The End

BEHOLD! TWITCH HAS ARRIVED!

Hark, the herald demons shout;
TWITCH was a bitch to get out!

The nurse she said it'd be a snap;
that was a mighty load of crap!

The drugs they gave, they weren't enough;
tho Herself is mighty tough!

And when the doctor he did slice;
'twas against Herself's advice!

Ev'ry cut and tug she knew,
'fore the surgery was through;

The pain was great, but not so great;
and for more drugs, she did wait;

The pusherman knock'd her out at last;
he should have used the laughing gas!

TWITCH is here and now 'tis done;
Buddha help us, everyone.

Le Grand Guignol

The end is nigh and has been conveniently scheduled for 2006 September 12. This day will likely be overshadowed for years by the preceding day, also known as The Day the U.S. Learned To Live In Total Fear For All Time Despite the Fact That In All The Time That The Terrorists Have Been Trying To Attack Us They Have Managed Only This One Real Victory. In any event, soon that day will in turn be overshadowed by The Day TWITCH Was Born. I want all of My readers to know that you are hereby warned, and can claim no ignorance in the decades to come. Well, no more than usual, I suppose. Operating as I do under the assumption that all of My readers are intelligent, I leave open the possibility that I am wrong, as I was once before in 1987. I know, it is hard for Me to believe after all of these years, but it is the truth.

No method of celebration for this day has been yet developed. Suggestions, in a rare mood of tolerance, will be accepted in the comment section. It is My learned opinion that because this celebration will be worldwide, everyone should have some input as to its form and content. I was thinking maybe Zombie pinatas filled with delicious Tacos de Cabeza, but let us all pitch in and come up with something truly magnificent, something worthy of the title.

Le minute de vérité, Le Grand Guignol, is almost upon us.

T Minus One Week and Counting

The Dr has spoken.

We will have a baby in one week's time. (Unless, of course, Matilda decides to join the party before then.) Yes, I am going to be induced one week early, killing Ian's dreams of the baby being born on his birthday. Before I hear the murmurs of protest from those who believe that babies shouldn't be forced out into the cruel, cruel world before they are ready, let me assure you that I made sure to grill the Dr thoroughly about this decision, forcing him to explain why, exactly, he wants to induce. The reasons are thus: 1) My high blood pressure, whether it stems from my non-existent pre-eclampsia or just stress, is likely to turn into actual health-threatening pre-eclampsia if the baby doesn't come soon. 2) The baby is huge and strong and ready for the world, so inducing early will protect my health without endangering hers. And that sounds perfectly rational to me! So, next Tuesday at 7:30am I have an appointment with the labor and delivery ward at Washoe Medical Center...mark your calendars!

Also, these lovely photographs will be the last belly shots before I become significantly smaller, so I thought I'd better post them now. If you should want to obtain a copy of any of these photos (as I'm sure they will be worth a lot of money someday when Twitch rules the galaxy), please e-mail my friend Heather at akasmiles@sbcglobal.net, and she will be happy to take an order from you. (By the way, MAD PROPS to Heather for her generous use of Photoshop in removing all trace of my stretch marks...I feel like a celebrity mom with that kind of airbrush treatment!)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Labor Day weekend in Reno means but one thing...RIB COOK OFF. Here I am, admiring my stack of 24 rib bones. Yes, Matilda and I managed to ingest 2 full racks of ribs over the course of 4 hours. Matilda's Daddy, however, only managed 17. (Pause here for victory laugh....Mwahahahah!) We also managed to fit in 2 slices of watermelon, some potato salad, a biscuit, an ice cream bar, and about 8 Diet Cokes. It was a real mother/daughter effort. I provided the will and the skill, and she agreed to find some dark corner of my uterus to hide out in to make more room for ribs. At least my girl has her priorities straight.

