Fertility Guilt

When a plane crashes, or a house floods, or a car accident occurs, and there are some deaths and some survivors, often these people suffer from "survivor's guilt." I read about it once and was fascinated by the concept - that instead of being grateful for surviving, the person felt sorrow and sadness and confusion. Sometimes when they didn't even know the person. Why it was them that survived and not their friend/mother/baby? Why did they deserve the right to live and the others did not?

I didn't get my period until I was 13. And then I had it for two weeks. Then it was gone for three months. And back for two weeks. After a year of this, my mother took me to a gynecologist, who ran a series of tests and combined with my other symptoms (insulin resistance, excess hair growth, weight gain especially around the middle), diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). They had found the cysts on the ultrasound and showed me the pictures. There seemed to be hundreds of them - tiny little dots attached to that black splotches they called my ovaries. They explained I would need to go on birth control to make my periods normal and some other medication to help regulate my hormones. I was told having children in the future would be hard, so to prepare myself now. I was told if I didn't take the medicine, the cysts would grow, could rupture, and I could lose one or both my ovaries.

For the next 10 years, I took birth control and everything seemed normal. The symptoms disappeared, though I still struggled with weight and insulin resistance, for which I was later put on further medication for, things felt normal. Every couple of months or so, I would get a stabbing sensation on my lower side, down by my hip and came to know this pain and "my ovaries acting up."

I was getting married on September 2nd, 2005. Mike and I wanted kids and we knew it would be a long road, so we decided I would stop my birth control after we were married. I took my last pill on August 23rd, so I would get my period and have it be over and gone for my wedding and honeymoon. On September 23rd, the day we were to get on a plane and fly for a party weekend to Charlotte, South Carolina, the Clearblue test blinked "pregnant." We had made a baby on our honeymoon.

So much for PCOS. Though I was scared those first few weeks that something would go wrong, that there had to be some mistake, everything went well and other than my water breaking four weeks early, I had a fairly uneventful happy pregnancy.

I figured it was a fluke - my body reacting to being off birth control for the first time in 10 years. Like, my ovaries were clogged going "WOOHOO, let's clear this popsicle stand" and I had a rush of eggs and was lucky to get one fertilized. Mike of course credited his virility as He-Man.

When Charlotte was six weeks old, I went back on birth control. And stayed on it until this past October when we decided to start trying again. I figured with a toddler running about, stress, two full-time jobs, and my PCOS, that this time would not be as easy. It would take months. And I had read about "secondary infertility" where people get pregnant quickly the first time and then struggle for years with the second. So we tried, and two weeks later I was pregnant.

I don't know why I got pregnant so quickly both times. I don't know if it was just perfect timing, things aligning properly, or if despite this seemingly "infertility disease," I am incredibly fertile.

Last week, I was at a girlfriend's house for snacks and dinner with a bunch of friends from a mom's group I belong to. A few of the women were discussing babies and pregnancy, since two of us there were visibly pregnant. One of my good friends talked about her struggle with getting pregnant with her last daughter, through IUI. She described shots every month, ultrasounds every three days, endless trips to the doctor, thousands of dollars spent. But last time it worked and she has a beautiful daughter. They want to add to their family and are going through the same process again.

I know she is happy for me because she is a good person and a good friend, but I can hear and feel the sadness in her voice when she talks about how hard she struggles just to have another baby.

Why me? Why did I get pregnant so quickly when some women have to go through all of this? I have friends "in real life" who I listen to their stories of countless doctor visits, miscarriages, failed attempts. I have friends online whose stories and blogs I read about how badly they want another baby. And they deserve one. So why are they not pregnant?

Please, don't misconstrue this post as not being more than excited over this new life I carry. I feel so lucky and don't take one second for granted. Each time I feel a flutter in my belly or I look at my sleeping daughter, I thank someone - something - out there for giving me such an amazing gift. For letting us make these babies, for letting them grow inside of me, for letting them bring so much light into the world. A world that can be so dark.

But to be truthful, when I see the flicker of hurt in a woman's eyes when I tell her how quickly I got pregnant, I feel a little guilt. Maybe, like survivor's guilt, there is "fertility guilt" - a feeling of why me? Why do I deserve a baby more than her? Why does the crack addict or the teenager who had sex once deserve to carry a child more than her? Who decided I am special?

And I know the answer is no one. No one decides who lives, who dies, who gets pregnant, who remains infertile. We can choose to rejoice in the good things - the toddler smiles, the peanut butter kisses, the infant coos and the way they all smell. Some choose to go to the ends of the earth to be parents - injections, doctor visits, adoptions - and they will rejoice just as I do. And some days, I will choose to feel guilty. And for those who ultimately chose not to have children, my heart will hurt for their loss, but support them in their decision.

Because in the end, some things just are.

Wordless Wednesday (The I-Will-Kill-You-With-My-Princess-Wand Edition)

Innit she sweet?

(at her first birthday)

I have proof!

Starting on Thursday, our house will be undergoing a little construction. We have a small-ish Cape Cod house and though I have tried my best to make the small spaces look large, there is not much else I can do. So, we decided to have the wall between the living room and kitchen taken down. Well, since it is a supporting wall, two beams and a header will remain, but the doorway will be opened significantly and there will be a giant "window" between the two rooms. I cannot wait for this as it's something I've wanted and we've saved our pennies for since we moved in! Of course, there's a billion other things I want to do in the house. New kitchen floor! Restore our hardwood! New cabinets! Add an addition! But the reality of this housing market is so ridiculous that we have not one inch of wiggle room with our equity. Our house is now worth less than when we bought it only two years ago, making our mortgage equal to if not more than our house's worth. Awesome, right?

Anyway, I was taking pictures for the big Before/After reveal when the wall is down and I inadvertently took this as I was setting the camera down:

Why yes, that is my GINORMOUS belly (complete with tired, old stretch marks) at a mere 15 weeks.

When I saw that, I decided to show you the proof:

See? No feet. A kitty, but no feet. Is it just me or does this kid look like he/she is hanging out on the left side of my uterus?

I have to lean forward just to see the toes peeking:

Oh well. Who needs to see their feet anyway? I get monthly pedicures so don't need to be reaching down there. Seeing feet is so overrated.

As you all know, I bake. I make up my own recipes, taking bits and pieces from ones I find in books and online. And I have found and tweaked the holy grail of muffin recipes - banana chocolate chip. Don't they just look so yummy?

