And the winner is…


Not one of you guessed 12/29/09 at 11:17pm, and in fact there was not a single guess for the 29th unless I am having reading comprehension issues again. (Nope. I just checked, and Shelby’s guess of 12/30/09 at 3:20am is the closest. Which works nicely since he is the first person–nurses and soforth notwithstanding–who has held her.)

So yeah, it’s a girl. And we named her Grace. She was born here on Tuesday night and we transferred to the hospital afterward because I was bleeding more than was good for me. We got home in time for the New Year. Two days away from Sam was too many.

We are all doing very well. Pictures soon.

38 Weeks–False Labor

I woke up at 4:00 this morning with cramping low in my belly. I laid in bed thinking about how not ready to give birth I am, and trying to will myself to just allow whatever happens to happen.

After about five minutes I realized that the cramp was in my bladder, not my uterus.

Yeah. I had to pee.

37 Weeks: Wanna Guess?

Well, folks, it’s that time again: time to guess when, exactly, I will push this baby out of my you-know-where.

Here’s what you need to know:

Our official due date is January 5th.

Sam was either six days early or one day late, depending on whether you base his due date on my last period or the day I think he was conceived.

This time there’s just the one due date.

My younger sister was early, Will’s was late.

It would really be better for me if the baby waits until after the New Year. I assume this means it will be early.

No signs of labor yet.

So, put your birthday guesses, date and time, in the comments. You can also guess whether it will be a boy or girl. The prize for the closest guess will be the satisfaction of knowing you guessed luckier than anyone else.


I was thinking about names just now, as one does when one is 37 weeks pregnant and has no idea who the little person inside might be, and observed that nearly all of my favorites are English in origin. And I thought to myself, well, the children are more English/Scots than anything else. And then I sat down to work out whether that is true.

They are unquestionably 1/4 Sicilian, my father being full-blooded and only second generation American. (Sadly, his grandparents settled in Pittsburgh and all culture from the homeland was lost in a single generation. It is on my life list to reclaim a little of that culture by learning to cook in Sicily. But that is another story.)

Another 1/4 is completely unknown, because Will’s father is adopted and knows very little about his biological parents.

My mother is a European mutt, mostly Dutch on Grammy’s side and lots of English/Scots on Grandpa’s side. I know there is a little French in there as well, but no clue how much.

Will’s mother is mostly English/Scots and I think Irish as well (don’t quote me on that). I am not aware of any non-island heritage on her side of the family.

Not counting the unknown, we have approximately 3/8 British, compared to 1/4 Sicilian and <1/8 Dutch. Will’s dad could easily knock the Brits to second place if he is at all Sicilian (or Dutch for that matter, if he is at least half). He could, however, easily be black Irish, which would obviously make the children like 400% British.

But considering Sam’s favorite meal of sausage, apple, and bread (not to mention Grandad’s preferred beverage of vodka), it seems likely that they are also 1/4 Russian.

Mmm, bagel.

Well, here I am at 3:00 in the morning again. Only this time I have been awake for an hour and a half already! Oh, this is so much fun.

Yesterday Will and Nina threw us a party to celebrate the impending fourth member of our family. They called it a baby brunch but baby was not served (total gyp). There was a wonderful small group of people and terrific food. I have to say that if I had a brunch for someone I would get bagels, make mimosas, and call it a day, but they did both of those things and Nina cooked several delightful dishes including the best coffee cake I have ever eaten, this amazing butternut squash lasagna-type thing, and spanikopita (which spellcheck would like me to change to spaniel). I really don’t know what we’ve done to deserve people like these in our lives but I AM NOT COMPLAINING.

When we came home I was so tired (I’d been up since 4:30) that I could barely move. And so sore. I actually crawled into bed for an hour or two, though I did not sleep. Then, after dinner and a movie, I went to bed early, ready for some sleep.

And now. HAHAHAHAHA. Sigh. Oh well, I have leftover bagels and they are not going to eat themselves.


I can’t wash dishes anymore.

Until this afternoon I believed that I was being lazy and horrible and I felt guilty and kept right on washing a few dishes here or there. But today I realized why doing so makes me hurt.

I literally cannot reach the faucet if I stand up straight. I have too much belly. But I’ve been working around it by bending slightly at the waist. Which works fine for, like, five seconds. But it is absolutely not a good way to function for any longer than that, and those dishes I was sneaking have been killing my hip. And lower back. And everything else.