For the second year in a row we lucked out getting tickets into the "Rib Village"--the VIP section of the Rib Cook Off where you get all-you-can-eat ribs from all 24 competitors, along with all the sides, ice cream, and booze you want (in other words, Nirvana). It was a happy, happy night; I had such a good time that I was able to forget about my aching pelvis (feels like I've been kicked in the groin several times) and my damned carpal tunnel. I was also able to laugh at every shmuck in the village who piped up with the oh-so-original joke, "Now that lady has had too many ribs!" Oh yes, that's me! The fat one! Hardy har har! I guess I deserved it, though, seeing as I did lapse into an orgy of pig-belly consumption on par with a starving velociraptor. But what would you do if presented with this spread?


That's what I thought.

My Chosen Consort, Darth Continent

Upon reading the last dispatch from Herself, you may be tempted to conclude that She is exaggerating slightly. While I usually encourage people to give in to temptation, as it is a quick path to the Dark Side, in this case, Herself is not exaggerating in the least. A giant, liquid- and baby-filled behemoth is in My home RIGHT NOW. While I am aware that this is only a temporary condition, and that Herself will soon reassume Her normal body state, it is incumbent upon Me to point out the fact that I get to suffer along with Her. I get to be awakened when She cannot sleep. I get to help Her move Herself around. I get to massage Her aching extremities. I get to experience a blow-by-blow of all the complaints listed in the previous post. She gets the pity, and I get to be the brutish thug who knocked her up. Very well, so be it. I need no pity. But I promise you this, by all that is unholy:

The next person to ask Me if I am excited will receive My full, unadulterated, unexpurgated, bone-flensing wrath. And that person will experience said wrath for all of eternity, or until they expire, whichever comes first.

My excitement died along with my full night's sleep. I do not blame Her, She cannot help it, but the rest of humanity needs to shut the hell up with the stupid questions already. Of course I will be excited when TWITCH arrives. Now, I await that arrival. It should be obvious to anyone who possesses the ability to breathe with their mouth closed that I am delighted to have a TWITCH on the way. Forgive Me if I refrain from gibbering like an idiot about it everywhere I go.

"It has to be official, and it has to be urine!"

Since starting this blog some 16 weeks ago, I have, on several occasions, been sorely tempted to point out some of the more, uh, visceral aspects of pregnancy. The need to do this stems not from an attempt to gross out my readership but rather as a way of showing (much as Playboy Playmates Vicky Iovine and Jenny McCarthy have done before me) what a truly embarrasing and, frankly, disgusting process pregnancy really is. Alas, however, I am not a Playboy centerfold, creating in me a sense of modesty and propriety that prevents me from pulling back the curtain on such details.

Until today.

I have been required, for the last 24 hours, to collect all of my urine for analysis. And when I say all of my urine, I mean every drop. For 24 hours. This is the final indignity. I will suffer in silence NO MORE! So here it is: "Tracy's explicit list of what to expect when you're expecting that nobody will lead you to expect right up until the time when you feel like an absolute freak of nature and break down and tell your Dr who will inevitably tell you that it is 'perfectly normal' except that nobody ever told you about it so how could it be 'perfectly normal?'"

Basically, it all comes down to bodily fluids. Now, most people know that pregnant women have to pee a lot, and some people even know that a pregnant woman's blood volume increases by 50% during the course of her pregnancy (thus the "pregnant glow"). What nobody mentions, though, is that this increase in blood and urine is only a small part of a massive surge in every kind of fluid your body is capable of producing. What I have learned (no thanks to all of those pregnancy books) is that your life becomes ruled by the need for all of these fluids to escape your body in one way or another. Here are the top ten offenders:

1) PEE: How is it possible to produce more pee than the liquid you actually intake? A scientific mystery? I'm not sure. What I do know is that if you are ever in line for a bathroom and a pregnant woman is behind you, let her go first! I guarantee she has to pee worse than you.

2) BLOOD: I'm just going to hypothesize here that the reason pregnant women become so clumsy is due to a subconscious need on their body's part to wound itself to let out some of that blood. 50% more blood, people. That's nearly 4 extra pounds of blood in the average woman. For some women, the blood begins to leak out of the nose, although in my case it chooses to ooze out of my gums. Every time I brush my teeth I look like something out of a horror movie--the crazy pregnant woman who bites the heads off bunnies or something. Gross.

