On my own, yet never (ever, ever) alone.


cross posted today at Saltandnectar.com.


When E was 8 weeks old, I went back to work part time. But as I worked for an ad agency with networked computers and servers (and email, the best invention of all time), working from home was a total option. Plus, I'd always had side clients who couldn't afford agency rates, so between the regular paychecks and the freelance work, I had plenty going on for a new mom who really wanted to work from home.

4-5 weeks old. I'm amazed only 1/3 of us are sleeping here. 

For awhile, anyway. Loooong story short, and without placing any blame one way or another, the agency and I eventually parted ways in January of this year.

At first, I freaked the &^@# out. No regular paycheck? No health insurance? Hubby was working for a local sports team, and it was definitely a job for a single 20 something, not a man in his 30s trying to support a family. But we support each other, because we're a team (seriously, I should make us T shirts for the amount of times we've reiterated this to each other the past year). So we talked, we freaked out together, and we realized that we'd make it work, no matter what. We had savings, we had motivation, and we had each other. And we had moms willing to help how they could—one subsidized rent, the other E's (incredibly pricey, but that's for another post) insurance. Thank you again and eternally to you both.

And then, because this is how things tend to work, a new job fell into his lap. A good union job with incredible benefits in a big company with plenty of room for growth. But it's also at the low end of the totem pole for now, so he's not making enough money for me not to work.

So, that. Not working has never been an option for me, anyway. I've got seven years of full time college education, two degrees, and enough debt to tell me that not doing what I love and pursued as a career would really just be, well, stupid unfulfilling.

Plus, I love E. He's incredible, he's amazing, he's breathtaking. I love being his mom. But I am still me, first. I decided to become a mom in addition to—as a part of—being me, not to redefine my life. I have the utmost respect for women who want and are able to be stay at home moms…it's just not for me. I need to be creative. I need to share the talents I've spent the past 10 years honing with other people. And I need to do it for a living and feel like I'm helping to financially support my family.

Meet my intern and personal stylist, E.  

And so now I'm a full fledged small business owner. Sole proprietor, according to my taxes. I get to work from home, I get to work part time, and I get to do what I love. I've been on my own for almost a year now, and I've never been happier. I've added clients locally and nationally, small and large. It's been, in a word, great.

Is it hard? Oh my god, unbelievably so. I work in an industry with deadlines, and I've got a 20 month old son with plenty of deadlines of his own. And his come first, but I'm not about to tell my clients that (though the vast majority of my clients ARE parents, as well as small business owners themselves, so I really don't have to). He has needs. They have needs. And I constantly have to find ways to balance that.

Priorities, people. He's showing me leaves. 

We struggle financially, seeing that some months I'll get 8 checks and some months I get maybe 2. I miss the stability of a regular paycheck, but we're making ends meet, so that's really all I can ask for at this point. Plenty of small businesses fold within the first year, and knowing that, I can hold my head up and say we're doing just fine.

But I'm still really looking forward to daycare when he turns 2. Mama needs a nap herself now and then.

Need logo/branding help? Brochures or business cards? Invites or other event collateral? Check out facebook.com/PamHuberDesigns or pamhuberdesigns.com for more info. And Pam can always be reached by email at pamhuberdesigns at gmail.com.

If there's an award for looking hot when 40+ weeks pregnant...

I'm not even going to bother entering. Hubby's basically got me on house arrest, so my uniform's been fairly consistent. Oversized yoga pants, a Lakers T-shirt, flip flops and glasses. Showered, yes, because I am well aware that every shower could be my last for awhile. So my saving grace right now is that I am well cleansed, conditioned, scrubbed, and exfoliated.

So how does it feel to have your due date come and go and still find yourself pregnant? It's not awesome. I'm no more uncomfortable than I was last week or the week before, really...it's a little harder to bend over (but I'm still able to lotion my legs and clean the cat box...yoga pays off?) and I've got random pains going on in and around my belly and...other areas, but I'm not miserable.

Bored? Yes. Annoyed? A little. But mostly, I'm tired of my phone going off. Turns out that people really want me to have this baby, and to have it on time. A small sample of texts I've received in the past two days:

Did you have your baby yet or what?!?
Baby news??
Where da baby at?
Update?
What is the latest report?
That baby come yet?
Has baby popped out yet?
Is it time for the baby? Is everyone bugging you about this?

