Don’t get used to the bump photos, people, because they won’t be coming too terribly often.  Once a month, maybe.  This whole process is strange to me and, to be quite honest, having my belly hanging out makes me a little uncomfortable.

But at this point, there’s nothing I can do.  In the past three weeks, The Bump has emerged and it’s increasingly difficult to hide.

I have to throw a disclaimer on that picture, though: I’m wearing a belt around my ribs and my hand is cradling it… meaning that if I was just sanding as-is, I’d probably just look like I ate too many tacos.  I’m at a weird, in-between stage where people wouldn’t (shouldn’t) dare ask if I’m expecting… because, really, it could just be tacos.

I got an email this morning letting me know that I’ve reached the halfway point in my pregnancy.  Holy shitballs.  When I first got knocked up, I wanted to hurry, hurry, hurry and get to the 12-week mark, the point at which the chance of miscarriage magically drops to around 2%.  But now that I’m in my 19th week, I’d like things to slow down a bit.  You know, we can just hang out here for a few months.  I feel good, my life is still basically the same – why move forward?  Let’s just stop here before we get to the 3am feedings and diaper explosions, shall we?

Last night Allan tentatively put his hand over my belly – which he VERY rarely does (I think he’s a little scared of it) – and tried to talk the baby into kicking him.  She didn’t comply.  I think I can feel her moving around in there on occasion.  I feel little pops and flutters, and they’re sensations that are new to me, so I can only assume they’re her.  In about two to three weeks, her ninja skills should be strong enough to be felt by people other than me, and, from what I understand, that’s when the creepy factor rises.  You may call it the cool factor, but I think seeing someone else move inside of you is a little creepy.

Yeah, nature’s beautiful and the miracle of life is just so incredible, but it’s also a bit creepy.  Horror-movie-esque, if you will.

Another reason why we should just stop and rest at the 19-week mark for a while.

Allan’s at Lowe’s and I’m at home on the couch, and I’ve promised myself that once he gets back from getting paint rollers, I have to get off of the couch and be productive.

I have to clean the house.  Or at least bits and pieces of it.

Since Allan won’t let me paint (for a variety of reasons), I feel like I need to do something while he’s changing the guest room walls from Navajo White to Dreamy Cloud.

Do you want to know why he won’t let me paint?  One reason is because he doesn’t want me, in my pregnant state, to be in a room filled with fumes.  But the bigger reason is because he thinks I’m not careful.  He thinks – and these are his words – he thinks that I will knock the paint over and giggle about the ruined carpet.

It’s true.  When I mess-up, my initial reaction is to laugh.  It’s inappropriate, but I can’t help it.  And I am a klutz.  I can’t help that, either.

So I guess he’s right to kick me out of the room.

But the painting, it needs to get done.  And it needs to get done soon.

My parents are coming into town, you see.  They haven’t been here since 2010.  I’m the least-loved child, obviously.

But they’re coming, and we set a goal. We said that the guest room would be completely done by the time they arrived.  We already purchased the bed linens, the curtains and the curtain rods.  We already had the furniture.  All we had to do was paint.

And have we done it?  No!

They’ll be here Friday morning.

I have to tell you about the nutso weather situation we’ve got going on here in Raleigh.

On Sunday, it was 75 degrees.  Today, it’s 45 degrees.

Say whaaaaaat!

It’s true.  Between Sunday and today, there was a 30 degree drop in daytime temperatures.  It sucks.

Memories of Sunday are still keeping me warm, though. Actually, they’re not.  I’m just trying to be positive.

Thanks in part to the spectacular weather, this past weekend was so wonderful.  We went to a bar to watch the #1 basketball team in the country be upset by the hometown team.  We went to the movies (Zero Dark Thirty is excellent).  We spent time with friends.  We went grocery shopping.  We watched the NFL playoffs and the Golden Globes.  We took the dog for multiple walks.  We met our neighbors.  We met our neighbors’ dogs.

It was won-der-ful.  Really, really great.

It was so stinkin nice to not be trapped in this house for fear of frostbite.  It was so nice to walk around the neighborhood, to get acquainted with the streets and sidewalks we will explore for years to come.  It was so nice to have a spring weekend in January…

But now we’re back to January in January.

I don’t feel pregnant.

At 16 weeks, I don’t look pregnant.

I was beginning to wonder if I was still, indeed, pregnant.

But yesterday I heard the baby’s heartbeat, which felt like winning the lottery.

And her heartbeat is perfection, according to my doctor.


See, here’s the thing.  Until five and a half, six months, you get no feedback from your kid.  None.  I wish I could push on my bellybutton and receive a print-out, something that says: Hey, ma!  I’m fine!  Can you play something other than Mumford and Sons when we’re in the car?

So, until 12 weeks you’re (I was) terrified of miscarriage.  And then I was nervous about the results of the genetic testing.  Yesterday they drew blood for spina bifida, so I get to be anxious about that for a few weeks.  And at the end of the month, I have the anatomy scan (ultrasound) and I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed that she has two arms.  No cleft palate or lip.  A brain!

And then, when she comes out, a whole new set of worries begins.  Will she be colicky?  Will she have Autism?  Will she be – heaven forbid – a conservative?!  Will she think The Beatles are better than The Stones??  (they’re not)

Ugh.  This being a soon-to-be-mother thing is full of more worrying than I would have ever imagined.

Thankfully, in less than 40 days, as long as all goes as planned, I will be on my babymoon, which is a stupid word for last-hurrah-vacation-before-baby-arrives.  No, seriously, that’s what it means.  Even Wikipedia says so.

I am so, so, so excited about this trip.  SO.  EXCITED.

The biggest parts of my life have done a 180 in the past four months, and I’m in desperate need of alcohol.  But since I can’t have that, I need a long soak in my deep new bathtub with an US Weekly.  But since I can’t have that, either, I guess a trip to the western Caribbean will have to do.

In all seriousness, I’m so thankful to be able to take the trip.  Allan and I both really, really need it.  We need to get away from our lives for a few days, to lay in the sun, to not worry about a single thing (except sea sickness, but I can take Dramamine – I checked!).

Luckily cruises are cheap and my husband’s frequent flyer miles were a plenty.  When we took a good look at our finances, we decided a few sacrifices would have to be made around the house to pull this off… which we’re okay with.  We made this trip a priority because when are we ever going to be able to do it again?  In all reality, it won’t be for years and years and years.

If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to sneak away for a weekend or two, but that’ll be it.  No more of these 8+ day getaways with just me, sunshine and my favorite boy on the planet.