They are the moistest, tastiest mofo muffins I've ever made. Wanna know the weirdest part? It's made with mayo. At first, I was weirded out by the whole thing, but it works! And I make it with whole wheat flour and low-fat mayo so they're not TOO bad. And you could always substitute the sugar for Splenda for Baking. And you could eliminate the chocolate chips (but, why in the name of all that is good in the world would you do that?) and add maybe some walnuts?

Anyway, it's super easy and a great way to get rid of those bananas sitting in your fruit bowl that are turning all sorts of funkadelic colors. And everyone will love them. Promise. Go make them and then tell me how much you love me. Seriously.

THE WORLD'S BEST CHOCOLATE CHIP BANANA MUFFINS

Ingredients:

1 1.2 c. whole wheat flour
1 c. sugar (or use equivalent Splenda product)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1 egg
1/2 c. mayo
4 very ripe bananas
1/2 c. chocolate chips (the original recipe called for a whole cup but on my first try, it was too much, so I lowered it)

Directions:

1. In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking soda and salt.
2. In another bowl (I use my KitchenAid, which I swear I don't know how people live without), beat egg. Add in bananas and vanilla. Then mayo.
3. Add dry ingredients to wet and mix well. Add in chocolate chips last. The batter will appear slightly runny - this is okay!
4. Bake at 375 for 25-35 minutes, depending on the size of your muffins. Just watch them until the edges turn a golden brown and they pass the toothpick test. Cool and store on a plate loosely covered to avoid stickiness. If you put them in a bag or tupperware, they get gooey.
5. Email me to tell me how awesome I am.

Mission Control, This is Houston

Houston, we have a problem. I can no longer see my feet from the standing position.

I knew this day was coming. But who knew it would be so soon?

In related baby news, I can now feel SPD moving about. It's rare and I only feel it every other day or so when he/she works up a big hi-ya! But it is definitely baby and not gas, thankyouverymuchbabycenter.com. Last time, I didn't feel anything significant until around 20 weeks or so and remember sitting on my couch with my hand pressed to my belly, hoping she would move again. And then from there, it took a few more weeks for Mike to feel it. At night as we would fall asleep, he would lay with his arm around me, hand draped on my belly and mutter "Good Lord, I can't believe how hard she kicks."

I guess I know what I am feeling this time and am more aware of those bumpy fluttery sensations. This is one of my favorite parts of being pregnant - other than people holding doors for me and such - feeling the life inside me grow and move.

Some people think it's creepy, and I have to admit, towards the very end when you see an elbow or knee pop out and you are SO SURE that if this kid pushes any harder, it will ERUPT from your stomach, it is a little Aliens-esque. But for now, I'll enjoy this stage and the weeks to come.

I am less tired. I am still waiting for my huge energy deposit in the Bank of Get off Your Ass, but overall I feel better. The baby is moving and each day as he/she grows bigger, I will feel it more and more. I can still sleep comfortably and move around without feeling like I am carrying a boulder strapped to my middle.

When I was pregnant with Charlotte, I knew she was a girl. I just knew it in some part of my being. And now, if I had to guess, I would say I feel boy, but we won't know until Feb. 28th (mark your calendars!!).

Did any of you feel your second baby move earlier? Did you have gut feelings one way or the other about the sex? Were you right or wrong?

Weekend Conversations with my Husband

"I really should get a minivan. They seem so convenient and will make my life with two small kids so much easier. The doors open with a button and stuff."

"You should get one. Everyone I've ever talked to loves theirs."

"I know, I know. But I'm not even 30 yet. I feel like my soul would die a little if I bought a minivan."

"No worries, babe. Your soul's already dead."

-------

"What's that on your lip?"

"A pimple. Yay to being pregnant. I had it for like three days and you just noticed it now? We went out to dinner last night and you sat right across from me. You didn't see it?"

"I see past your imperfections and see only your inner beauty."

"I am not having sex with you tonight."

Three hours later, I get up to go to the bathroom during dinner.

"Seriously, do you not even look at my face? I went to wash my hands and looked in the mirror and I have balsamic ALL over my face and chin. It was dried so it had to be there for a while."

"I told you. I look past your --"

"I am still not having sex with you tonight."

------

After watching Cloverfield

"Those people were so dumb. I would have just found a basement and hid," I comment in the car.

"Yeah, but they were going to blow up the entire city. They had to try and get out."

"Okay, but a bridge? I mean, c'mon. I'd be damned to get on a bridge with 50 million other people. You knew it was going to collapse."

"It wasn't the weight. It was the monster's leg."

"Exactly. Which is why if I were hunkered in a basement somewhere, no monster's leg could have knocked my fat pregnant ass off the bridge."

"I would have swam."

"Out of Manhattan!?!? And who would have carried our child?"

"I'd use you as a flotation device."

------

I love being married.

Need ideas

My child is a vegetarian. Not by my choice or from lack of trying. I can't tell you how much money I've spend on all kinds of organics meats, chickens, chicken nuggets, turkey patties - anything that I think she might eat, and invariably, I throw away.

She just won't eat meat, even if I hide it. She has like spidey senses to find and pick out the meat. So we gave up and are trying to find other ways to get her protein in.

She's just not normal. I am not sure where she came from, but this kid won't eat pizza, chicken nuggets (even - gasp - McDonalds), burgers, fries - nothing. Which makes dining out and eating on the run and huge pain in the ass with this kid.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy that she doesn't like junk food (though she would rip Elmo's bulbous little eyes off for a piece of "chawk-wit"). She lives on waffles, homemade muffins, omelets (where I can sneak in spinach), fruit cups, orange slices, Annie's organic macaroni and cheese, cream cheese sandwiches, spoonfuls of peanut butter, bananas, fruit cups, carrots and peas. Occasionally, I can make a tuna casserole and she will eat that.

My only concern with her self-imposed vegetarianism is protein. She doesn't like beans very much, but to be honest, I haven't tried many varieties or flavors. She used to eat tofu in chunks as an infant, but now won't eat it unless I hide it in stuff. She doesn't like soy milk or any of the soy faux meat products out there.

Do you guys have any tricks? She eats well and since she does love her eggs and peanut butter, I am not too worried, but I'd like her to have some more variety. I feel like she eats the same things day in and day out.

Any ideas to vary her diet?

Whining and Baby Names

I want to whine about my headache.

But I'm so sick of hearing myself whine lately. Poor Mike.

I'm tired
My nose is stuffy.
My throat hurts.
My head hurts.
Your child is a demon seed.
Your cat ate my plant.