Sigh. I'm trying to be present on facebook so people know I'm around, but there's only so much I can do, and there's only so often I can talk about it, especially when I'm trying not to dwell on it. So please, if I sound at all annoyed when I respond to your text with "buh" or "no." or something equally un-enthused, know that I don't mean it personally. I just don't have anything new to tell you. I don't know when the baby is coming. Yes, we were due on the 19th. But as our wise birthing class nurse pointed out, it's a due-week. Only 5% of babies are born on their due date...and this baby will come when it is ready. (Or I'll be induced on the 29th. These are the only certainties I know right now.)

So basically, when there is something to tell, I will tell. But it may not definitely will not be the second the baby is born. We're not even letting our families in the delivery room, so I'm afraid facebook is banned from there, as well. Give us a few hours, ok?

And now, I'm going to go put some make-up on. Because you just never know...

It's totally a girl. Unless it's a boy.

It's rather impossible to believe, but this kid is 37 weeks—full term—as of today. Little E is coming whether we're ready or not, so the only real question that remains is...girl? Or boy?

I totally don't believe in the whole old wifey sex predictions business. (Side note. Do we still not know the difference between sex and gender? It's 2012. The baby is a male or female. We did not find out the baby's sex. Please stop calling these gender predictions.) Cause guess what? This is allll 50/50 here. And 100% the hubby's fault doing. Which is awesome, by the way. I love placing blame.

However, that's not to say it's not fun to pretend...I just love when people are so adamant about it. Once someone decides what you're having, based on whatever, you are HAVING IT.

I constantly have someone look at me, pause, and make a "It is TOTALLY a (fill in the blank)" declaration. Seriously, it cracks me up. And I am totally guilty of this one, myself. (My track record on this one is excellent, by the way. I called the Parallel having a girl from cross country. And last week, another girlfriend had the boy I knew she'd be having. That is two for two on the "hunch," people. I should charge for this gift.)

So. In honor of all of you who care enough to have made your best guesses, or who still need to, here's a quick rundown on the most popular reasons why it's...one or the other.

Survey Says:
Low and in front= Boy
High and wide=Girl
I'm carrying high and in mostly in front, so, um...my ass is definitely wider. So let's count that?
Score one for: Girl

Survey Says:
Heartbeat 140 or lower= Boy
Heartbeat 140 or higher=Girl
This one has pretty consistently been around 150, and sometimes as high as 175.
Score one for: Girl

Survey Says:
"Normal" morning sickness=Boy
Excessive morning sickness=Girl
I had next to none at all, and I'm sorry to rub that in—so many of my friends have had hellish times with this. (...I'm not, actually, it was fantastic.)
Score one for: Boy

Survey Says:
Leg hair grows faster=Boy
Leg hair grows normally=Girl
Seriously, this part has been mind-boggling. I'm normally a shave every/every-other-day girl, and I've been able to push it for 4 or 5 days lately. It's just not growing. Not normal, however.
Score one for: Girl?

Survey Says:
Acne,"being robbed of beauty"=Girl
Normal or glowing skin=Boy
First of all, let me just roll my eyes at this whole "robbing of beauty" bit. Screw you, I'm tired. The acne, however, has come and gone more than normal. On the other hand, I've been getting a lot of the 'glowing' comments lately. So I'd have to say...
Score one for: Toss-up

Survey Says:
Craving salty snacks=Boy
Craving sweet stuff=Girl
I'm normally all about the salt, but I've definitely had a sweet tooth, especially during the second trimester.
Score one for: Girl

Survey Says:
The father has more brothers=Boy
The father has more sisters=Girl
Hubby comes from quite the mixed family-two half brothers by his mom and a half brother and sister by his dad.
Score one for: Boy

Survey Says:
Dry, chapped hands=Boy
Softer than normal hands=Girl
Um, it's winter and I have dry skin. But since my hands are dry (especially my cuticles, someone needs a mani...), we'll go with it.
Score one for: Boy

Survey Says:
If you crave the heels of the bread=Boy
If you like the middle=Girl
I love this one. All I know is that if I have two slices left in a loaf and one is the heel, I'm toasting them both with some peanut butter. And I'm enjoying the heel one more. But I wouldn't eat it just because unless it was the last slice.
Score one for: Toss-up

Final Score:
Girl: 4
Boy: 3

Other "considerations," with which you should do with as you please:

Chinese Calendar says Girl.

In our birthing class, we were the only couple who did not know the sex. The other five couples were having boys.

Every single one of my cousins, on both sides of the family, have had boys first.

All of hubby's coworkers have had boys (five for five so far), even if the Chinese calendar said girl. None of them found out the sex beforehand.