3) VOMIT: Enough said.

4) DROOL: Here's where we get into the weird stuff. Nobody ever told me that pregnancy would cause me to become a drooling idiot. Literally. Somewhere in my first trimester I began drooling so badly during my sleep that I had to put a layer of towels on my pillow. I've given up on the towels now and have just come to the conclusion that when my pregnancy is over my pillow is just going to have to be removed to a biohazard facility. Sleeping "on the wet spot" has taken on a whole different meaning for me.

5) SNOT: Pregnancy and hay fever. Not a good combination. During one week in my second trimester, the pollen count soared in Reno, and my allergies took off. Not just any allergies, though. Bionic allergies. The snot just would not stop. I didn't know that a human being could produce so much frikkin' snot. I snotted so hard that the eustachian tube in my ear got thrown out of whack and I couldn't hear anything out of it for a week while the nasal steroids I was prescribed took effect. Good times.

6) TEARS: Most books claim that pregnant women become emotional due to fluctuating hormones. I believe it is the pregnant body's way of releasing more fluid in the form of tears (and let's not forget snot). We just need to cry. At anything. I calculated that I need to have a good cry at least once every two weeks. As long as I give myself an outlet (a sad movie, looking at pictures of abandoned puppies, watching the latest presidential press conference...whatever), I can prevent sudden outbursts...kind of like controlled burning during fire season.

7) ACID: There's nothing like the flavor of stomach acid working it's way up your throat and out of your mouth in the middle of the night...mmm, MMM!

8) SWEAT: Severe hormone fluctuations can cause night sweats. Did you know that a pregnant woman produces 150 times the estrogen during her pregnancy than a non-pregnant woman will produce during a lifetime? Let's just say that the mattress pad may have to be removed to the same biohazard container as the pillow.

9) MILK: I haven't experienced any breast leakage yet, but trust me, when I do you'll hear the screaming.

10) WATER: Last but not least is the one fluid that your body actually wants to retain. Again, how can it retain so much water when you're peeing all the time? Go figure. Fluid retention, though, not only causes the classic symptom of swollen feet. I have carpal tunnel syndrome. CARPAL TUNNEL! Just from being pregnant! Do I scan groceries? NO. Do I do data entry? NO. Do I perform hand jobs for money? NO. NO! NO!! I should not have carpal tunnel! Grrr....



Sorry to digress, back to my main point...

The last 24 hours have been absurd. I keep thinking that I must be the butt of some evil OB/GYN hidden camera experiment to see how far a Dr can go to humiliate a patient. You're probably wondering why and how I had to collect all of my urine for 24 hours. Let's start with the why. Ever had to pee in one of those little plastic cups for the Dr or a random drug test? Well, that only measures what's in a little bit of your pee at a specific time. With the 24 hour test they can analyze what's in all of your pee for a whole day. It's more thorough or some bullshit like that. Then there's the how. This is where it gets good.

1) Go to lab and procure Urine Containment Unit (figure 1), which must be kept in your refrigerator next to your produce and Gatorade.

2) Every time you must urinate (that is, every half hour or so), collect all urine in Urine Collection Apparatus (figure 2).

3) Transfer urine from the UCA to the UCU.

4) If you must leave home during 24 hour period, make sure to pack at least 2 Urine Transport Devices (figure 3) in your bag so as not to lose a single drop.

5) When, at the 20th hour, at 3:30am, you discover that you have completely filled your 3 liter UCU, say fuck it, dump the rest of your urine down the sink, and go to bed.

You may think I'm kidding, but I'm really, really not. Have you ever carried around 2 mason jars of your own pee in your tote bag? It's, um, awkward. So how were your last 24 hours?

P.S. For those of you who've read this far, the quote from the title is from last night's episode of The Office which was all about peeing in cups. It seemed apropos.

