A Minor Fall and a Mini Meltdown

At my best, I can be described as clumsy. Breaking glasses in the kitchen, bumping my shins into hard objects and running into walls are not exactly rare occurrences. Add pregnancy to the mix, and I'm a danger to myself and my unborn child.

I'll start by saying that I went to the doctor today, and all is well with The Little One. But I'm sure The Little One is mighty glad that he or she is well protected within my womb because the poor thing has taken a few hard knocks. I've been falling since even before I knew I was pregnant. Alan and I went skiing on Christmas Eve. I took a hard fall down the mountain. Got my positive pregnancy test just a couple of days later, so I was glad the jarring I took from the fall didn't knock a mini baby loose. Then, at about 5 weeks pregnant, I bit it going downstairs to do laundry. Then, a week ago, I fell going down the stairs and caught all of my weight in my hand and wrist. No harm, no foul.

But then yesterday...well, I don't know what happened. All I know was that I was going down the stairs and then all of a sudden my ankle was bent in an unnatural position, my back was jammed into the staircase railing, and Marti was looking at me like, "The hell!?" Once I'd determined that nothing was broken, I started doing my "falls during pregnancy" research.

Because I didn't really fall hard on my ass, and because Google and What to Expect When You're Expecting both said that it takes a serious injury to the mother to injure a fetus, I wasn't really worried, but called the doctor just in case. I could tell the nurse wanted to be like "You're fine," but there's that whole fear of lawsuits thing. So all she could tell me was to go to the emergency room to get evaluated for my injuries. Not happening. But to ease my fears, I rescheduled my appointment for next week to today. And all was well. Baby's heart was a-thumping away. And I was told to be more careful. Never mind that I'd already given myself a prescription for "Hold the Handrail When Going Up or Down Stairs." With a dose of "Slow the Bleep Down."

After my fall, I carried on about my day with no problems. It wasn't until many, many hours later, when Alan and I sat down to watch TV, that my ankle stiffened up. By bedtime I was hobbling around, unable to put any weight on it. Alan had to help me to the stairs, and then I had to do the crawl of shame up the stairs to get ready for bed.

So Alan and I are brushing our teeth, and he goes to throw away an empty bottle of medication. And misses. So the lid falls into the toilet. He fishes it out and a few seconds later I'm like, hang on, did you wash your hands? Because I hadn't noticed the thorough hand-washing that should ensue after fishing something out of a toilet with your bare hand. He had only done a quick RINSE of his hand. A rinse. So, of course, I yelled at him to please wash his hands because that is GROSS. And what does he do? Takes the offending hand and rubs it on my bar of face soap that is in the soap dish.

Oh.

No.

He.

Didn't.

So here I am, in pain and already near tears because of my ankle, and my dear toilet-germ-infested husband rubs his hand on my soap—soap I use on my face. Naturally, I start to cry. Like, flowing tears and shoulders shaking crying. And Alan knew right away that he'd gone too far. Miraculously, with my anger also came the ability to walk briskly down the hallway. I hightailed it to the bedroom, crying, to take some Tylenol to ease my physical pain. And by the time I was taking a swig of water to take my first pill, I was laughing so hard I about choked on it. Alan came into the room, and I had to wave him away so I could take my second Tylenol without spitting the water out.

So my first true pregnancy meltdown was short lived. But now at least Alan's had a preview into the crazy nature of pregnancy hormones. It may have been the first meltdown, but I'm sure it won't be the last.

The Dog House

Marti has adjusted quite well to being a homeowner. She steadfastly guards the backyard, barking and kicking up grass whenever she hears neighborhood dogs bark. And because of limited snoozing space downstairs, we almost always come home to find her upstairs sleeping in our bed. She's no fool; she knows how to find the most comfortable spot in the house. Alan also has a lot of fun getting her riled up and watching her try to find traction on the hardwoods.

She absolutely loves assisting us with our home renovations. The other day, after a much-too-long absence, I went downstairs to check on her. She was busy ripping this sanding sponge into a million pieces.

The drawbacks to the renovations, in Marti's opinion, are the power tools. She's never been a fan of the vacuum or the hair dryer. So the sander? Hates. My new, very awesome Dustbuster? Despises. But her mortal enemy? The miter saw.

No other power tool compares, for it is unmatched in its strength and noise-making capabilities. Marti, when she's feeling especially brave, senses that it can't fight back, so I'll find her sneaking up to sniff it and attack it with her barks.


One of the cutest quirk she's developed since we moved into the house is her obsession with the shower. I don't know if she's drawn to the retro blue color. Or if her water dish is just too too far away, all the way downstairs, for her to bother to go get a proper drink. But she LOVES the shower.