As for my own hunch? I honestly have no idea. The first trimester I had a sneaking suspicion that it was a girl, but that's faded into more of a daily guessing game. Some days I get the boy vibe, some days it's more girly. Though that often just depends on which of our names (we have names!!) I'm liking more that particular day.

And there you have it, folks. So what's it going to be?

Musings of the Fat and Sober, Vol. 4

Cross posted today at Salt and Nectar.

Well, I am officially in the home stretch. 35 weeks down, which means this kid can safely arrive in as few as 2 weeks (and in less than 6, if it knows what's good for it.) It also means that this is my last Fat & Sober post, so I'm feeling a little nostalgic.

Here are some things I will not miss:
1. Needing two hands and the support of a wall to put on my underwear, pants, or anything else going on the lower half of my body.
2. The double bathroom trips. I'm already one with a small bladder, so I'm used to frequent potty breaks. But what is with the mandatory second trip 5 minutes later? Every. Freaking. Time.
3. Non-underwire bras. The baby hates underwire (as in, jab, jab, jab, jab all the live long day), so for the sake of my rib cage, I switched to the less supportive non-underwire route. I have a feeling this will not be the last concession I make for this child.

I felt this was an opportune time to point out that for the first time in my life, I now look down and see something other than my boobs. It's kind of exciting. And I obviously mean my belly. Ramona is always there.

4. Fetus-safe eating. I would like my first meal post birth to be spicy tuna rolls, a turkey sandwich, and a dirty gin martini. I will have a bottle of Shiraz for dessert. Whoever brings me this meal wins.
5. Posterior Pelvic Pain. It would be swell if my left ass cheek didn't hurt every time I do anything other than sit still or lie flat on my back. Speaking of…
6. Sleeping on my sides. See also: numb shoulders, ankle cramps, and sore hips.
7. The taste of Tums.
8. Flossing my teeth and spitting out enough blood to make it look like I just lost a fight to a hockey player.
9. The gas. Seriously. Like we need another excuse to be compared to blimps.
10. The (unsolicited) opinions; even the genuinely helpful ones. They just get old.

Oh, you have a name suggestion? I'll bet it's what we'll pick, then. I should have an epidural? I already decided I don't want one...Yes, I'm totally serious. I need a bassinet? But we have a crib, like, 10 feet from our bedroom. No, we're definitely not co-sleeping. We already co-sleep with the cats, and that's precisely why we know we don't want to.

Wait, seriously, mom? I shouldn't listen to rap because babies in utero don't like it? I just...I just don't have words sometimes. I know you all love us and are very well intentioned here, but Hubby and I are in agreement on our decisions, and he's the only other one who legitimately gets a say here. Even about Jay-Z (who, obviously, will also not be consulted for baby name opinions.)

And the things I will:
1. Feeling it move inside me. Even the karate kicks when I'm trying to fall asleep. Seriously. It's amazing.
2. Not having to suck in my stomach for photos.
3. Ummm.

Let's circle back to this whole naming issue. I've decided this is definitely one part of having a baby that would be easier if I were single. (It would also be helpful if all of my favorite girl names weren't currently in the top 10 baby names this year. I refuse to have my child known as Olivia H. or Ava#4 her whole life.) After many lists, much discussion, a lot of "ew, realllly's?" and about 3 mind-changes, we've come to an agreement on a girl's name. It's a good adult name, easily shortened to make an adorable kid-friendly name, and the middle name is in honor of Hubby's maternal grandmother. Done and done.

But as we were stupidly gung-ho on not finding out the sex, we've also got to decide on a boy's name. And this is proving to be impossible. We had decided on one, much to my mother's chagrin...

Mama: Any decisions on names?
Me: I think we're going with Ezra Jack.
Mama: (Loooong, painful pause.) Can I call him Jack?
Me: Noo, but you can call him Ezra.
Mama: But...what will you call him when he's little?
Me: We were thinking...Ezra?

And then my FIL convinced the hubby that we needed David as a middle name (blah, blah, family tradition). Ezra, which Hubby loves, is one thing. Ezra David, however, is another...we are not bible people. Like, at all. And now we're back at square one. At least we have a middle name?

I'm not that old, right? I mean, 19 year old moms get joint pain, too, right? Right??

As I was bitching to the hubby about how annoying it is to have to slow down and do everything old lady style, he gave me a shrug and, without even looking up from his Words with Friends game, said, "It's ok. You're not in a hurry."