Gah! I'm annoying MYSELF. I just want to feel better already.

Thanks for all your comments about breastfeeding and such. I actually expected at least a few comments to be of the "you're a selfish bitch who doesn't deserve to be a mother" nature, but I got none. Even if some of you disagreed with me, you all respect my right to choose and make decisions on what is best for my family. And I was truly impressed and thrilled that I have such open-minded, strong readers.

Now, onto something really important - baby names. Like I mentioned before, Mike and I decided on Charlotte's name fairly early on, since it was the city we were flying to the day we found out we were pregnant, but never told anyone. And when we would test out other names and ask for opinions, people either made faces or had no qualms about saying "that's weird" or "I don't like that." And it left a sour taste in my mouth. I didn't like having a stigma attached to a name I could have picked for my child. It's not like I was naming my car or a puppy or something. It's a human; it's a pretty big decision. So after those bad experiences, we decided on Charlotte and decided not to tell anyone. People (well, some people) think twice about making a negative comment after the baby has vacated your uterus. And we've pretty much did the same thing with Spawn Part Deux (SPD). We have one or two names picked for each gender. Then as it gets closer, and we bond with the baby inside of me, knowing if it's a boy or girl, we'll make a final decision.

But we won't tell you. Because if one person rolls their eyes or says "I knew a girl named that once and she was a hooker" I will flip my pregnant shit.

What about you guys? Did you tell people the names? Did you get bad reactions and use that name anyway? Did people's reaction influence your choices?

A Sensitive Subject for Many

Four weeks and some days prior to my due date, Mike and I went out for sushi. I had a cooked shrimp roll, no wine, edamame, and some shumai. The waiter saw my engorged belly and made comments of his own little boy at home, seven months old, and just learning to sit up. We made small talk, finished our meal, and went home to bed. I got up to go to the bathroom around 1 am, and when I was finished, I stood up to stumble my way back upstairs, but water kept coming. And coming.

This is not the story of Charlotte's birth (if you want that, read here). But it is a segue into something else. My body wasn't ready to have her. She wasn't quite ready to be born. I'm not sure why it happened, but it did and still, she was born big and healthy. But she wouldn't latch. I had taken breastfeeding classes. I was determined. I knew the best time to try was right after she was born, in the "quiet alert" stage. I pictured my baby being born, cleaned off, and held to my breast, mother and baby connected by nourishment. But she was early, her sucking reflex not fully developed. No matter how hard I tried, every position, even the nurses helped, she wouldn't latch. I didn't know to ask and since the lactation consultant was on vacation, no one thought to bring me a pump until the following night nurse.

She squawked, "Child, no one brought you a pump?"

I shook my head and said I didn't know I needed one and that I was trying to get her to latch.

So, I started pumping, almost two days late. And I dutifully pumped every two hours on that hospital machine, barely getting anything, but knowing that every dropped counted. In between pumping, I tried to get her to latch, supplementing with formula.

When we got home, I opened and sanitized my very own hospital grade pump and began the same process. Pumping every two hours, like they told me, even when the baby was sleeping. And trying to get her to latch, and giving her a bottle. I got so good at it all that I was able to do all three at once, with some delicate balancing and the help of the boppy.

I hired a doula. At over 100$/hr she came to my house a few times, sat with me, trying to help me get her to latch. I called the La Leche League, who scared me by telling me to hold my baby's tongue down, encouraging the gag reflex. I kept an Excel spreadsheet of how much milk I was pumping and when, how much Charlotte would eat, her wet diapers. I took Fenugreek, drank a gallon of water a day, made mother's milk tea. I tried. I tried so hard.

For six weeks, I pumped every two hours every day and not in one day did I get more than 10 ounces. I was attached to that machine for what felt like hours on end. I could barely leave the house because by the time I was done pumping, I'd have to start again. I loved my baby and wanted to give her what I thought was the best start, but I couldn't. I could not make enough milk to feed her and she would not latch, even with trained professionals watching me, shirtless, like a cow, for hours.

Things became dark. I became someone I didn't know. Normal post-partum hormones with the stress and guilt of not being able to feed your baby made me into an empty shell of a person. I found little joy in anything. I should have been cooing at my baby, watching her sleep, holding her little fingers. And instead, I was hooked up to a pump, angry, resentful, sad, alone. The four walls were closing in quickly. After one of many long teary discussions with Mike, he urged me to stop.

"You want to be a good mother by providing her with the best. But what kind of mother are you if you resent her, are angry at yourself, and can't even enjoy life?"

He was right. I stopped pumping and we went to formula full time.

Also due to her early arrival, she had GERD. She would scream during bottles, gasp and choke and stop breathing. Always catching her breath, she would usually cry enough to throw up whatever she managed to get down. When she wasn't screaming, she was sleeping or throwing up. Not spit up like some babies, but projectile across-the-room exorcist stuff. I could handle the vomit. What I couldn't handle was the amount of pain she was in each time she would eat. Eventually, she went on medicine - Prevacid, and though it didn't cure her, it helped.

What it didn't help was my guilt over failing at breastfeeding. Maybe if I had tried harder, the breast milk would have been easier on her and she wouldn't be throwing up so much or in so much pain. This is not true and she would have had this issue with breastmilk or formula, but still, I had failed her.

Kellie and I were going back and forth in gmail yesterday, as we sometimes do, we had this conversation - about breastfeeding and whether I was going to with Spawn Part Deux. After an internal debate, I decided to write about it. I know it may stir controversy, but I wanted to tell my story.

It's a hot button topic, alongside working parents versus stay-at-home parents, vaccinations versus not, homeschooling versus public schooling - the list is endless. As friendly as many of us are to each other, especially those we become "friends" with, we are each individuals with individual opinions, some of which differ so vastly from one another. And sometimes, rather than respect that, we cut the other down for not sharing those same beliefs. We judge.

The truth is I am still unsure of breastfeeding this next baby. Maybe if he/she cooks till due date, latching won't be an issue and there will be smooth sailing. But maybe I will have the same milk supply issues. Maybe I won't. But there is one reality. Even if I can successfully breastfeed, this baby will need to take a bottle. Many of you will think I am heartless or selfish for what I am about to say next, but here goes: I don't want to have a baby attached to me all day every day, all night every night.

I love working. I love being social. I love family events, work events, parties. I love taking my baby(ies) places and being on-the-go. I couldn't imagine ever planning a day around needing to be somewhere to nurse, especially with a toddler and a full-time job.