Tight and Thick

These words, which sound disturbingly like the title of a porno, are the exact words that the Dr used while probing my cervix today. "Tight and thick." In other words, 0% effaced, 0 cm dilated. In other words, the baby ain't comin' out any time soon. While I applaud the success of SuperCervix at holding in my giant baby, I must confess, I am ready for her to make an appearance. Yes, I know I have 4 weeks to go before my due date and that by any reasonable person's calculations I have no right to start whining just yet, but please also keep in mind that Matilda is currently nearing 7.5 pounds, and that's a lot of baby to be carrying around for the next 4 weeks. I don't think I'm out of line to hope that she might be just a tad bit premature.

Anyways, today's entry was meant to be a belly update, but, to be honest, I tire of keeping track of the numbers. We're past that now. Let's just say I'm fat and the monster grows...here's photographic evidence. Oh, and I'll let you know if my status changes from "tight and thick."

I For One Welcome Our New Giant Overlord

Kneel before My giant progeny, or be consumed and utterly destroyed.

Attack of the Nine-and-a-Half Pound Baby

I've been saying it for months...This baby is BIG! I'm huge and Twitch packs way too strong of a punch to be a puny baby. No, no, everyone says...you just feel that way because you're tired and sensitive and your belly feels like it's been toting around a tiny kung fu master for too long. Besides, you're not so big! (Yeah, right.) We found out the truth this week, though, because due to my non-existent pre-eclampsia (see here), the Dr felt that I should have another ultrasound to check up on Twitch because hypertension can lead to low birth weight.

So my appointment this week started with the ultrasound technician drenching me in goop, pressing in the magic wand, and taking measurements of the baby's head, waist, arm bones, leg bones, and whatever else she could catch. She was very excited about getting some clear shots that, as she informed us, would lead to some "very accurate predictions." Then she plugged all the measurements into the machine, and...bleep, whir, grind...the machine popped out the baby's weight. SIX POUNDS FIVE OUNCES!!! Yikes! I'm growing a sumo wrestler! Mind you, I still have 6 weeks left to go, so at the average growth rate of half a pound per week, Twitch will likely be NINE AND A HALF POUNDS by her due date!

I told you so.

After my Drs appointment I made a beeline straight to Starbucks and indulged in a coffee. I am no longer worried about stunting the baby's growth with caffeine. She could do with a little stunting, and I could do with a little caffeine. I'm going to need that extra energy if they expect me to push out a NINE-AND-A-HALF POUND baby. Lord have mercy.

So here's the belly update for this week:

Total weight gain since conception: 16 pounds
Weight of baby: 6 pounds, 5 ounces
(expected average weight: 4.75 pounds)
Fundal height: 35 cm
Belly circumference: 47 inches
Centimeters dilated: 0

Twitch at 35 weeks. Her face is partially obscured by her umbilical cord,
which I'm pretty sure she's chewing on. Mmmm...meat.

Hello, My Name Is...

Okay, so it took us a little longer to decide on a name than we'd hoped, but we've been using this one for about 3 weeks now, and it feels like it's gonna stick. So, I'd like to introduce you all to...

Matilda Jean

(Caballero or Sangster...we're still not sure on that point). Matilda 'cause we like it, and Jean after my sainted grandmother Betty Jean. You may call her Tilda; you may call her Tildy; you may call her MJ if you'd like; you can even continue to call her "Twitch" (I still do); just don't call her Mattie (blech!).

The lovely Matilda, age 34 weeks, giving us all a thumbs up.
"Everything's fine in here...send more cookies!"

Eight Eight

Today is our three-year anniversary. The traditional gift for the third year is leather, which of course begs for some sort of kinky anniversary gift like whips or buttless chaps or the leather pants that Ian wanted so badly. Neither of us is feeling particularly sexy at the moment, though, so we both leaned more towards the practical. Ian got a belt and a tablet holder/portfolio thingy to carry his resumes in. I figured maybe the reason he's not getting asked for more interviews is because he lacks this vital piece of equipment. Now that he has a leather resume holder, the calls should come flooding in. I got a new pair of shoes, quite possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever gotten for me considering I've been wearing nothing but my Birkenstocks for the past three months. Now I have two pairs of shoes that fit...bliss!