...Oh. I guess...I'm not...am I? Huh. I mean, why should I be in a hurry to get out of bed at 2am? Why do I need to literally hop out of my car when I'm just going to the grocery store? Does taking the stairs two at a time really make a difference when I'm heading into work? There's one flight. And this is why this man balances me. He can state the obvious and completely floor me with his brilliance. (Plus, I'm biased and a little bit stupid right now.)

That said, my chiropractor rules. I spent almost three weeks in agony, hardly able to walk, with a shooting pain in my butt every time I took a step, twisted, sat down, or generally used my pelvic/hip joint for anything. In other words, it was constant. And the only thing nearly as annoying as the pain was the involuntary grunting. Sitting down—ooof. Turning over in bed—hrrrrughhh. Every step—mmph. Seriously, it was annoying even me.

My doctor basically told me to get over it-it was common, and while, yes, it sucks, it will go away and nothing will help it. So I tried my chiropractor, and boom. I'm walking again, which I pointed out gleefully to the hubby last night. His response? "You're a lot quieter, too!"

But pain, annoyances, sacrifices and grossness aside, I know I've had it pretty darn easy. Pregnancy is not fun, and so many of my friends and family members have had it a whole lot worse. And all of them would do it again (or already did it again.) It's 40 weeks of our lives. It's an experience I'm glad I've had. I'm sure in 4 weeks I'll be to the JUSTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTTTTTT stage, but for now, I'm ready for this baby to come when it's ready. Even if I'm still not sure I'll ever be.

So wish me luck! The Sarahs have asked me to share my sleep-deprived, clueless good, bad, and ugly experiences as a first time mom, so you'll be hearing from me soon. Until then, thanks for all the support, comments, and for listening to me bitch the last nine months.

XOXO, Pammy

Things I learned in Birthing Class.

When you're pregnant, the doc typically recommends you take an eight hour birthing class (broken up in several sessions, usually) at the hospital you're scheduled to give birth in. It's not mandatory, but for me it was a no-brainer. I like to be prepared, people. First step, however, was convincing Hubby that we even needed to go.

Saturday:
Hubby: Wait, so when is that baby class thing again?
Me: Birthing class. Tuesday at 6.
Hubby: Crap...that's the same time as our holiday party...
Me: (Not taking the bait) Aw, that sucks. But...why would they do it on a Tuesday anyway?
Hubby: I dunno...ummm...soo, we can't really miss one? Do we even need to go? We know what happens. You have the baby. Whatever.
Me: (Sorts emotions into place) Yes, babe. We have to go. It's the first class. There are only four, and we have to pay and everything. And we don't know what happens. I need more information...I don't know what to expec—
Hubby: Wait, wait, wait. We have to pay? What kind of bullshit—
Me: Oh, stop. Yes, it's 50 bucks.
Hubby: Fif-wha-come onnn.
Me: (Death stare.)
Hubby: Alright, alright. (mutters) Fifty dollars. I could teach this class for free.

Tuesday afternoon:
Hubby: So, I was talking to Fahzzy. He and L didn't go to birthing classes.
Me: (waiting to see where he's actually planning on going with this.) No?
Hubby: He said he wishes they had, though. She was in labor for 30 something hours, and he kept freaking out. So, you know.

I do, babe.

So. A few fun things we I learned.

The instructor may have you practice deep breathing methods by first watching a clock for 30 seconds, then watching some video of clouds and baby feet and ocean waves for 30 seconds. When she asks the class which made the time pass more quickly, the correct answer is not, "the clock." This answer results in shocked silence and apparently gives you the distinction of being the "only one in the history of the class" to feel this way. Hubby has now, however, offered to help me out Flava Flav style during my labor.

I've also been informed by the instructor that she will remember me forever. "If not by name, by the fact that you're the clock couple."

Having a baby is like having a poo. No, really, the instructor said this. In those words, because she is a quirky Brit and says fantastic things like that all day long. What she meant is that your body just instinctively knows how to push, but I will forever think twice about using the term poo-baby from here on out. (You know what a poo-baby is...when you have to go...excessively...you get it, I know you do.)

I will forever be scarred by the wall-sized projection of a drawing depicting an episiotomy. She promised (PROMISED!) the doctors don't want to do these and so won't unless absolutely necessary, as they don't particularly like performing extra procedures (stitches, in this case). So all I can do is believe her.

Oh my god, the image is ingrained. Make it stop.