Even when I'm in it. (Especially when I'm in it?)

But you should have seen Marti's reaction when we brought home these little irresistible stuffed toys. "Soft, chewable toys, with stuffing, and they're not for me? Barp, barp, barp!" She stared at them longingly for a very, very long time.

Marti will have to adjust come September. But I'm pretty sure that she'll think the baby is the best toy we've EVER brought home. Just without stuffing.

End of Day Deadline

I never thought unemployment would keep me so busy. In the past, when I thought of the Unemployed State of Being, I pictured people sleeping in, watching TV, scratching their rears and generally being lazy. But in real life, or at least in my unemployed state of being, I'm keeping pretty busy. While there is sleeping in, there is no watching TV. And unfortunately there are no bon-bon induced stupors. Sure, I was busier when I was working two jobs, but I'm content now that I just have the one.

After Alan heads off to work in the mornings, I guiltily and lazily sleep in another couple of hours. I go to bed at the same time he does, but I guess my baby-baking body is demanding more sleep. And who am I to argue with a 4-inch fetus?

When I get up, I head to the computer. Old habits die hard, and I can't seem to start a day without checking the email. So I put in a few hours of work and resume-sending while I munch on breakfast. Then I eat lunch and do some more work. Then I might pick up around the house, do a little laundry, or get groceries.

But there comes the point in my day where I feel like I must have something to show for my day. Proof. To Alan. That I did something. Because although he knows they're there, he doesn't see my hours of work, writing and editing for FBG. He instead sees the still-messy dining room, disaster area that is the living room, unpacked boxes of clothes and the unmade bed, and probably wonders what I do with my time. Progress this week has been hindered by the unstartable car, which means that I haven't been able to get groceries or drop stuff off at the dry cleaners.

Alan is no slave driver, of course. And he jokingly makes comments about the unpacked clothes. But one of these days he's going to put his foot down. Demand that I start making the bed or put away the copious amounts of paperwork that are piled by the filing cabinet. Tall orders. Maybe making this public will help me get my rear in gear and finish some unfinished business. After all, it is that time of day. Time to get stuff accomplished. Time to show Alan I did something other than finishing off the last of the pizza.

In Cold Water

I know you guys are anxiously awaiting an appliance and car update. Because those are the sorts of fascinating news bits you turn here to read. But this sort of lame topic really does warrant a post because it's all just so funny? Annoying? Bizarre? All of the above?

First of all, washing machine has worked fine since fluke no-spin incident. Great!

Then, Alan and I go out to jump the car after it wouldn't start. Guess what? It started without a jump. Then today? Wouldn't.

Then? Alan takes a shower in the morning. No hot water. I take a shower later? Toasty and near scalding, just like I like it.

I guess it's good that things aren't just falling apart. I guess I'd rather have a breakdown preview than an all-out fail. But still. Very, very annoying.

Sunny side? At least it's raining!

You Spin Me Right Round

Last weekend I went downstairs to move a blanket from the washer to the dryer. And although the cycle had finished, the blanket was still soaking wet. I tried to run a spin cycle, to no avail. And of course it was also raining cats and dogs, so hanging the blanket out to dry was out of the question. I called Alan to the rescue, and he helped me ring out what is apparently the most absorbent blanket on the planet, so that the dryer would have a prayer of getting it dry in less than five hours.

The blanket was really heavy, so I thought maybe it was just a fluke, the washing machine hated the blanket and wanted to throw a hissy fit. So I tried another load, this one with just two hand towels. Same problem. Fills up, agitates, no spinning action to drain properly. I call the GE repair man and out he comes to check out the washing machine, which we bought from the homeowners—out of pocket—just over two months ago.

The very nice GE guy shows up and cannot replicate the problem. Spinning action like crazy! Hands me nearly dried hand towels as proof. So I pay the man his fee. Sucky, but less than it would have cost had we run out to buy a new washer and dryer. (Which I so wanted to do! But, no job! Baby on the way! No unnecessary washer and dryer purchases!) And lo and behold, I've done laundry all day since he left and it's been FINE. Figures. Now I'm the girl who cried, "Washer won't spin!"

So after that aggravation, I go on about my day and prepare to go to the grocery store. Side note: One of the things I love about unemployment is going to the grocery store during the weekday. Out here, this is a major deal. On the weekends, grocery store parking lots fill up to capacity, there is no room to maneuver in the store, SO MANY PEOPLE...it basically makes an already miserable chore miserabler. But during the week? Peace. Space. Personal attention from the produce manager when you can't find the tofu. Awesomeness. So I go to leave and the car won't start. Gah! The world is against me!

