want to spend this evening feeling so small in such a big world of need. But the message did get through, and though my eyes are puffy and red now, I did enjoy the music. Hopefully a lot of money was raised, and that money will do a lot of good.

I’d just like to add, though, that you’re lucky none of your singers wanted to sing “Danny Boy” or the heavy sobs might have sent me into labor. (Danny Boy was a song we sang in high school choir, but we had to sing it for a state competition just days after one of our classmates collapsed and died at school from a congenital heart defect. I’ve never been able to listen to that song since then.)



The Big Secret

Last week in a doctor’s waiting room:

Woman: Oh, look at you! Not much longer, is it?

Me: Only a few more weeks.

Woman: Boy or girl?

Me: Girl

Woman: So, what will her name be?

Me: We don’t have a name yet.

Woman: Oh, honey, you can tell me.

Me: No, seriously, we don’t have a name picked out yet.

Woman: (laughing and giving me a knowing smile) Oh, I get it. The name is a secret, eh?

Me: (sighing) Yes. Yes, the name is so secret, even my husband and I don’t know it.

********

Seriously, people take it as a personal insult if you won’t tell them your unborn child’s name. I had no idea people listed this among their rights when encountering a pregnant woman. (You know, right up there with touching the belly and asking if it was planned.)

But the truth is we still have no name. Nothing sounds right for this girl. I think we were close to a name a few weeks ago, but then as soon as we told relatives, they started suggesting nicknames that made me cringe, and completely drove me away from the name:

“Miranda? So we’ll have a Randy in the family?”
“Ack! No!”
“What about Randa then? That’s a nice name.”
“No way. Never mind, I’ve changed my mind – we’re not using that name.”

The fastest way to drive me away from a name is to suggest bad nicknames.

So now my nose is buried in baby name books again, looking for anything else that might be a suitable name. I’ve spent so much time staring at lists of names that I think I’m starting to go a little insane. After reading through so many names, my eyes begin to cross, my brain melts a little, and I start to think most names sound pretty good.

Proof? Today I was reading through a list of names that have never been on the SSA’s top 1000 most popular lists and thought to myself, “Lysistrata – now that’s a pretty name you don’t hear very often.” WTF?

Any minute now, the name police will show up and tell me to slowly step away from the baby name book and have a rest before this baby is scarred for life with an unfortunate name.



Boundaries

As a young child, I roamed my neighborhood in my small town daily with my best friend. We spent many of the warm days of the year outside for much of the time.

I remember the old woman across the street. She never said anything to us – just shot us dirty looks when we walked by her section of the sidewalk. We thought she was a “witch”, and as the sun would go down each evening, her dark outline was visible through her front window, slowly rocking in her rocking chair.

Knowing she was watching, the temptation to perform for her was too much. I can’t even imagine what she was thinking as two young girls would occasionally go dancing by her window down the sidewalk, doing our best Michigan J. Frog impression and acting as goofy as we could. Who knows, maybe she got a good laugh out of it?

Looking back, I think she was just waiting for one of these energetic seven year olds to step foot off the sidewalk into her yard, putting her flower beds at risk, so she could do more than scowl at us and instead yell at us. She was too old to do her own yard work, but her grown children would come by each weekend to see that her yard looked lovely. Knowing how much pride she had for her yard, I can’t imagine what she would have done if someone hurt a single flower petal.

But I would never find out, because there is no way I would have set foot on her yard. No matter how much we laughed at our nightly performances, I understood my boundaries. Some kids might have ran up to her door and rang the doorbell and then ran away, but I refused to break that invisible line. My mother had drilled the concept of respecting others property into me. I would often run through my next door neighbor’s yard to visit my friend, yet this was only because our neighbor had given her permission to play in her yard.

So of course, now that I’m grown and that old woman has certainly passed on, I wonder if she’s now looking down at me and laughing at the situation I find myself in.

Spring has finally shown itself again here in Ohio, and as usual the kids are out in force. I’ve mentioned before that the next door neighbors have four children under 10, and that these children are often outside playing with no supervision. They have no understanding of boundaries or respecting the property of others. While my child self would dance in front of the house on the sidewalk, the younger two of these kids see nothing wrong with using our yard as their play area. Our driveway is their bike path. This is part of the reason we built a fence in the backyard – I didn’t like our backyard serving as their football and baseball field, as balls bounce off of our siding.

Tonight, as Aaron was mowing the backyard and I was getting Cordy ready for bed, I looked up to see a little face peering through the glass of our storm door, checking out our living room. Our eyes met, and I expected that to be enough to send him running away, but he continued to stand on our porch and take a good look at everything. Then his older brother came running up, also taking a good look into our house, and the two ran around to the front of our garage.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the door to the garage to find two little sets of hands going through the items in our garage (the garage door was up because Aaron had the lawnmower out). “This isn’t your house. Go home.” I told them, and they paused to look at me for a moment before walking back to their own porch.

But by the time I was back to the living room, I saw the youngest peering in our front door again. I pointed to his house and told him to go. He again ran around towards our garage. At this point I heard the oldest shouting at him to come back. I closed the garage door to prevent them from going through our things again, and I closed the front door, even though I was enjoying the sunshine streaming in.

Cordy noticed everything at this point, and said, “No! My friends!” as I shut the door. “No, Cordy, those are not your friends,” I replied. (She’s actually never played with them before – she just calls any other kid her “friend” right now.)

I am the mean mommy. While these kids are playing outside late into the night, my little girl goes to bed by 8pm. While they play out in the street, Cordy is limited to playing in her fenced-in yard under our supervision. But I know I won’t have to worry about the cars that drive too fast around our curve, or worry about where she might have run off to. And you can bet as she grows older, I will continue to teach her about respecting the property of others.