The idea of an epidural that I was tossing around? I don't want it. I am still open to it if medically necessary, but I'm now even more gung-ho about trying this thing naturally. If I succumb to the pain issue, I'd rather cave and receive another option, like a 'numbing' agent, rather than the whole shebang of the epidural. I know myself, and whether I will actually want to get out of bed and move around or not, the fact that I physically wouldn't be able to will seriously upset me. I'm already off my anxiety meds for the sake of this kid...the last thing I need is a panic attack during my labor.

Speaking of panicking, I'm ACTUALLY HAVING A BABY.

But eight hours of class later, Hubby told me how much he enjoyed the class. I think we're both feeling much more prepared and aware of what to expect, how long I can labor at home before having to drive to the hospital, and how he can will support me while I push a CHILD out of my body. (BTW, when are they going to invent a way to do that laparoscopically? That's got to happen eventually, right?) I was pretty disturbed that our class only had five couples in it when it's only offered twice a month, because I'd recommend it to anyone having a baby.

Yes, you have to watch some videos showing more of complete strangers than you're really comfortable with, and you may be struck a few hours in with the notion that ohmygodthisisreallyhappening, but it's also fascinating and informative and honest. If you're ever on the fence, go. And tell that baby daddy of yours to shut it and just go. Cause really, we all know this is all their fault.

Musings of the Fat and Sober, Vol. 3

Cross posted at Salt & Nectar today.

I would like to open this edition of preggo bitching with an apology. To every pregnant woman to whom I have ever used the phrase, "Honey, you're not fat, you're pregnant!" I offer my sincere apologies. While I completely meant it when it was said, I now see your point. Because while, yes, I am pregnant, I am also fat(ter). Abdomen gain? Mostly baby. Boob gain? Toss up. But thigh gain? Ass? Arms? Fat. Fat. Faaaat.

And please don't start in with me here about how they are all interconnected. Blah, blah, blah. I'm pregnant and I'm fat. Yes, there is no escaping it, but that doesn't make it untrue. I'm still not big enough to be obvious, so I know people often assume I'm just getting pudgy. You're welcome to ignore me when I bitch that I'm fat. And you are even more welcome to tell me I look great. But only if you mean it.

This is my trick. I wear stripes because it actually makes me look pregnant, even though we all know they do nothing flattering for the figure. Hence why it's best to ignore me when I say I look fat. This is preggo logic, people.

I am so over old wives tales and half-facts. Oh, you've heard I shouldn't get massages? Can't have my hair done? Should get rid of my cats? I have one thing to say: I am the research queen, damnit, so if you've heard this "fact," I guarantee I have also heard it. If I'm doing it anyway, it means I have considered it, debunked it (or determined what about it is unsafe/should be avoided), and moved on. Also, it is none of your effing business, especially when we don't know each other. But thanks for looking out. Really. XO.

Oh, and old wives tales go the other way, too, btw. Cocoa butter, shea, etc. etc. don't help stretch marks. You get them or you don't. It's a medical, genetic-based fact. That's not to say I'm not rubbing it on every morning anyway (I'm dry, ok?), but it's still just a story. Just like me having acne doesn't make it a girl. Even though everyone other than my grocery store checker has decided that it does.

Speaking of, no, we are not finding out the sex. No, I don't care what it is. I really, honestly don't. I promise. And I find it a little disturbing that you think I should be hoping for one over the other. Talk about your kid entering the world with a 50% chance of already disappointing you. They have their whole lives to do that.

I am crazy jealous of my cats. Not only do they just get to lounge around all day, they get to be comfortable while doing it. (Especially Ramona. She's got this on lock.)

See, I am a back sleeper. When that fails, I'm a stomach sleeper. Seeing that I can't do either anymore basically means sleeping is no longer fun. Well, I can lay on my stomach, but if you've ever tried to lie on a soccer ball, you know why this isn't happening. Back sleeping is out per doc's orders. Something about the weight of my engorged uterus and cutting off circulation to myself and the baby...I wasn't really listening; I was busy catching up on sleep with my eyes open. I have more and more in common with my Greta everyday.

Seriously, she sat like this without moving for like 5 minutes. She is amazing. And now I am done with my cats for this edition.

So I'm stuck on my sides. Which I hate. My shoulders fall asleep more easily than I do, and pregnancy hip pain has commenced in full effect, so my body pillow and I (see below) spend a lot of time flipping during the night. And when I'm not super gracefully using my entire body weight to attempt to turn over in one swift action, (side note: SO glad we sprung for the King bed last year. And that he can sleep through anything.) I'm getting up to pee. Every. Two. Hours. My under-eye circles have never looked so good, let me tell you.

