jump. shout.

Did you know that you can be in labor but not be in labor enough? It's a fun lesson we learned after being sent home from the hospital at 2 am last night. The instructions the nurse gave us were "Come back when the contractions are unbearable." I'm starting to look at being admitted to the birth center as very much like being let in to an ultra exclusive club, but instead of being unbelievably famous or beautiful, the requirement for getting through the front door is hunching over in agony, yelling expletives and turning blue in the face.

so many lemons

In the last week I've promised six different strangers that I would bring in my new baby to their workplace so that they can admire her. The three tellers at Key Bank, two different cashiers at Safeway, and the teenage girl who took our order at Five Guys. The interaction with the Five Guys girl was my favorite, because she added "Treat her like a princess and she'll love you forever." I don't know how sound that advice is, but it was sweet.
I don't anticipate missing many things about pregnancy, but I think I will miss the niceness bestowed by everyone everywhere I go. Even if the strangers don't say anything, they offer knowing, loving smiles.

In other news, I've progressed pretty much not at all, and it looks like my due date while come and go whilst Ivy remains in utero. We were discussing her arrival during the ultra sound today when Dr. N said, "Look! She's showing you her middle finger!". Coincidence?

time may change me

Hey Ivy,

Real quick, I just want to show you the latest additions to your room. Both curtain and bunting courtesy of your Grandma Mary:

So you have that to look forward to.

Ollie seems to be under the impression that the rocking chair belongs to him. I'll let you two work that out.

So today is the day we scheduled for you, or for me I guess, to be induced. But we cancelled an hour after scheduling. When I requested the procedure, I was at my rope's end. I'd heard one too many horror stories about full term losses, I was uncomfortable, and I was all around tired of having absolutely no control over the situation. But then after coming home and talking it over with Stephen, I realized that that's kind of how it's always going to be, right? You're your own person and you're going to make your own decisions and as much as it will probably drive me nuts and as often as I'll find myself at the end of my rope and unable to control whatever given parenting situation, I have to trust you. Which is what we're doing now. You'll come when you're ready, right? Just know that we're ready for you.

ooh you think you got it

I might be starting off the relationship with my daughter on the wrong foot.
When I wake up every morning at 5:00 for a bathroom trip, I panic when I don't feel her moving. Yes, I panic every morning. You would think that after nine months I would learn that she just doesn't move before the sun rises, because like any sane person, she's sleeping. But no. I haven't learned, nor is it likely that I will in the next week or so. Instead I drink a cold glass of water and poke my stomach until I feel a kick. Imagine sleeping peacefully in your bed, hours before dawn. In walks your mother. She throws a glass of chilled water on your head and pokes your bum until you move. Would that not make you mad? And if she did that every day, would you not be dealing with some serious resentment? Do you think Ivy will forgive me? Or will she hear my voice for the first time outside the womb and scream, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU CRAZY LADY?!"

remind me later

Look at that young, bringht, cheery, thin Utah driver with the hair that's doing just what it's supposed to do. It's too bad that one of the only two good pictures ever taken of me was merely the size of a quarter and not plastered on a billlboard somewhere. But the miniature nature of the portrait stop me from feeling a boost of confidence everytime I was required to pull out my ID. Yes, that's me, I'd reassure the cashier/bouncer/highway patrolman with my eyes. No, I don't model, stop it, you're making me blush (all said with my eyes). Lest you think my vanity is getting the better of me, I guess you're right, but let me remind you that this is one out of only two good photos ever taken of me, so I had to milk as much pride from it as possible until the time came to take a new license photo. Unfortunately that time came last week. 

It could be the 25 pregnancy pounds, the expired hair cut, the muggy DMV air, the rule against tilting your head sideways in the picture, or the photographer who seemed vexed by my very existence, or all of these factors combined that turned that bright, young Utah, driver into an unkempt 58 year old woman who still has yet to change her last name to that of her husband's (MY BAD).

As far as baby arrival is concerned, I've made exactly the same amount of progress as I had made at the last doctor's appointment. So it looks like I'll be pregnant forever.