But, as is the name of the blog, I have to look on the sunny side for the day. Bright spot: I went to the dentist after a three-year dental strike (I know I'm a terrible human) and I'm basically told my teeth rock, thankyouverymuch. He told me to floss more, sure, but I'm convinced that no amount of flossing would get them to refrain from giving that sage advice.

Other bright spot: I went to make cupcakes and noticed I appeared to be short on baking cups. Gah! World against me! Again! Because, you see, Alan only eats cupcakes. So, even though it's the same cake mix? It must be in cupcake form.* But I decide to count out the baking cups, just in case there are enough. And guess how many there were? A perfect 24, the exact amount needed. The cupcake stars aligned. A minor victory, but today, I'll take it.**


*I don't even notice the weird things I do for my dear lovable husband anymore...it's all just my normal routine now. I could have just made a cake. But then I'd have to eat it all myself, so it's worth it to myself and my waistline to make the cupcakes.

**It's not lost on me that the dentist tells me my teeth rock, and I make cupcakes. Sugar! Good for teeth!

If They Mated

"If They Mated" used to be one of my favorite segments on Late Night with Conan O'Brien. I thought it would be funny to take that same concept and do a similar Erin/Alan combination to see what our future child will look like, but unfortunately I'm not sufficiently talented in Photoshop to pull it off. But have no fear! Amazing technology is now at your fingertips at www.makemebabies.com! All I had to do was upload a picture of each of us and a few seconds later, I got a sneak peek at what our baby will look like.

If we have a boy...



Yes, it appears that our possible male "baby" will be approximately 3 years old and have a receding hairline. He obviously gets the receding hairline from me, as Alan's hair is covering his forehead in his picture, whereas mine is pulled back from my face. Male Baby will also have a full set of adult-sized teeth.

If we have a girl...
...she will look like a boy with a turban. Do turbans come standard with girls? Or will I need to hit Baby Turbans R Us?

The Stork Is on Its Way

As most of my loyal readers now know, Alan and I are expecting our first child in September. I supervised some of Alan's email announcements, so I apologize to any of you who thought we were having twins, triplets or octuplets, only to be informed that we've got a single bun in the oven. We are super excited about impending parenthood, although certain aspects of it are frightening, such as the sleepless nights, constant worry, and one little 10-cm measurement that I'm just ignoring for the moment and pushing far, far out of my mind.

I was bitten by the baby bug a whopping five years ago when this little guy came wriggling into the world. But babies weren't quite on the agenda at that point, as Alan and I hadn't even gotten married yet. Then we had to check a lot of pre-kids items off the to-do list, such as get a dog, travel, enjoy married life, and live somewhere that has more than 500 square feet. But then one day, we were ready. I think it might have been a day when we were talking about being really excited about going home and playing Scrabble on a Friday night and we were like, "We are so lame, we need to have kids to spice up our nights and weekends."

I found out I was pregnant just after Christmas. And although I must have peed on 20 pregnancy tests, it was really hard to believe that anything was really happening in there. Until I saw this, a little blob measuring 1.33 cm:
After that appointment at 8 weeks, Alan became a little more sympathetic to my complaints of gagging, constant hunger, and fatigue. The nausea really wasn't terrible, more of an acquaintance who would flit in and out of my life than a BFF that was by my side day in and day out. I'm not sure how I didn't gain 50 pounds in the first 10 weeks though, because I ate like a horse. Constant munching was the only thing that made me feel better, so that's what I did. "They" say you need only 100 extra calories or so in the first trimester. I must have had about 500 extra a day. Pumpkin muffins (at least five batches), Arby's roast beef sandwiches and Oreos were my friends. Also, Chipotle. So as long as I wasn't running on an empty stomach, I could stave away the gagging episodes. But empty stomach + water? Guaranteed gag city. Water is still bothering me, so I mostly stay hydrated on juice. (Pregnancy does weird things that I never would have believed before.)

So we had our 8-week blob picture, but things became much more real when this little human popped up on our ultrasound at almost 13 weeks.
And because we have a stubborn little baby who wouldn't cooperate during the ultrasound, we got to watch the best show on earth for about 20 minutes.
Even at just 7 cm or so, this little one is in there waving, stretching and reacting to pressure on my belly. It was the coolest thing I've ever experienced. At one point, he/she turned to face us straight on, and it was literally like a mini skeleton in there, dancing on Halloween. Alan and I couldn't pick our jaws up from off the ground. And although our doctor praised the accuracy of the high-tech ultrasound machines used at the hospital that gave us a September 10 due date, he, of course, refuses to budge from his original September 11 prediction. At least it's memorable.

Tune in next time for "If They Mated" style pictures of what our wee baby will look like. It's good stuff.

P.S. Yes, I did find out I was pregnant, lose my job and close on a house within 10 days. I like to do it up right.