In awesome news, however, my knees no longer hurt. I can sit on the toilet without whimpering again! (Yay!) I can do lunges again! (Yay? And also, "again?")

What is with the blood coming out of my nose? I'm not 8, and I don't play soccer. That's who gets nosebleeds, right? I feel like every nosebleed depicted on tv is an 8 year old in cleats. And I never played, which I'm certain is why I never have had one. Anyway, blood streaming out of nose at 6:30am is strange enough. Explaining to my husband that it's perfectly normal is even stranger.

And now, a few words of advice:

Rethink the Brazilian wax. The first few preg-waxes (ew, that's a terrible word) weren't bad—no worse than usual, which I normally handle like a champ. I'd been warned that it would be more painful "during this special time," so I'd left the salon all high and mighty. Hurt?? Ha! Not me! Best pregnancy ever! And then 19 weeks hit, and oh. my. god. I was squealing wincing so much my waxer (of two years) actually giggled at me. And then told me I was crazy, confessing that she never had the guts to do it while she was pregnant. NOW she tells me...

You know that show you love that makes you cry? Stop watching it. Mine happens to be Grey's Anatomy-I'm currently trying to catch up on last season, so I've been watching several at a time on Netflix. Hubby doesn't understand why "that stupid show is even still on," which meant he was more than happy to oblige when I told him to put me on Grey's restriction. (Of course, he came home the next night to find me crying into the couch pillow again.) Seriously, though. The baby needs fluids. Sobbing inconsolably about how Mandy Moore diiiiiiiieeed just means you're tempting dehydration.

Buy the body pillow. And get a cute cover for it, while you're at it. It's going to be your best (and most intimate, it works best all tucked in between your legs) friend for months, so you may as well treat it as such. I haven't caved and sprung for an expensive one yet—I'm thinking the Snoogle—but I feel the time is fast approaching. These hips are seriously hurting.

No joke—it's enormous, and a little like having a threesome every night. (I guess?) I feel like I should name it, or at least buy it breakfast in the morning.

What about you all? Any nighttime pregnancy remedies/pillow brands, etc. you want to throw my way? My sanity thanks you in advance.

Pass me the bottle.

Guest posting over at Salt & Nectar today! They let the lush talk about drinking while pregnant. Uh-oh...

Musings of the Fat and Sober, Vol. 2

Cross posted today at Salt & Nectar.

Well, almost halfway through the second trimester, and things are as fun as always. Pregnancy, I've decided, is boring. At least at this point, when I still don't look pregnant (and instead just look a little "thick," as my mom so sweetly pointed out), and I don't feel any movement or any other proof that something is actually happening in there. Boring.

Plus it's football season, and the deal with Hubby has always been that I will watch football with him if I can also eat and drink. AND being the key word, here. I am not a football girl. And so I spend the game with my nose in my computer, catching up on Netflix. Sober. In other words, boring.

But there are, of course, other joys.

I've got preggo brain. Already. Words and thoughts just escape my brain without warning. I'll give my Art Director info on a project, say, about a print ad, and end up trailing off about the color of pocket folders. I don't know if it was me finally hearing myself or her utter silence on the other end of the phone, but that was a fun one to recover from. Luckily, she's a mom. Her condolence was that it'll get worse, not better...

But it's not just words—I'm calling hotels to confirm reservations and am being told I never made them. Putting milk away in cabinets. I was washing some pillowcases the other day, and when I went to go transfer them to the dryer, I noticed my half-full cup of detergent still sitting there, completely unused. Oops. (Let's keep that example between us, shall we? Hubby does the laundry because "I do it wrong." Sometimes I do it anyway to be nice and to prove otherwise. So, yeah. Shh.)

I want dessert, at all hours of the day. I ate the largest frosted cookie ever the other day. At 10:30am. I'm pretty sure it was the most sugar my body has processed at one time in the past 16 years. It was ridiculous.


And it was delicious. And I will eat the other one in my fridge in the very near future. (But not right now; I'm working on a bowl of sugar-free Pistachio pudding right now—and by bowl, I mean the one the pudding was made in. And I'm not sharing, so don't ask.) And don't get me started on ice cream. Luckily there are a million 'lower cal' varieties out there, but they are still completely unnecessary calories. And it's confusing, because I'm not a huge nut fan, I don't like the taste of butter, and I don't really care about ice cream. But get between me and some butter pecan and I will cut you.