At left is our anniversary portrait. Fetching, no? Ian wants to make it very clear that there is some sort of glare obscuring the top of his head and that he has not gone for a Jean Luc Picard look. I would like to point out that my nose is not so bulbous. But that's what you get when you spend $3 in the photo booth at the mall to record these special moments. Happy anniversary to us!

This Sucks.

So I haven't been able to post for a while now because Ian and I have been working like beasts trying to pack and move these past two weeks, leaving our lives in a blog-free chaos. Actually, we still don't have our internet access back up (thanks, Earthlink), and I am currently creating this blog entry on Ian's laptop in a Starbucks where we are paying exhorbitant wireless fees for the pleasure of checking our e-mail. I figured as long as we were paying for an hour I was going to get my money's worth and post an entry as well.

It is said that the three most stressful things in life are:

Moving
A death/birth in the family
Losing/finding a job

...and we are doing all three at one time. Joy. Needless to say, we are both emotional, mental, and physical wrecks right now. Ian has been going to bed at 11:00 (a bedtime ridiculously early for my nocturnal husband) the past few nights if that gives you any idea about how utterly exhausted we are. We are both covered in bruises and feel like various extremities are just about ready to fall right off of our bodies. Good times. Our new house, though, is pretty cool. We are adjusting to the conveniences that a newer house has to offer, like central air (YAY!), lots of electrical sockets, and a dishwasher! This is the first time I have ever rented a house built after 1950, so all of these things are new and exciting to me.

Anyways, even though I'm not quite Little Mary Pregnant Sunshine at the moment, I still needed to post a blog because I never got to post my belly update from my Drs appointment last week. So, for your statistical edification:

Total weight gain since conception: 15 pounds
Approximate baby weight: 4 pounds
Fundal height: 33 centimeters
Belly circumference: ? (I packed my measuring tape)

This picture was taken the day we moved out...goodbye old house! I guess from now on I will have to find a new bush to pose in front of.

The Heat is On!

It has been frikkin' HOT this week--as all of you know, unless you live in a cell with no windows or doors--and I have finally discovered why pregnant women don't like heat. It makes you swell up like a goddamned freshly-cooked sausage! I have had to put my wedding ring away for safe-keeping until after the baby is born (which Ian is not happy about, but I'm sure he'd be even less happy with a nine-fingered wife), and my Birkenstocks have become the only shoe I can stand to wear. I want the second trimester back! Wah!

I've definitely gotten over my ambivalence of a few weeks ago when I wasn't sure how I felt about being ready to give birth...I'm ready now! Bring it on! Ian asked me this week how I felt about only having 2 months of freedom left. I laughed at this and asked him how he figured I was currently "free." I am enslaved by a violent baby 24/7 who controls my body and emotions. I'm not sure how that is "freedom." Freedom to me, I told him, is the freedom to actually hand the baby over to him, kiss them both goodbye, and hit the town with my girlfriends for a night of drinking alcohol and highly-caffeinated beverages, eating sushi and soft cheeses, and wearing a killer pair of shoes. (Please, God, please let my shoes still fit after I give birth!!!) I think the better question is how do you feel about your last 2 months of freedom? Heh heh heh. If only I could make his feet swell up.

Motardmageddon II: Idiot Parent Pre-eclampsia

I guess there is something about being pregnant (or trying to get pregnant) that heightens your awareness of bad parenting going on around you. (Note Ian's frustration in Motardmaggedon 1.) That said, it's time for a rant. I was in the Dr's office today for my check up, and, lucky me, I got to sit there for almost an hour because the receptionist forgot to pull my file when I checked in and so the nurse didn't know I was there. Now, I could go on about the ineptitude of my Dr's office and the foolishness of making a 7-month pregnant woman wait for an hour and so forth, but actually, I understand that mistakes do happen, and that my Dr was not purposefully trying to torture me. Plus, when my nurse finally saw me sitting there, she 1) recognized me, which, as many of you may know, is a big deal in a busy OB practice and 2) she immediately made a big apologetic fuss and brought me in right away, cutting into both her and the Dr's lunch time. So, all is forgiven and I am not angry with them. What I am angry about are the motards I had to suffer in the waiting room.