I also don't want to go through that experience of the first weeks of motherhood ever again, where I felt I failed at so much, instead of seeing all that I had accomplished and all the good I was doing.

I want Mike and my mother and her dayhome nanny to be able to feed this new baby - for when I can't be with the baby and to bond with him/her. Mike is every ounce a parent as I am, just as we both work full-time, we share the duties of every aspect of parenting, including nighttime feedings. I couldn't imagine doing that all on my own, and getting into the office the next morning. I know mothers do it. I just don't want to put myself through that. I know what kind of person it would make me and I would not be the wife or mother I am. It would harden me.

I know many of you disagree with me and are thinking to yourself how awful and selfish I am. But I see it the other way. Doing what works best for me and my family makes me a better wife, mother, sister, friend, and person. I have the confidence in that now. Maybe I didn't when I was a scared 26-yr old new mother, living in a world of guilt and sadness, but I do now.

There are Mommy Wars. We all know they exist.

Linda wrote a poignant blog at ParentDish yesterday and I think she sums it up best with this:

"We have set aside all of the things we probably have in common: the fact that we would both take a bullet for our children without a second's hesitation; the fact that there are times in each day when we are great parents, and times when we stumble; and the fact that we know -- maybe only in our heart of hearts -- that no matter what choices we make, there is no insurance that we are doing the "right" thing, and no one is going to come along and give us a blue ribbon, and there is no promise that our children will be healthy and happy as the result of our choices, and that all we can do is exactly what we are doing, which is making the decisions that are right for our individual families and situations."

So whether or not I choose to breastfeed, it is not your decision to make or to judge. We are all mothers, parents, who struggle and cry and laugh and learn from mistakes. We need to support each other, not tear each other down.

I'm with Linda.

The Mommy Wars need to end.

A phonecall at work

(Caller ID tells me it's Mike)

"Yes, dear?"

"I went up your daughter from her nap and she was all excited to see me and she reached for something and you know what she handed me?"

"One of her 67 stuffed animals or 40 blankies?"

"No, her diaper. She was naked." He giggles and I can hear Charlotte laughing with him. "I just wanted to call and tell you that because I thought it was funny."

She is her father's daughter.

Wordless Wednesday - The Little Bastard Edition

Oh. Em. Gee.

Seriously, only 14 weeks? Am I giving birth to the Jolly Green Giant?

Ok, so we're all insane

That's what I gathered from yesterday's posts. But it's comforting, no? To know we're not alone in our insanity? Although as Mike was reading the comments yesterday, he was muttering outloud, "Oh great, I wasn't worried about that, but now I am." or "Man, and I thought you were crazy."

The difference between Mike and me is that I worry about real-life things that can happen. People do break into people's homes. People do die in car accidents on their way home from work. People's homes do burn down. Mike is worried about the things his imagination concocts, like zombie attacks, goblins, or ghosts.

He owns and has read this book.

(you can click for more info)

"Man, I need to get in better shape. When the zombies come, I need to be able to protect you and the baby."

"I think I could survive an imaginary zombie attack."

"It's not imaginary. It could happen. We need to stock up on supplies. We'd have to be ready to go at a moment's notice. I think the house in upstate NY would be our safest bet. We'd have a good vantage point on the top of the hill and there are lots of guns there."

"Yeah, but I'm a better shot than you."

"Well, you'll have to stand post and snipe any that come close. Make sure you get them in the head. That's where the disease is - in their brain - and it's the only way to kill them. I'll fight the rest with nun-chucks and stuff."

"You don't know martial arts."

"How much are lessons?"

We have actually had this conversation. I kid you not. So, while he may mock me for checking in my back seat or saying "I love you" 76 times a day, at least I am not afraid of FAKE ZOMBIES.

Irrational fears, anyone?

I was lying in bed this morning trying to get an extra hour of sleep to help fight off this cold while Mike - bless his heart - got up with the baby. He has off today for the holiday and I don't, but I straggled in late. I heard her crying downstairs, which is not unusual, because she cries/whines a lot. We're used to it; she's very high maintenance, and every little thing can set her off on a bad day. We learn to ignore it most of the time, not giving into her immediate needs and wants (as long as she's safe) for fear of raising a snotty brat. Not to mention, in a few months, she's going to have to share us and her wants with another tiny being, so she'll have a crash course soon enough.

Anyway, I heard her crying and didn't hear Mike and then I started thinking what if Mike passed out in the bathroom and she is alone? What if she got into the cabinet, despite the locks and is drinking bleach? What if one of us dropped a pill from the medicine chest and she ate it?

Then I realized that being a mother has made me INSANE. These scenarios are so far-fetched and yet I let them freak me out! Our medicine chest is locked and has a hook and eye way up high so she can't get to it. All the cabinets with chemicals have a catch-lock. And even that was not enough for me, so we bought magnetic locks. She kept trying to reach her arm in the little slit left by the latch-locks, and I could see her grabbing a cascade packet, happily munching down. We're pretty damn well baby proofed.

Am I the only one who has moments of insanity about these things? And not just with Charlotte, with everything in life? Like now I realize how precious things are and how much I truly have to lose, I freak out a little bit inside now and again. Here are some other examples.

*I HAVE to say "I love you" at the end of every phone conversation with almost everyone - Mike, my mom, dad, sister, etc. Because I have this irrational fear that they will die in a car crash on the way home and that wouldn't be the last thing I said.

*If I drop something like a pill on the floor, and can't find it right away, it will keep me awake and searching for hours until I do, because I know, I JUST know, that the cats or the baby will find it, eat it, and die.

*Once, I left the heater on high in the baby's room and essentially overheated her all night. Now, I cannot go to sleep without checking her heater, touching her to make sure she's breathing, and covering her up again.

*I'm worried that the house will catch on fire and we'll be trapped on the top floor, unable to get down. I recently bought a fire safety ladder for this very fear.

*I always think that someone can watch me leave in the morning and then will go in my house and wait for me to come home. I wasn't worried when we had our original dog - she would have kicked anyone's ass - but now I am and we bought a security system.

*I'm worried my car will break down (it's only a 2004) and my cell phone will be broken and I'll be stuck somewhere and go into labor (albeit not for a few more months).

*I worry that my water will break in the office with this baby. I will have another pair of clothes packed in my car for this very fear in a few months.

*What if I'm home alone with the baby(ies) and I have an aneurysm and die - they'll be alone with a dead mother until my husband comes come. What if they get into the knives? What if they are starving or need new diapers?