What happened to being a horny, glowing preggo? I was kind of looking forward to that, I won't lie. But glowing? Amorous? Um, my jeans are currently being "buttoned" via rubber band. I'm exhausted, bloated, and broken out. This is not exactly prime sexy-time. I was bra-shopping the other day, and started crying in the middle of the department store because I couldn't find any bras that would fit the girls and look cute. I just needed something a little sexy (a little would have gone a long way, trust me), and instead my options were nude, thick strapped, "full-figured" boulder holders.

Eff it, I'm just going to switch to sport bras soon and call it a day. At least they come in colors.

(Whispers)"Soooo...I'm knocked up." I find myself struggling with how to tell people, especially acquaintances. When the hostess at my usual pho restaurant asked how I was and commented that she hadn't seen me in awhile, I heard myself say, "Yeah, I know. I got myself pregnant and my tastes seem to have changed a bit..."

I got myself pregnant?? WTF does that even mean? And this is so not an isolated incident. "I'm knocked up," "Well, turns out I'm pregnant..." and other similar "excuses" have all left my mouth. I mean, we've already established that I'm not an "I can't wait until I'm pregnant!!" person, but to make it sound like it's some sort of trouble I got myself into like a derelict teenage runaway? What is that?

My husband is fantastic. Well, obviously, seeing that I married him, but he has become so...not concerned, exactly...I don't know the word. I can't EVER remember the right word, damnit. So examples, it is. Six months ago, had he walked into the room to find me sprawled on the couch and glassy eyed, his first reaction would be to reposition my half-full martini glass in order to keep me from kicking it over when I readjusted myself. Now, he walks in, kisses me on the forehead, and asks if I feel ok.

Swoon.

He's just been very sweet and protective while still remembering that his wife is a bullheaded Taurus who can do it her damn self. He knows I'll ask for help if I need it, and even when I won't, he understands that if a giant box of cat litter has been in the back of my car for a week straight, he should just carry it inside.

So far there's only been one serious exception to his fabulousness, which I must point out because I'm kind of a jerk. I wanted Thai food one day, and he talked me into Vietnamese instead. Seriously. I'm eventually going to get past this, but I pouted about this for a week and still want some Pad Kee Mow, damnit. Being finicky about food is really the only thing he hasn't been cutting me any slack on. (Except when I just want mac and cheese for dinner—he doesn't bitch when I'm doing the cooking-just when I want to go out) But I guess that's what I get for marrying a fellow food-lover.

But the most painful part of this whole ordeal so far has quite literally been the (knee) pain. I was born with old-lady knees...they just ache. Sometimes it's the right, less often it's just the left, and usually it's both. No, I didn't hurt them as a kid. No, physical therapy didn't help. No, it doesn't seem to matter how much I weigh. Yes, I've had them x-rayed (Nope, nothing "wrong" with them)...I was just born with bad knees. But the achiness, stiffness, and general shooting pain has just magnified over the past few months. Stairs hurt. Yoga hurts. Sitting on a toilet...O.M.G. This "chore" is usually manageable, but having my knees hurt this much means it's been pure agony...to the point where I've had to stifle yelps of pain when I sit down or stand up in order to not be the freak screaming in the bathroom.

Since we're already on this lovely path, let's just keep going, shall we? I'm 5'10, so long legs teamed with sore knees has always made the whole public bathroom ordeal a bit...tricky. Am I not being gross clear enough? Here it is: I'm a terrible squatter. I'll spare you too much detail here, but let's just say I'm a huge fan of toilet seat covers and lots of toilet paper hand wraps.

So I will also spare you a play by play of a recent concert experience involving pregnant Pammy's overactive bladder, this female bathroom skill deficiency, and excessively disgusting porta-potties. Shudder.

Speaking of bathroom issues, apparently I now need 35g+ of fiber a day to survive. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

I'm not really a baby person...

The two lovely Sarahs at Salt & Nectar were sweet enough to ask me to guest post for them today, so check me out:

I'm not really a "baby person". But I'm having one anyway.

If you're new to Salt & Nectar, I love it because it's always an honest, well-written, funny and sweet look into the throes of motherhood and beyond for two lawyers who each moved cross country to start new chapters in their lives. I was following well before Baby H was on the horizon, so I promise it's not a sappy look at mommyhood or anything like that (they asked ME to write for them, after all!)

Truly an honor, ladies! Thanks!

Ridiculous things preggos do, Vol. 1

I'm not a superstitious person. When we found out we were pregnant, the first thing hubby did was run back inside the bar and tell his boys (Um, yes, I told him in a bar parking lot. I figured if Pam and Jim could get engaged at a gas station, it wasn't the worst thing to have to do). Which was fine with me; boys don't typically sit around gossiping about who's expecting next and when...but I still made sure they all knew we were keeping it quiet.