Let me set the stage: This is a big practice with 6 different Drs with lots of patients, obviously necessitating a large waiting room. The room is lovely and spacious and typically a comfortable place to wait. Comfortable, that is, until two running, screaming, 2-ish-year-old boys are using it as their own personal play yard. Now, I know what some may say...they are two-year-old boys and genetically predisposed to run wild. These kids, though, were racing around the waiting room, screaming loudly, throwing a small plastic ball and then crawling underneath people's chairs to retrieve it, and generally behaving in a manner barely acceptable outdoors, let alone in an area where pregnant women (already not the most graceful creatures on the planet) should be allowed to walk unimpeded by little screaming obstacles. More than once I saw one of these boys slam into a pregnant woman trying to make her way across the room. Thoughts of the litigation that could accompany a horrible accident kept running through my head, and I seriously began to wish that Supernanny had some sort of hotline to call to report obscenely bad parenting.

And what of the parents? you may ask. They (The mom and dad of one boy and the solo mom of the other) were sitting in the corner of the waiting room chatting away as if nothing was amiss, blithely ignoring the glares of the other patients. Every once in a while they would call out a token "Tyler, come back here" or "Damien, settle down" (I actually forget the name of the second boy, so I made up my own), which the boys would completely ignore and which the parents never followed through on. This went on for quite a while until an older nurse popped her head out and chided the young boys for their behavior, telling them that somebody was going to get hurt. After this, the parents, apparently humbled by the reprimand of an authority figure, made a genuine effort to control their children for all of five minutes. They got up out of their seats (shocking!) and carried the now screaming boys back to the corner of the waiting room where they tried to calm them down and amuse them with some sort of game. Once the threat of the nurse had dissipated, though, the kids went right back to running around. At one point the dad, who seemed to have a slightly deeper sense of discipline than the moms, put on his best "firm voice" and told his son to "Come sit down RIGHT NOW." The little boy turned around and replied, I kid you not, "NO!" I was stunned. Surely, I thought, this kid has finally brought the smack down on himself. I was actually afraid for the little monster, possibly because the thought of what one of my parents would have done if I had told them "NO" was still deeply enough ingrained in my psyche as to cause me actual terror. Holding my breath, I waited for the response. Waited...waited...waited...THE FATHER DID NOTHING!!!!! He ignored the boy, who went on with his running and screaming, while I sat there fighting back the onset of an apopletic fit.

When did it become OK for kids to behave like this? When did it become OK for little kids to tell their parents "No"? How stupid do you have to be to not realize that you are failing as a parent when your children behave in such a way and blatantly flout your authority? And, most importantly, why in God's name are you sitting in an OB office pregnant with your next kid when you already can't control the ones you have?!

It was at this moment that I looked down at my giant belly and promised Twitch that her and I would never have this problem. The day she decides to look at me and say "NO!"...the one time this happens...will be a day carved forever in her memory, even if buried deep in her subconscious. If this makes me un-PC, so be it. I would rather be seen as an overly strict authoritarian than as an irresponsible motard who put an entire room full of pregnant women in danger. I would rather my child fear me then feel good about herself while ruining everybody else's morning. I tell you this now, Twitch--you can scream all you want, but I am bigger, stronger, and smarter than you. I am the parent, and I have the power to make you behave. It is just that simple.

It was at this point that I finally got to go in to see the Dr, and when the nurse took my blood pressure, it was (surprise!) high, causing her and the Dr to get worried looks on their faces and start talking about the danger of pre-eclampsia. The Dr started to tell me about the symptoms of pre-eclampsia and what to look out for, until I pointed out that possibly my blood pressure was high because I sat forgotten in the waiting room being accosted by ill-behaved two-year-olds for an hour. The nurse kind of chuckled and agreed with my self-diagnosis. "Maybe we should wait and see how her levels look next visit, Dr."

