A bit peckish.

My sister had her third baby this week. I am valiantly restraining myself from packing my suitcase right now because my flight to go visit her and help take care of my niecephews isn't until next week and I don't want to be living out of a suitcase for that long. I am beyond thrilled for her.

Other friends and acquaintances have been having babies recently, too. I coo and ooh and ahh and gloat over pictures of teeny toes and fuzzy heads. And I'm thrilled for them, too.

But I can feel the baby hunger starting to come on.

It's not quite here yet. At most you could say I'm starting to feel like maybe I'll need a little snack in the next little while. But I'm pretty sure after a week of snuggling a cute little brand-new-fresh baby that the hunger's going to kick it up a notch. Or seven.

And a week of watching my cute older nephew and niece play with each other and my Little Guy is not going to do much to alleviate the desire I have to see what a great big brother he would be.


* * *



After we moved to Tampa I had to transfer my birth control prescription to a local pharmacy. I did this well in advance, feeling proud of myself for being so on top of things.

And then I nearly forgot to pick it up. When I finally remembered, it was only because I had to start a new packet THAT day. I thought to myself, "It's sure lucky that I have the car today or I wouldn't be able to get there before the pharmacy closes! And then THAT would have caused probl—"

Oh, wait.

This is me we're talking about here. The girl who was on no form of birth control whatsoever for nearly four years before that whole pregnancy thing worked out.

The chances of it making any difference whatsoever if I forgot to refill my prescription are minuscule at best. I sometimes don't know why I'm even bothering to take the pills when experience shows they're probably not necessary.


* * *


I don't want a new baby quite yet. The baby hunger hasn't really started up . . . yet.

But it was frustrating to realize—again—that when I DO want one, when I'm so baby hungry I could explode, it's not going to be simple, like grabbing myself a quick PBJ to tide me over until dinner. Or not refilling my birth control prescription.

*sigh*




But still, on the bright side: I GET TO SNUGGLE MY NEW NIECE IN LESS THAN A WEEK! Must . . . control . . . packing . . . urges. . . .

Mixed bag; or, Potpourri.

So up until this point my pregnancy has been progressing pretty normally, except with more nausea and vomiting than I personally would care for. (Yeah, remember when I thought I liked the second trimester? Second trimester LIED. That was NOT a beautiful relationship.)

Apparently my body was just saving up the real drama, because after a ridiculous amount of poking and prodding and blood-drawing and other totally fun stuff (my poor arms have bruises inside both elbows from the six times they had to draw blood last week) it has been determined that I am anemic. And have gestational diabetes. And we're waiting to hear back on the preeclampsia thing.

Yeah. And yee-haw.

I'm not too worried at the moment—saving that for when there's actually a need to be worried—but I am annoyed. Wouldn't you know that the minute my time frees up to do some of that baking I've been wanting to do during the months of bar study that I'm suddenly not allowed to eat cookies and such anymore? Good grief.

But that anemia thing does explain the absolutely dead-beat, bone-tired, no energy thing. And the iron supplements have helped a lot with that. So that's something.

But the good news is that 1) we have a name for the kid. Which I will NOT be sharing on the internet. Which means I need to figure out an appropriate alias for him. Drat. More naming. Hm. 2) We've got a battle plan for the nursery and are actually getting some work done on it (still trying to decide if this plan will involve painting or not) and 3) the kid is getting big enough that I can feel all sorts of fun movement.

Luckily he hasn't figured out where my ribs are yet, and has turned around so he's not kicking any nerves anymore, so most of the movement is of the "whoa, cool" or "ARGH! That tickles!" variety. I admit that I have certain visuals for certain types of movement. Besides the Jackie Chan/ninja kicks and the punching bag moves, we also have the "squirrelly squirrel!" genre (mostly the first 15 seconds or so):



And what I like to refer to as his "stoutness exercises":



He also, today, did something that I swear felt like he sneezed. I guess he's doing his job to help me fight off the nasty cold that Shallow Man gave me. Thanks for the support, kiddo! (Also, it was just so dang cute. Love that little guy.)

I have come to the conclusion . . .

. . . that there are two basic types of pregnant people (and I say "people" rather than "women" because their husbands/boyfriends/significant others do the same thing).

The first type of pregnant people are those who are normal, regular people who just happen to be growing an extra person inside them. It may come up in conversation, it may not. If it does, it doesn't feel like they're rubbing it in anyone's face; it's just how they happen to be. Hearing them talk about their pregnancy feels about as traumatizing as hearing them say they brushed their teeth that morning. It's just part of the regular routine and nothing to get worked up about.

They are the pregnant people I can hang out with and feel comfortable and not stressed. They're still fun to be with and easy to talk to. Heck, I could talk to them for hours about what color they're painting the nursery and still feel happy and zen and glad to know and be around them, and even be excited for their pregnancy, without grieving for my own.

The second kind are those who are HOLY CRAP I AM ****PREG-NANT***** AND DID I MENTION I AM PREGNANT? Everything is about them and their pregnancy. Because did you know they're PREGNANT? (Oh, and did I mention they're pregnant?) Just as nearly every Relief Society lesson in Utah County turns into "Why Being a Mother is Amazing," no matter where the conversation is going, these people are PREGNANT. "I went to the grocery store and I'm pregnant. I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I'm pregnant. The square root of 179 is 13.379088160259652 and I'm pregnant. We're living in nuclear winter and I'm pregnant. An asteroid is heading for the Earth with an imminent impact in 17 seconds but GUESS WHAT I AM PREGNAAAAAAAAANT!!!!! Isn't it SUCH A BLESSING TO BE PREGNANT?!?!"

Conversation with these people is no fun. It's an ordeal to be got through with plenty of clenched teeth and internal recitations of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall or whatever other mantra will be sufficiently distracting. When I see these people coming I hide behind the nearest tree or duck into the next room or hallway because even a thirty second conversation with these people can shatter the delicate balance of my zen-itude for a week at a time. And by shatter I mean make me NEED to find the most fattening food available and wallow in it. Cry on and off for a day and a half. Sink, as Anne Shirley would say, into the depths of despair and start worrying that this will never happen, or it will happen again exactly like it did before, or that I'm not healing right, or, or, or, maybe I'd better start on that second pint of ice cream.

Because THEY ARE PREGNANT (and did they mention they were pregnant?).

And I'm not.