Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

Alan and I headed in for the big 20-week ultrasound today. We stayed strong and stuck with our wish to be surprised about the gender, so we'll be continuing on the path of buying baby greens and yellows. The baby got a clean bill of health though, and we're very happy about that. I get butterfly-nervous before every appointment, so it's always good to get confirmation that everything is right on track.

During this scan, they focus on the anatomy to make sure that everything is developing properly. The sonographer spent about 10 minutes looking at the heart. One push of a button turned the blood into vibrant reds and blues so that we could see the blood pumping through the heart, body and umbilical cord. Then she moved on and checked out each bone of the arms and legs. We got to count fingers and toes before heading up and checking out the brain and head.

She elevated the table at one point so that my head was down and my feet were way up to try to move the baby into a better position so she could check out the head. After awhile, she asked if I was doing OK. OK? I could have been hanging from my ankles and I would have done it all day. Who wouldn't want to look at this little one?
In the top one, you can see the profile of the head at the right, the spine at the bottom. That little black spot is the stomach, ready for a Big Mac in 19 weeks or so. In the bottom one, you can clearly see him/her practicing a yell with a wide-open mouth. The tooth buds are even visible on the lower jaw.

On the right: It could be skull, but it could also be a spike of hair at the front of the forehead. A punk-rocker in the making.
I'll be the first to admit that those 3D images that look like molded clay are a little freaky. But our clay baby? Our clay baby is adorable!


That little arm and hand just kill me.

View from head on, head tilted. You can even see where the little belly button will be.

This one is my favorite. He/she looks so warm and cozy. Makes me want to take a nap.

Barring any unforeseen events (me breaking an arm, Alan injuring himself building something or the doctor needing to check the baby's position), the next time we'll head to the hospital is when I'm in labor. And the next time we'll see the baby is when the baby is here. We've got some gettin' ready to do!

Half Baked

This pregnancy is trucking right along; I've hit the halfway point. Those first few weeks seemed to creep by, but now it seems that time is speeding up. And our neighbor from across the street was brave enough to ask if I was pregnant, so I'm looking a little more obviously pregnant. She and her daughter must have been speculating, and both were relieved when I confirmed (and didn't just turn out to be fat and insulted).

Here is me at 19 weeks. I look smaller, lumpier and less photogenic in my 20-week picture, so you're getting me a week ago.

I've really started bumping out since about the 17-week mark, which coincidentally was when I first started suspecting that I was feeling the baby move. It started with just a twitch. Then a few days later another twitch. I'm still waiting for that massive "HEY MOM!" kick to the gut, but the twitches are adding up enough that I'm quite confident at this point that Baby W is saying hello. He/she is definitely using my bladder as a trampoline, so that's fun. I'd read that the incessant peeing was supposed to let up in the second trimester before hitting again in the 3T. And I did get a reprieve for a couple of weeks, but now I'm getting familiar with every public restroom in the NJ area. And ours at 2 a.m., without fail.

On Wednesday we'll be getting our 20-ish week ultrasound, so we'll get to see the wee one wave at us some more. And we would be able to find out the gender, if we were finding out the gender. But we're not. Because we want to make you all sick with anticipation.

Drop It Already

I wanted to be through with reporting on my clumsiness. I really did. Because I know you're all thinking "Yeah, yeah, you drop things, Erin. So drop it." I'll try harder after this. I will.

People always want to know if I've had any cravings during my pregnancy. And until recently, not really. But when the thought of s'mores popped into my head the other day, there was no stopping me. The baby, I'm certain, wanted s'mores. And the baby was going to get s'mores. So after trying to beat the thought out of my head for awhile, Alan and I finally headed to the grocery store at 9:30 one night to get the fixin's. Delish. Hit the spot. The baby was very happy.

The other craving I've had has been for Olive Garden salad. I worked at the Olive Garden for five years, so one would think that I would have ingested enough of their salad to last me a lifetime. But alas, I haven't, so I've taken Alan there a couple of times, as well as my mom and grandma when they visited recently. (During that visit, I rescued a pepper that the server was taking away from me in the salad bowl. You don't steal a pregnant lady's peppers!)

To save Alan and I the hassle of going to the OG for every meal, we bought a bottle of their salad dressing so we could have it on hand. And I bought red onions, roma tomatoes, pepperoncinis, black olives and croutons to make my own OG-style salad at home. So I built my delicious salad and had gobs of leftover black olives. And because Alan loves black olives, I put the remaining ones in a container to put on the table. Do you see where this is going?

On the epic three-foot journey to the table, I managed to trip on my flip-flop and drop the entire container of olives. And they went everywhere. Freakin' everywhere. So there I was, on all fours, picking up tons of olives from under the table and around the kitchen, all the while trying to keep Marti from eating all of the olives. (One success: She didn't get a single one.)

So I hadn't yet regaled Alan of my tale of olive droppage. And I don't think I was really planning on it, as I figured that he, too, was probably tired of hearing of my shenanigans and would like to believe (wrongly) that I'm not a total wreck. But then he went into the bathroom. And came out with a black olive.

"Yeah...so there was a bit of a situation with the black olives..."

I'm pretty sure that I'm about one incident away from earning myself a babysitter.

Can't a Girl Catch a Break?

Only literally, it appears. My latest victim:


At least it wasn't my ankle.

Gliding High

Alan and I have hit our local Bebes R Us several times now, as required by the Law of Expecting Parents. We haven't bought much yet, but we roam around this intimidating land, perusing the aisles, trying to figure out what we need, what we don't, and generally being confused. Ignoring most of the smaller items, Alan and I have decided to aim big and get a few of the big purchases out of the way. Plus, a donation from all of the grandparents to put toward furniture helped spur us on.

We knew one of our major to-buys was a glider and ottoman for rocking Wee Tot. This worked out well because inevitably, when at BRU, we end up in the gliders, too tired to continue around the store. So with money now in hand, Alan and I were ready to make the first major purchase.

We sat. We tested. We propped our feet up. We glided (glode?). And we finally decided on a glider. Expensive, yes, but we had a 20% coupon, not to mention the donations (yay again for grandparental donations!) to defray the costs. We then go to order the glider and learn that is has been discontinued. We thought we were back to square one (not MORE sitting around lazily!) until we were informed that we could buy the floor model for 30% off. Plus our coupon. Intriguing.

We went back to check out the glider to make sure it didn't have any super offensive defects and decided that, who were we kidding, of COURSE we would take the glider! We got our major discounts, and even somehow got 30% off instead of 20 for our coupon. When all was said and done, we got the set for less than $200. After the cushions were cleaned it looks brand new:


And can I just toot our remodeling horns here and say, how much better does this room look than before? That is not a question; that is a fact.

And clearly, my stay-at-home time has made me into a pro vacuumer. Check out those carpet lines.

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.