We decided to wait until 9 weeks to tell our parents (after our first official doctor's appointment...uh, yeah, that didn't go so well. There was one mom in particular—cough,ma,cough—who was not so happy about the fact that I didn't call her the second I peed on the stick), and then gradually let people know as we crept to that all-important end of the first trimester.

In the meantime, however, I've been keeping track of some of the weirder things this whole experience has caused my body and brain to go through. You experienced mommies are either giggling at my naivete here or nodding in agreement...those of you who have The Great Hormone Shift ahead of you, however...heh. Just. You. Wait. It's been pretty easy, really...as long as I keep saltines and Wint-o-Green life savers around, I've kept any nausea in check, and the only other things that have been tormenting me are the acne (what, am I 14 again?) and the massively sore boobs. Don't hug me, btw. I'll cry.

So here are a few other gems I noted in my first trimester...

I am thirsty all. the. time. Every time I get up (usually to pee), I find myself in the fridge looking longingly at the Sierra Nevada and the three bottles of white wine I bought ONE WEEK before the booze-ban began, and annoyingly reaching for whatever cold, non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverage is in front of me instead, forgetting every time that I already HAVE a drink waiting for me.


Yep. All full.

I cannot make a decision. I generally know what I want for dinner well in advance. Today, around 2pm, I decided I wanted macaroni salad. Went to the store, boiled eggs and pasta, chopped tomatoes, celery and onion, mixed, and promptly decided I'd rather have Cream of Mushroom soup. From a can. It's 104 degrees outside.

Oh, and then I burned it. And ate it anyway.

Hormones. One afternoon I burst into tears because hubby was being an annoying back-seat driver (ok, he said one small yet unnecessary thing). Burst. Into. Tears. He soon after texted me to apologize "for being a dick," and I apologized for being a hormonal wreck. My husband is not a dick. I however, am a hormonal wreck. Siiigh.

Cravings. I want carbs, and I want them all. the. time. Bagel for breakfast? Check. Sandwich for lunch? Yep. Pasta for dinner? Um, definitely. It's so bad I told Hubby that the freaking Olive Garden sounded great. Even saying it made me shutter, and writing it is no better. I hate the O.G...As the great Anthony Bourdain recently put it, "I can't drive past a Chili's or an Olive Garden and not boil with rage."

I am with you. It's just wrong. But I would still give anything for some salad and breadsticks right now. Like, a barrel of them. And then I want to stop at the Tutti Frutti afterward and serve myself a gigantor Banana fro-yo with raspberries. I need this to happen.

And last, but not least, Booze. I like to drink. This is not new information...I'm quite vocal about this fact. This is also why the couples we regularly hang out knew we were expecting before we even had to tell them..."Pam. Why aren't you drinking...Oh, crap, you're knocked up!"

Sigh. Yep. Guilty.

Yes, I miss my booze. I've given up on the idea of vodka and gin martinis (I just realized last night that by not drinking, I'm saving hundreds—hundreds!—of olives from a sad and lonely death via consumption) and I'm not wanting beer in particular, but wine—particularly when I'm craving steak—that I miss. Enough so that I committed the ultimate boozer sin...I bought some non-alcoholic stuff to try.

I'd looked this brand up before I plunked down the cash for it (it's like six bucks, not the point), cause I was afraid it was just going to be bottled grape juice, which would be a complete waste of my time, money, and taste buds.

Verdict? It might be passable if you're used to $3.00 Merlot.


Otherwise, skip it. I'm just happy to have made it to the second trimester...cause damnit, I'm ready to have a glass of wine. You wanna argue with a pregnant lady about that? Bring it. I've got stats, damnit. And they are in my favor, and in favor of some Pinot Noir. Which (a littttle bit of) will go just wonderfully with my Chicken Parmesan tonight, thankyouverymuch.

Let's just hope Hubby agrees. He's been on board so far, as in, "Damnit, Pam, you can make it 3 more weeks!" everytime I whine, But I just want a litttttle glass...it's done developing!!! His reasoning is that our baby is "special" and therefore takes longer to be perfected. I think that's obviously some sort of jab at my family's genetics, but I'm a little hormonally oversensitive right now...

I don't bake. But I'm making an exception.

But only until February 20th or so.

Thanks to the handful of you that knew and didn't spill the beans. :) I'll pay you back by letting you babysit someday. Mwah!