Please tell me I'm not the only one with these worries that on a daily logical level, seem rather ridiculous and irrational?

What are yours? Care to share?

It has spread

Today, both Mike and I are sick. Nothing terrible, but our noses are clogged and throats are sore.

I'm so used to just drowning myself with over the counter medicines or airborne and since that is not an option, I instead reach for homemade cookies and TBS movies.

Your regularly scheduled AndreAnna will return shortly when I can see through the brain fog.

She was hungry

No momma, I have not seen the pet rabbit.

Boogers and snot and tissues, oh my!

Charlotte rarely gets sick. She has had a few colds and one bout of rotavirus (oh, rotavirus, how I smote thee). She has never had a cough, ear infection, and I've never taken her to the doctor for illness or had her on any kind of medication (other than the Prevacid when she was an infant for GERD).

She has a cold now. Nothing major. No fever and she is in good spirits. But here is the main issue when she does get sick: her nose is clogged - as in no air flow in and massive amounts of snot flowing out. Here lies the problem. She loves her bippy (pacifier) like I love Agent Sealy Booth. She squeals with glee if she spots one she didn't know she had. She must have at least five in her crib at night and for naps. But, one needs to breathe through one's nose in order to plug one's mouth with a bippy.

The night before last, we had to do something we haven't done in over a year. We had to put her in the car at midnight and drive her around until she fell asleep. And by "we," I mean Mike because by that point I was ready to lock myself in the closet and not come out until she was in college. And she was up again at 6.

I was then reminded how tired I am going to be in a few months when this new one makes his/her arrival. And you know something? It sucked. Big hairy moose balls. I had to try and see through the fog of fatigue to keep a sick baby happy, keep my boss happy, return emails and phonecalls. Again, think large hairy mammal testes.

Then I consulted my favorite online doctor, Dr. Sears, who suggested Little Noses drops. Not the plain saline which wasn't working, but with a low dose of phenylephrine sent right to the nose, not having to be taken orally. It called for 4 drops for ages 2 and up, and since Charlotte is just shy of 2, we did 2-3 drops in each nostril and it worked! Oh, sweet baby jeebus, it worked! She slept blissfully from 7p-7a and this morning, all was right with the world.

We're going into Philly tonight for my sister's birthday dinner to a Brazillian place where they just keep bringing you food - 12 different kinds of meat and endless sides. A pregnant woman's dream or what?

Oh, and I just found out that I will either be 86 months pregnant or have just given birth for my 10-year high school reunion. Gah-reat.

Haiku Friday

First trimester's done
Waiting for fatigue to end
Wake me when it does

Haven't been that sick
Not like I was with Charlotte
Maybe it's a boy?

We'll find out soon though
And then can decide on names
But we won't tell you

We keep it secret
Until the baby is born
You'll just have to wait

For now, you get pics
Of my ever-growing self
Here is week 13.

Decision

I appreciate all of your thoughts, comments, emails, and suggestions of either blind support or for trying to get the cats and dogs to get along. In my opinion, it would never happen with these animals and Bella had to go back to the shelter, where I hope with all my heart she finds a loving home soon because she deserves one.

This was a decision that Mike and I wrestled with. It has kept me up at night, tied my stomach in knots, and brought me to tears on more than one occasion.

I grew up with both cats and dogs, and for every year of my life have had a pet of some kind, usually multiple species. So I know that they CAN get along - that some dogs and cats even become friends and sit by the window, watching the sun sink into the trees. I have lived it. However, you need to trust me when I say that for the safety of everyone involved, the dog had to go back.

She was stalking the basement door. One cat would venture up for some attention, only to be chased back from whence he came. I did some research and they said you could train a dog to leave the cats alone, and that's pretty much how we got our last dog to co-exist with our cats. But Bella barely knows her name, doesn't come when called, and hardly knows the "sit" command. How am I to teach her to "not kill" "no maiming!" She is old; she won't learn it in enough time to spare someone a bloody end.

The other cat Leo has been hiding in the rafters of the basement laundry room - the only section of the house "unfinished" - he won't come out. The first day home Bella chased and cornered him before we could grab her, and I think he is traumatized. Worst of all, he is a fighter. He has come up only to kick Bella's ass. She has a gash across her nose.

Bella tried to break through the glass basement window from the backyard. She managed to tear off the screen and was pounding on the window with her front paws. We were yelling for her to come in, and she was totally ignoring us, focused on the task at hand of eating the cat on the other side of the glass. What if we weren't home or didn't know what she was doing? What if she broke through the glass, slicing herself, hurting the cats? What if the baby were under the window?

What if one of the cats got upstairs and there was a fight and Charlotte was caught in the middle?

For the safety of everyone, animals included, we made the decision to return Bella.

She is not a product, not something that can be bought, returned, exchanged, bartered. She is an animal, with a soul, and we understand that. We did not make this decision in haste.

Many of you pleaded with me not to return her, which although your intentions were good and I appreciate where your sentiments were coming from, just made me feel worse. Like you all thought I was a bad person - like someone who didn't care that this dog would be once again sleeping in a shelter instead of on our couch. Like I didn't try hard enough or give it enough time. If I thought for one second it could be a harmonious household, I would never give her back. What if I wait two months and it's just as bad if not worse? I then have to surrender an animal we have loved and cared for just that much longer? I have to give back an animal who has gotten used to us?

There is no easy answer here. There is no right or wrong. There is only the safety of my family, my child, my cats, and this sweet dog to consider.

I can't expect you all, especially those that don't "know" me, to trust my judgment. But if you get at least a little piece of me through these daily writings, I hope it's that I love my family more than life itself and I have a good heart.

And that I would never do anything to harm another soul on this earth.

That this decision was not made lightly.

That my heart weighs heavy today.

Wordless Wednesday

-On The Big Island, Hawaii, on our honeymoon.

(I think I posted this before but lost it in the site move, so enjoy the irony yet again)

Crappy crappy crappy

I have to call the shelter. I am mad and hurt.

They let us take this old, sweet dog home, telling is she was good with cats and dogs and kids of all ages. They let us enjoy her.

She tried to kill my cats. Not play with them. Hackles raised. Teeth bared. Wants the cats dead.

We have a finished basement and the door that leads to it has a cat hole, so she can't get to them. Their food and litter is down there. They are safe. But they are not happy. We aren't down there very often; it is not babyproofed and has our office, a large living room, and a bathroom and laundry room. They have plenty of space and cushy living. But they don't have us. We only go down there a few nights a week after the baby is alseep. I am down there to work while she naps.