So from now on, no more than a quick rinse of my dirty plates and maybe, possibly, if I absolutely must, I can wash a knife now and again.

This is so frustrating. But kind of hilarious.

Insomnia: Do not want.

Sam climbed into bed with me around midnight and spent the next two hours whimpering and kicking. It eventually woke Will up, and he suggested I move Sam to the middle of the bed so we’d both sleep better. Only doing so woke me up enough that I eventually had to get up because it was that or wake the boys up by crying over how uncomfortable I was.

I really hate this part of pregnancy. It makes no sense whatsoever for the last month or two leading up to the birth to be this sleep-deprived. Not to mention sore–the extra weight and pressure on my pelvis is starting to make everything else difficult.

Today is a day to be thankful, but I’m going to need to be grouchy for a bit first.

WTF, man. WTF.

So, I’m 33 weeks pregnant. And, er, one day. But who’s counting.

I weigh less than I did at 33 weeks with Sam, which is awesome since I started out a few pounds heavier (but in much better shape overall). My wedding rings still fit. I can even squeeze into my smaller maternity pants, but I don’t because it hurts my belly. But my hips fit, and that is amazing!

When the baby moves around (and it moves around a lot), it is sometimes more painful than it was last time. Not worrisome pain so much as surprise! Roundhouse kick to the side of the uterus! Fall over now, Mama! pain. I’m pretty sure Sam was more settled at this point, but of course I could be totally wrong. Wait, I checked my blog and he was mostly head down, though still quite active. Obviously I can’t see inside to be sure, but this guy is not mostly in any position, at least not for more than 20 minutes at a time. We might have to name it Trouble.

I sent Vicki a semi-hysterical “OMG I need a blog redesign” email and she replied, pointing out that I had the same panic when I was pregnant with Sam. Hmm. She might be onto something. It’s virtual nesting. Excellent.

Speaking of nesting, this place is a dump. I had a list of stuff to do before Otter gets here and I don’t think I’ve done any of it. I might be in need of some normal nesting. If I could just get a nap first…

Giving Up

Some days I feel like there is no point in ever hoping to be anything. Like choosing to me a mother means that I don’t get to have anything else. The universe is allowing me to have Sam (and Otter), and I am also allowed to cook and knit and make various other things, but those homey, domestic pursuits are All I Get.

I know. What a fun, fatalistic way to feel!

Now imagine feeling that way and having someone say something that makes you feel even more worthless! And then, imagine that you are talking to that person (who really, truly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings), and imagine that your uterus chooses that exact moment to crush your diaphragm so you cannot breathe. And you’re crying and the baby is stretching and you can’t breathe and you just want to feel like you are important.

(AND you don’t get a single comment on your blog for twelve hours after you write what you thought was a pretty good post. Because this is a good time to not be getting validation.)


When I was pregnant with Sam, I was an emotional wreck most of the time. I blame several factors (giving up smoking and going off the pill shortly before becoming pregnant are both biggies), none of which are present this time. And hey, what do you know! I have been doing really well this whole time. Until yesterday, when I completely fell apart.

I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want there to be something wrong with me. Even if it is temporary and hormonal and it will pass. I don’t want it at all, because I don’t do well with despair. So I grasp at straws for some explanation for my lows yesterday. I was on Day 8 of parenting solo. And I barely ate any protein, which might sound like the lamest of the lame possible explanations, but since I’m pregnant it really could have some effect on things.

But if that’s not it? Well, I think I have to give up. If no one believes in me, I don’t believe in me. I don’t care if that’s stupid. It’s true.

So, you know. That’s where I’m at.

Two Months

Seriously? I’m having a BABY in two months? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

Uh, don’t answer that.

Technically we are mostly prepared (as much as we can be, anyway). Sure, there are a few things we need/want. Sure, there is the issue of sleeping arrangements and how we might convince Sam to give up his frequent spot in our bed to the baby. Sure, I am scared stiff about getting by without any paid leave for Will to stay home with us (we have saved all of his rollover vacation days, so he’ll be here for a couple weeks, but anything further is unpaid). But overall, we’re doing fine.

I just can’t believe there’s only TWO MONTHS to go. Give or take a week or two.