I'm not gonna diss you on the internet, cause my momma taught me better than that

When I learned that Beyonce was pregnant, I cried. I cried because a) I'm pregnant and I cry about everything, b) I really like Beyonce and feel like I would get along with her if ever we were to meet, and c) I really like Jay-Z and the idea of him and Beyonce together and the the idea of them giving the world the gift of their offspring. For the past few months it's been fun to have something in common with someone as awesome as Beyonce. I just didn't realize how much we had in common. Have you ever met anyone named Ivy? Ever? In your life? Me neither. Which is why we thought Ivy was a safe choice as far as originality is concerned. Little did we know that Beyonce and I share a brain wave. On January 7 She and Jay-Z welcomed their baby girl Blue Ivy into their lives. And their baby Ivy is already way upstaging our baby Ivy. On the 7th the Empire State Building was lit in blue. No joke. And Jay-Z has already dropped a single about his daughter. Sorry, our baby Ivy. We haven't chosen what color of Ivy you are or made any arrangments to light up any buildings and we're not quite finished writing our rap about your birth yet. But I did wash all your onesies if that counts for anything. We're sticking with the name. Because, well, we called it first. And there were four Megans in my second grade class. I lived.

In other news, I'm dialated to a 1. And baby's head is low. My hospital bag is packed. Camera charged. Playlist made. So...we wait.

like some cat from Japan

Dear Baby Ivy,
So listen. It's been 37 weeks. And what a 37 weeks, amirite? It's been a real pleasure serving as your dwelling these past nine months. But it has been nine months. And as of tomorrow, you are totally in the clear to make your big debut. Girl, it's time. Are you nervous? Don't be. I promise we don't care if you're bald. And while I can't guarantee that we know what we're doing, I can offer food, shelter and a whole bunch of pink clothing. Let me entice you with materialism for a moment, if I may.

Look what your dad got you for Christmas:

Look at the view from your crib:

Look at these shelves filled with YOUR stuff:

Plus we have a Play Station. And a dog. Beats a placenta and cramped womb if you ask me.
Still not sure? Ok, I didn't want to bring this up, cause I don't want to give you any sort of body image issues. But the truth is, you're gaining weight, which is really great, but not so great for my maternity tops that don't fit any more or the aching back that wakes me up once every hour.
So you just let us konw when you're ready. We'll be here.

and whiskers on kittens

I had high hopes for my doctor's appointment today. I imagined Dr. N taking one look at me, exclaiming "GADZOOKS! Get this woman to the hospital! There's a baby on the way!" Instead he said, "See you next week." Yargh. Never before in my life have I looked forward to pain. But now every twinge, every shooting sensation and every back ache ignites the hope that maybe labor is on the way. I rejoiced when I threw up, knowing, just knowing, that contractions would start soon. Nope. It was just a bad sandwich.

I should not talk to strangers, and not for the safety reasons Officer Friendly covered in elementary school. I should not talk to strangers because I am psychologically/physically incapable of carrying a conversation like a normal, well-adjusted human being. While in line at the airport, the girl behind me asked where I got my shoes. I should have told her where. Instead I told her where, why, my feelings on the particular brand of shoes, my reasoning for buying said brand, when some online sales occur, and how to best keep them clean. Then, having nothing left to say, I turned around to face forward again. Then, realizing just how strange this behavior was, I decided to hide in the bathroom for seven minutes, wait for that section of the line to pass, then rejoin the line in the back. Better to lose my place in line than try and think of any possible way to convince the shoe-admiring stranger that I am not afflicted with sharetoomuchthenpretendweneverstartedaconversationitis.

girl i don't believe in what you say

How much perfume is too much perfume?
My personal scent policy, since you asked, is two squirts if it's body spray, one squirt if it's a legitimate perfume, and thirty minutes to let it settle before coming within ten feet of another human. Otherwise, in my humble opinion, it's just too much.
I maybe should have shared my credo with the woman at the table next to us at lunch today. Because if the smell of your perfume is overpowering the taste of other patrons' pad kee mow, you've got yourself a problem. Seriously. I have no idea how my food tasted. I mean it tasted like decades old baby powder, not like the Thai dish I ordered thanks to her vapor cloud of suffocating smell.