Each time a cat has ventured up to try and sit in the sunlight or cuddle with one of us, he is forced to retreat, for fear of imminent death.

I am worried I am going to come home one day to a dog with no eyes or a dead cat.

I am mad that the shelter told us she was good with cats when obviously she is not. We cannot keep her. I am so upset, and I'm sure the pregnancy hormones don't help. It is not fair to this poor old dog to be shuffled around so much. It is not fair to my cats to have to live in fear in their own house, in a basement with no sunlight. It is not fair to us to get attached to an animal and have to give it back. I can't bear the thought of her sitting in a shelter. The foster family said if anything were to happen they would gladly take her back. I hope that is still the case and we can work something out. It breaks my heart; this whole thing.

This has not been a good morning. My ginormous coffee (not hot any longer, no worries) was pulled from the windowsill onto the baby and the chair, soaking both through. That's what I get for peeing. Then, when I went to put the chair cover in the wash, the baby had pulled my waffle from the counter and her and the dog were enjoying my breakfast. There is a mondo pile of laundry to do; our groceries are depleted. I have fifty thousand papers to edit.

And a dog with sad eyes staring at me.

A bad morning indeed.

Elmo is baby crack, I am now conviced

Once an individual your baby has tried crack Elmo, they may be unable to predict or control the extent to which they will continue to use. Crack Elmo is probably the most addictive substance puppet that has been devised so far. Crack Elmo addicts must have more and more crack Elmo to sustain their high and avoid the intense "crash" or depression that follows their binges. They become physically and psychologically dependent on crack Elmo, which is often a result of only few doses episodes of the drug taken Sesame Street within a few days. This dependence can lead to addiction.

All too often, the process of crack Elmo addiction goes something like this: The "soon to be addict" takes their first hit watches their first episode. Upon inhalation of this powerful drug viewing the red furry monster, the users body instantly begins the addiction process. The individual's mental and emotional being is soon to follow, but for now just their body suffers from the initial stages of crack Elmo addiction. After the first few times using the drug watching Sesame Street, their mind slowly starts the addiction process. This grows stronger and stronger until, mentally, the addict your baby believes that they cannot live without the drug Elmo. They now are entangled in a full fledged crack Elmo addiction. Shortly after this occurs, crack Elmo takes complete control over their emotions.

Once the individual's emotions have been overridden by cocaine puppets, they no longer feel normal without being intoxicated watching Elmo thirty thousand times a day. When this occurs they feel the need to use more crack watch more Elmo just to feel normal. In order to get high to avoid a monumental breakdown of epic proportions, they have to take an immense amount of the drug watch Elmo all day long. Their crack Elmo addiction has infiltrated all areas of their life. They can no longer function physically, emotionally, or mentally without crack Elmo. This cycle of addiction continues until the individual either quits using or dies your house resembles the Elmo aisle of Toys R Us.

The above process of crack Elmo addiction demonstrates the potential power of this insidious drug these puppets. Even though death a tantrum lurks around the corner, individuals with an addiction to crack Elmo continue to use demand to watch the damned little red monster with no regard for their life or anyone else's.

*Original info above Copyright Narcanon, U.K.

A real life cliche

Can you teach an old dog new tricks?

I'm actually being quite literal.

After grieving and healing over the loss of our dog Pandora in October, we adopted a new dog today. We weren't planning on it, and I wanted to wait until this baby was due and the kids were grown up a bit and then get them a puppy.

But someone sent me a link to a shelter listing. To a dog named Bella - a "perfect family dog" the listing said. Good with other dogs, cats, and kids or all ages. She was a mixed breed, some boxer, some pit bull. She was an older dog, they said about six, and had been with the same family for most of her life until she was brought to the shelter a few months ago. She was such a good dog that a volunteer took her home and was fostering her. I showed Mike the link and we decided we would call and see if they still needed a home for her. And they did. They asked us to send in an adoption application, which we did and they immediately approved us and set up a time to meet the dog and foster family.

So, we drove over an hour to the shelter and waited to meet her. Her foster family was just like us - a young couple with a small child. He had just turned two. This immediately calmed any fears I had about the dog being around the kids. We talked with the family, played with Bella outside, and I came to the conclusion that not only is she incredibly sweet, she is also the laziest dog I've ever met. I decided then I wanted her.

At 40 pounds or so, she thinks she is a lap dog, and though cuddly and sweet, has no manners. Her owners must have loved her, but they didn't take care of her in certain areas. She is house broken, though knows no other commands other than "sit" - and I'm pretty sure she's either deaf, partially deaf, or just at an age where she doesn't give a rat's ass if you're calling her. She is missing a lot of her teeth and has a general "old' look about her, which leads me to believe she is older than the six years they estimate.

Mike and I talked about this - about adopting an older dog, and how it means we wouldn't have much time with her - five years maybe. And though we understand the implication, we feel good about our decision, about giving an older throw-away dog a second chance.

Leo is not happy about the situation and they already had their first fight, complete with a little doggie nose blood. Bella just wanted to play and Leo wanted her as doggie kabobs. The shelter said she was good with cats, so I hope they all eventually learn to get along. Cronus has lived most of his life with a dog, so he will be fine. And Leo is only six months old, so I hope he will calm himself down eventually. Anyone have any magic suggestions for harmony in the house?

The dog has been in the house no more than two hours and is already asleep at my feet. I hope she is happy here.

You

I was thrilled to hear from some readers who rarely comment and I got such a kick out of reading all of your movie admissions. For the record, I don't think Goonies is anything to be embarrassed about - it's practically a classic! I mean, how many times have you had a few too many and in order to locate your friends have yelled "Hey YOU GUYYSSSSSSSSSS!"

And Nancy, Harold and Kumar is one of my top 10 favorite movies. I actually watched it while I was in labor on the laptop. And I love you Allison for loving Paulie Shore with me! You can come over and watch it anytime!

Oh, and to answer all of you who asked: Yes, we will be finding out the sex, but they won't be able to tell me until my 18 week scan. And Charlotte was so stubborn she didn't show her bits until much later. But this time, if they can't find out at my regular appoitnment, I'm going to go to a 3-D place on my own. So, be on your edge of your seats till then. Now dear readers, riddle me this: Honestly, did any of you secretly hope for one sex or the other? Did it change after your first?

I also want to update my blogroll, but I am so lazy busy, that I can never remember who wants to be added or such. So, just let me know and I'll do some blog housekeeping this weekend and glady reciprocate any linky linky.

I really have nothing important to say today and since according to my stats, no one reads on the weekends anyway, I will leave you with some gratuitous photos of my child and pets.

Something about a streaker

Unbeknownst (Speller doesn't recognize that word. I wonder why? Maybe because it's from 1830? I'm bringing it back. Along with "egads!" Anyway, I digress...) to me, today is De-Lurker day! Thanks to Sci-Fi Dad for letting me know. This is the brainchild of Rude Cactus and the button is courtesy of Aimee at Greeblemonkey.

What this means is that people who read but don't comment, are encouraged to do so. Even though I know you all probably won't. I know for a fact, I have a slew of readers who never comment. How do I know this? Because every time I go to tell someone a story, they go, "Oh yeah, I read that on your blog."

So, hi Mark (my brother-in-law), Michele, Aunt Carol, my wonderful husband, Bridget, Dawn, Brian, Karin (to her credit, she commented once), and all of you other sucker-bitches who hide!

*~*~*~*~*

Moving on. One of my friends at work just announced she was pregnant too. She's due three weeks after me. Waaa-hooooooooo to being fat with a friend! "Wanna go to the cafeteria and get a muffin and drizzle it with chocolate and peanut butter and then fry it with bacon and onions?" "Well, yes as a matter of fact, I would!"

I have my second prenatal appointment later this afternoon and I know I'm going to get on the scale and the nurse is going to be like "Um, you've already gained your allotted weight for your whole pregnancy. You can only eat carrots and grass from now on. But make sure you take your pre-natals." Being pregnant around the holidays has its benefits. "Sure, I'd love a third piece of chocolate cake. But, do you think you could put a chocolate chip cookie and some ice cream on top?" I mean, I'm still going to the gym and eating fruits and veggies, but for the most part, healthy things I used to love now seem "yucky." Like the thought of a gloppy bowl of oatmeal dang near makes me gag now, though I had one almost every morning for 3 years. I guess I just have to put all my faith in the gym and hope it counter-acts at least 35% of the crap I am eating, since I can't bring myself to eat fish, or grilled chicken, or plain salads (seriously close to gagging here).

Anyway, here your weekly shot of me at 25, oh, I mean 12 weeks:

*~*~*~*~*

To help you de-lurk, here is a question for you that I'm stealing from Ali from Cheaper than Therapy. She asked what our most embarassing movie that we loved. I freely admit to loving anything Pauly Shore, which to most people is preferring cow nose to filet mignon, but I can recite every line to BioDome, Son-in-Law, In the Army Now, and some others. Sad, I know, but seriously, how can you not laugh at this?



Ok, so what's yours? What movie do you love but really hate to admit it? Go visit Ali and tell her too!

Wordless Wednesday (The-Lip-Smackin'-Good Edition)

Skeletor wants YOU!

Seriously, doesn't my unborn child look like this guy?



I went today for my Nuchal Translucency scan, where they check for Down's and other chromosomal abnormalities. Though I'm not in any risk category, most doctors recommend it. I had one with Charlotte too. In true form, no child of mine would cooperate and this little bean was jumping all over the place. The tech called the doctor in who managed to get the measurements she needed. "Man, you're gonna be a punching bag in a few weeks." Super. As much as I look forward to feeling the baby inside me, I am not looking forward to having a foot lodged under my ribs, kicking my internal organs for soccer practice.

Oh, and not to get all Chicken Little on your asses, but the world is ending. Seriously. It was 70 degrees here in Jersey. Um, not sure if you got the memo but it's freakin' JANUARY people. Rather than lock myself in my room and lament over global warming, we took advantage of the day and went to the big park at the reservoir. But, because I would forget my large pregnant ass if it weren't attached to my large pregnant hips, I forgot the "good" camera. I did have the Elph in my purse, though.

So, here's Charlotte on the day the sky was falling:

This time versus last time

When I found out I was pregnant with Charlotte, I went out to the store the very next day and bought a bunch of books. I drank them, reading page by page, and by the end of many, I was convinced that the Tylenol I took for a headache three days prior would cause my child to have three arms.

I followed the advice - no caffeine, deli meats, soft cheeses, sushi. I didn't even exercise because I read one article that said it could cause miscarriage if you have a weak pelvic floor. I didn't even know what that was at the time or if I had one, but I wasn't taking any chances. So, I abided by all the rules, sat on my ass, napped a lot, and gained 80 pounds.

I don't know if it's because I know what to expect this time, or because having a kid kind of forces you to calm down and be logical, or if you're too busy and tired to care, but I am not following too many rules this time. I can't remember the last time I heard a child being born malformed because the mother had a morning cup of coffee or a Tylenol for a headache.

I know the risk of listeria, and that's why we are advised to avoid deli meats and soft cheeses, but, in reality, couldn't I get food poisoning anywhere? Wouldn't I be more likely to get ill from a Taco Bell than from a Jersey Mike's (a sub chain)?

I had walking pneumonia last pregnancy before I finally gave in to the inability to breathe and went to a doctor, for fear he would put me on antibiotics.

This time, I am on daily Zyrtec and Rhinocort as well as Benadryl as needed. All Category B and both deemed "safe" but taking any medicine not necessary to sustain life is breaking the rules. Well, here's the deal - without these medicines, I can't breathe. When I can't breathe, I get sluggish and lose sleep. This is without being pregnant - add "not breathing" on top of the normal routine of my crazy life, and you get a very unhappy, very useless wife and mother. So, I take my medicine. If you see any news stories on CNN about a baby having 3 eyes from Rhinocort, let me know.

So each morning, I hit up my Tassimo for a coffee. Just one. And each night, I take my allergy meds. I go to the gym. I've also had a few sandwiches, indulged in some brie, and even eaten - stop the presses - hot dogs. I've taken Tylenol and even Percocet (for a migraine) and last week went out for sushi.

It's not that I care less. I love this baby inside of me as much as I did Charlotte. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's the old "been there, done that" thing this time around. Like the stabbing pain on my left hip? This time I know it's not the start of the baby falling out of my vagina, but my good friend round ligament pain back to say hello.

Is it just me? Am I the only one who is so much more laid back the second go?

How to give your pregnant wife a heart attack

1) Get a bloody nose.
2) Use a tissue or three to stuff up said nose as a stopper.
3) Throw bloody tissues in the toilet.
4) Forget to flush.
5) Let pregnant wife use toilet.