To be fair, my pregnant nose is pretty much an unwanted super power. I might be overly sensitive.

walk past the cafe

My thoughts lately read a lot like this:
BABY. 6 WEEKS TIL BABY. work. i need to go to target. BABY. i have to go to the bathroom again. IS SHE STILL KICKING? i wish elf was streaming on netflix. BABY KICKING. is it ok to eat blue cheese when pregnant? GOOGLE SAYS IT'S NOT OK. i already took a bite. OH NO, WHAT HAVE I DONE?. i should really vacuum. BABY. KICK COUNT. work. BABY. utah. i'll vacuum tomorrow. BABY. 6 WEEKS TIL BABY. gossip girl. BABY. grilled cheese sandwich. BABY. where's the best place to buy a nerf gun? BABY.

must be Santa

I just realized how easy it would be to get a job as a mall Santa this year. What with my naturally rosy complexion and my twenty pounds of belly- yes, twenty, I'm a dead ringer.
But it's not just my appearance that's old-manish lately. After I woke up from a nap, Stephen recited a poem he wrote in my honor:
"The love of my life lies on the couch,
Softly,
Sleeping,
Snoring."
Sweet, right? And accurate. I snore. Pregnancy makes me snore. And dependent on antacids. And my vision seems to be slipping? I'm just a beard away from Grandpadom.

the western front

Happy December!
This is possibly my last full month of pregnancy. Holla back! Besides holding our new baby, I think I'm most excited for the pregnant paranoia to end. Everyday I learn about some new potential complication or terrible something that could happen between now and delivery. And everyday I'm more convinced it will happen to me (us). Is this what parenthood is? Will I spend the rest of my existence worrying that my children will wrap the umbilical cord around their necks or stick their fingers in sockets or drive too fast?
Speaking of parenting, Stephen and I are supervising my cousins while my aunt and uncle are out of town.  Our job is to make sure they're nourished and to school on time, which means driving my aunt's car, which means trying to determine what all the many different buttons do. You would think I would know better than to push the red button marked SOS, but I swear I thought it would open the garage door. Instead it connected me to an emergency response operator who did not think it as funny as I did that I called by mistake. I would venture to say she was highly unamused. My bad.

I wish I didn't know

Me: I would like a number 4 and also some onion rings.
Burger Supreme cashier: So you'd like onion rings instead of fries?
Me: No. Both.
Cashier: Oh...um....ok.

As long as I'm confessing bad habits, I guess now is as good a time as any to admit that I've started watching Gossip Girl. I would tell you not to judge me, but let's face it- I deserve to be judged. The show is pretty terrible. Every episode I ask myself the following questions:

1. Am I really supposed to believe that these people are 17? I believe that they've been 17 for ten years. So maybe they're vampires? But I thought that was a different CW show? Is CW the vampire network now?
2. Am I really supposed to believe that the age difference between the students and their parents is greater than five years? Because I don't. I'm almost positive that Rufus and his son Dan are the same age. Yes, the dude is named Rufus.
3. Am I really supposed to believe that every eating establishment in New York City serves alcohol to minors without question? Wouldn't there be serious consequences if they were caught doing so? Do laws not apply to the rich?
4. Am I supposed to find Chuck Bass attractive? He reminds me of Gopher from Winnie The Pooh, minus the charm.
5. Am I supposed to sypmathize with any character? I guess I feel bad that they all have to put up with each other.
6. Do rich kids really have a party every night? I'm told over and over how smart all of these kids are, and the entire first season I've seen one character doing homework one time. The same character whose story is published in The New Yorker. Because it's just that easy to get published in The New Yorker. PLEASE.
7. Do rich kids really buy a new outifit for every party every night? I remember buying a GAP turtle neck for a party in 7th grade. One of the two parties I attended that year. I really have no reason for sharing that anecdote.

It's a  ridiculous program. But I can't stop. Last night I watched two episodes in a row. Then I woke Stephen up just to tell him about the SHOCKING revelation at the end of episode 15.

XOXO, Gossip Girl's latest reluctant fan.

it's an alpaca

Once a  week babycenter.com sends me updates on Ivy's progress. Like today I learned she's the size of a head of cabbage. So cute, right? Yeah. That's how they get you. Then every other day of the week they send you reminders of the ways you're already failing or will soon fail as a mother. I often get emails with subjects such as the following:

714 foods pregnant women should avoid over Thanksgiving.
That crib you bought was a bad choice.
You drank a Diet Coke? Might as well smoke a carton and throw back a case of beers.
Natural birth is the best thing you will ever do.
Natural birth killed me. I'm writing this from the crypt.
Will your baby become president or the crazy lady at the bus stop? Take our quiz to find out!
If you give your child a bottle it means you don't love her.
237 more products that you still need to buy.
Are you sure you can handle this?

Nope. Not sure. But even though the internet thinks I'm doomed, I'm still just STOKED to meet our little person.