Haiku Friday

I'm back to the gym
After two weeks off to eat slack
My inner thighs scream

Ride the bike, walk, jog
Keeping an eye on heart rate
Always being safe

Lift my barbell weights
Do my resistance training
Oh, do my arms burn

I must stay healthy
Pregnancy naps will not win
Can't let myself go

Last time gained 80
Took months and months to feel good
Nay, nay, not this time

Will bounce back quicker
Have to take care of toddler
And screaming newborn

Don't forget working
Deadlines don't wait for spit up
Must keep myself strong

Kee-bup!

"Keeeeee-bup! Keeeeee-bup!"

This is how Charlotte sings the "Clean up" song, and though it is cute, I think she uses her adorable toddlerese as a distraction that she is not, in fact, cleaning a damn thing. Occasionally, she'll drop a block back in the basket, or put a pony back in the toybox, but mostly, it is Mike and I at the end of the day, acting as FEMA after the tornado.

And I'm throwing another kid in the mix? Will someone come and un-bury me next year? Because I fear I will become one of those elderly people on TV whose family finally had to call police because they were living among so much trash, they couldn't get them out of their homes. Except, instead of trash, or cats, I will be buried under Fisher Price Laugh N' Learn Bunnies, Cabbage Patch dolls, blocks, and race cars. All that will be visible is the one tuft of blonde hair I managed to not tear out of my head.

Ok, I may be overreacting slightly, but there are days when I feel these four walls are ever-too-close, and that we are all going a bit mad being in the house. The holidays have left us mostly homebound, because people still have to work, family time passes, meals are prepared and eaten, and the weather outside truly is frighful. Here on the east coast, the sun has peeked out no more than three times the past two weeks, and each time a cloud or a cold wind shouts, "And where you do you think you're going sucka?" and scares it back away, leaving the landscape bitter, cold, and wet. The days have fluctuated from unseasonably warm and rainy to twenty degrees and blustery. As I type this, I can hear the wind screeching outside and feel its fingers reaching in through the window, grabbing at my neck, making me reach for yet another layer.

There hasn't been much playing outside, although whenever the temperature rises above 30 or the ground is dry, we bundle up and chase leaves, eat rocks, collect pine cones. But those days and moments have been few these past two weeks and with my vacation from work, we've been huddled inside, blinking wildly at each other, waiting to see who will bare their teeth first. Charlotte has turned into a whiney 25-pound blob, listlessly moping around the house, "Biinkkkyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Blankyyyyyyyyyyy, I whinin', I sad!" And I'm sure my pregnant whining doesn't help the situation: "I'm tired. My back hurts. I'm hungry but dinner makes me want to puke. I feel fat." My poor husband has given up custody of his soul and is in a back room rocking in the fetal position, moaning about "too much estrogen."

I was supposed to go back to work today while my mother came to watch Charlotte, and tomorrow she was supposed to go back to dayhome. Life would return to normal; we'd all have our routines back. We'd all have our "selves" back and, therefore, be better equipped to be a cohesive unit. Nay, nay, said my hormones. I felt the telltale twinge yesteday afternoon behind my right eye, and ignored it for a few hours. Eventually, it got bad enough to warrant a - gasp - 500 mg tylenol. By the time I went to bed, it had encircled my forehead, beating conga tunes behind my eyes, mocking me into sleep. Sleep found me, but it was restless, and by 3 am, I heard knocking. Though it wasn't on the front door, it was on my frontal lobe. I had a full-fledged migraine. The sound of the baby monitor hurt my head. The pillow hurt my face. The light of the alarm clock threatened to send me to tears. I moaned and lied in bed, hands over my forehead, trying to push the pain back into my skull, far away where it would keep me from being productive.

Not only do migraines hurt a lot, they leave me useless. I cannot move without inducing vomiting, or walk into a well-lit room without literally crying out in pain. Thankfully, these horrors only comes once a year or so, but they are different when pregnant. I cannot reach for the mind-numbing drugs like Valium, Imitrex, Vicodin. I only have Tylenol at my arsenal, which if fighting a war is likened to a sloth in a wheelchair. I cannot function, let alone take care of a toddler. I told Mike to call work and tell him that he would not be in at 6 am, but later, when my mother got here. I called my job and left a voicemail for my boss telling her dialing the phone hurt and I'd be in tomorrow instead.

After hours, I finally gave in and took a Percocet, though begrudgingly. It is only Tyelnol and oxycodone, and though a narcotic, is actually pretty safe. I had previously discussed pain management of my almost non-existent L4-L5 disc with my back doctor, and he told me that it could be used if I needed it. The worst side effects are dependency and "sleeping" of the fetus in the last trimester. So, I took the pill and went back to bed. I woke a few hours later still in pain but functioning. Now, 20 hours later, I still have the ache behind my eyes and pressure on my skull, but I can read and type and function. For those of you that suffer from migraines, you know that this is the worst of it all- to be rendered useless in a home with a toddler and a backlog of papers waiting to be edited. It sucks time away and beats you down while you watch it pass by in the dark.

So, our routine will re-emerge tomorrow. I hope. But since it is Wednesday, you get my weekly pregnancy picture and the updated slideshow - 11 weeks. And yes, I realize I look like a slob, but if you read any of the above, you're lucky I'm not in a tutu and bikini top, I've been so out of it all day. Really lucky, because quite frankly, that might cause a migraine.

Wordless Wednesday - Love

Canon 350D

(Taken on the top of our bathroom vanity before morning showers. They just landed that way - cool, eh?)

New Year Schmew Year

Today is just another day. I went to bed by 11 and Mike followed an hour or so later, after I woke to obnoxious sounds of whirly fireworks and rampant booms, lasting at least 20 minutes. Mike is working today. Charlotte and I are watching Sesame Street. It is like every other morning.

I never make resolutions. I know I won't keep them. Especially this year, when the first half I'll be hugely pregnant and unable to complete the most typical of New Year's resolutions like work out harder, lose weight, eat less...I will be doing the complete opposite. And the second half of the year, I will have a toddler, newborn, and a full-time deadline-driven job which I plan to return to when the new baby is 7-8 weeks old. So, I will be too delirious to even remember what year it is let alone fulfill resolutions.

I am looking forward to what this new year will bring: a new baby. Guess that's a pretty big accomplishment. Though I think staying sane until 2009 will be a much bigger one.

Wish me luck.