T-10 weeks:

Whoa belly.

give me a reason

It was in seventh grade health class that I learned how gross birth really is. Ms. Fischer played The Miracle of Birth video, and it took all of three minutes before I was out in the hall with my head between my knees, along with my class mate Thiago, who if I recall correctly, threw up. I've been trying to unsee those images ever since.
I figured that we would be one of twenty couples in our child birth class last night, that we could sit in the back, and that if I closed my eyes or made a swift exit during any revolting film clips that might be shown, no one would really notice. But Stephen and I made up two out of the three students, and sat directly across from the instructor who spent most of class watching our faces. So when the time came to watch "Pushing and Birth", I really had no choice. I watched. Guys, I didn't even flinch. No big deal. Maybe it's some pregnancy induced evolutionary trigger or something, but I was totally ok with what was happening on screen. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be ok with what's about to actually happen in 11 weeks. Maybe.

today

I'm either becoming increasingly preoccupied or increasingly stupid.
I walked up to the front door of our apartment, pulled out the keys from my bag, then pressed the unlock button on my car key. Twice. And waited for my front door to click open. Then my caveman brain finally registered HOUSE NOT CAR.
In the shower I squoze the conditioner onto my hand, then rubbed it all over my face. The hair conditioner. On my face. It would be one thing if I was confused, messed up the the shower procedure and thought that I was using face wash. That would be understandable, however I haven't owned face wash for the past ten years.
It's like someone tried to give me a lobotomy but removed the wrong part of my brain, since my emotions are still very much intact. I'm Tearsy McCriesalot (bless Stephen's heart). Hormonesy McWeepster.
I can blame pregnancy, right? I blame everything else on pregnancy, including not making the bed this morning and eating a grilled cheese sandwich every day.

gloria

They said it couldn't be done. That I, a female speciman who never made it more than half-way through her lego kits or origami books, could never assemble a full changing table by herself.

Well, WHAT NOW HATERS?!(not sure what punctuation is appropriate here).

Take a look at this fine craftsmanship:

One hour of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me and five pages of instruction, and BLAMO! I made furniture.

Meg: 1,000,000 points

Doubters: 0 points

In all fairness, Stephen was both willing and able to put this together, but I knew in my heart of hearts it was something that I needed to do. In the words of Roz from Frasier, "I love a challenge."

i'm a lot like you

Stephen: "You have flour on your shirt"

Me: "Where?"

Stephen: "The bottom of your shirt" (watches me search)...

Stephen: "You can't see the bottom of your shirt, can you?"

Me: "No."

No, I can't. I can't see anything beyond the mound that is my torso. That makes 7/8 of my body vulnerable to kick-me signs, and while I'd like to believe that no one would kick a pregnant woman, I've been wrong before. I'm scared.

Also, sometimes Ollie dresses like an ewok:

where'd you park the car?

I've really resisted the urge to make an Alien pregnancy comparison, but a girl can only hold out for so long. You knew it was coming.
Pregancy is three parts wondrous/awe-inspiring/miraculous, and one part science fiction.
Sometimes I'm legitimately startled to see my abdomen bouncing up and down or feel a tiny arm in my ribs. I half expect to be sitting at dinner with all my astronaut friends in our spaceship when suddenly baby will punch her way through my stomache and make a surprise appearance. Sigourney Weaver will be alarmed.
It doesn't help that as a child I believed babies came out through the belly button. And really, the truth isn't any less weird.

The good news is that not matter what Ivy looks like, she's bound to be cuter than this:

AMIRITE?

pumped up kicks

I'm pretty obviously pregnant. No baggy sweater can hide the bump at this point, so people have started asking about it. Timidly they approach and enquire, "Are you expecting?". For a split second before I respond their faces flash with a look of sheer terror and I know that they're thinking "Oh no. What if she's not? Please say yes." And during that same split second I always think how hilarious it would be to say "No" and then provide no explanation. But like most hilarious things, it probably wouldn't be very nice.

Speaking of very nice, I want to thank you. All of you who read this blog. There aren't many of you, and yet you make me feel like this small piece of the internet matters in some small way. I love your comments. I'm flattered when you share links on facebook. I love receiving your emails. The world wide web can be such a mean place sometimes, and yet you've never made me feel anything but loved. It's hard to express appreciation with a blog. I don't konw if anyone ever checks back on comments, and I'm just not techno savvy enough to reach out to you. But I love you. Thanks for the suppoert.