Let this be a warning to all you motard parents out there...the inability to control your children can lead to pre-eclampsia in innocent pregnant women; so USE SOME SENSE!

Oh, and in case you're keeping up with such things, here is my belly update for this visit:

Total weight gain since conception: 13 pounds
Approximate baby weight: 3.5-4 pounds
Fundal height: 32 cm
Belly circumference: 47 inches

The Safest Baby on the Block

When Grendel and Calle were just puppies, I read in a dog behavior book about how best to deal with dogs and pregnancy. The book taught me that, contrary to what most people think, dogs understand pregnancy in their own doggie way. In fact, your dogs probably know you're pregnant even before you do! Because dogs are pack animals, they will embrace the new "puppy" as long as you, the human, don't screw it up by trying to exclude them from baby preparations, which only confuses them, as they naturally want to be a part of the process.

Due to this information, I have assumed throughout my pregnancy that the dogs "get it." They know we will have a new puppy soon to take care of. I have assumed that they have long ago sniffed out my crazy hormonal fluctuations and now they are just waiting for my litter to come in. But here is something interesting...Calle, known also as the-dog-who-is-so-smart-it-is-scary, has recently figured out where the puppy lives. It started a few weeks ago when he became oddly obssessed with my belly button, sniffing at it constantly as though he was expecting a cookie to come flying out. Strange, I thought. But then it got even stranger. My genius dog, who normally wants nothing to do with cuddles, has started guarding my belly. He does this by climbing right on top of me whenever I am in repose and curling himself around my stomach, resting his head right on my belly button, where he will stay until I force him to move.

Twitch does not like this at all, and she will inevitably start pounding away at whatever spot Calle is lying on. Calle's head pops up each time he gets whacked, and he gives me a martyred look as if to say, "See the sacrifices I make?" But then he just resumes his position, much to Twitch's chagrin. It is a very interesting sibling relationship. To illustrate, here are some pictures Ian took this morning while I was enjoying my post-yard sales nap:

Although my nap was rudely interrupted by the unpleasant sensation of Twitch doing her best to beat the crap out of her big brother (imagine the dialogue:
--"Moooom, Calle's sitting on me!"
--"Mother, please inform my sister that I am only keeping her safe."
--"Will you both keep quiet so I can nap!"), it still pleases me to know that Twitch will be well-cared for by her entire pack. She is a very lucky puppy.

Belly Update

And now, by popular demand, a belly update. I haven't been growing too rapidly as of late. I sort of plateaued with my freakish growth early on, and for the past couple of months I've reached a sort of belly equilibrium the result of which is that I now almost look as pregnant as I actually am. Here's the stats as of my Drs. appointment last week:

Total weight gain since conception: 12 pounds
Approximate weight of baby: 3 pounds
Fundal height (size of uterus): 30 cm
Diameter of belly at belly button: 45 inches

With 11 weeks to go, all is well. I passed my gestational diabetes test, and I'm a little low on iron, but not enough to worry. All there is to do now is wait for my little streetfighter to grow and try not to deliver her too early. I feel great as long as Twitch is sleeping, but when she wakes up things aren't so comfortable.

Motardmageddon: Idiot Child Apocalypse

Every single time I point out that children are like monkeys, only less intelligent and more belligerent, some flaky motard who believes in the purity and innocence of children pipes up. Because My new world order will need people around to mop floors and clean sewage I refrain from beating them senseless. Why then, one might ask, does the Master say that children are like monkeys? Simple. Allow Me to explain this aspect of the world to you, My apprentice.

Here is a story:

A couple was shopping with their child, who had two years of experience in the world. While they were pushing the cart, their child, who was cursed with their genes, was cavorting and capering from inside the cart. The danger to the child's brain was high, perforce, as the sharp and sudden contact with the ground that was likely to occur would splatter said brain all over the store. Then, in a flash of lightning and a booming thunder, the hero of this tale appears. The couple neared the meat and seafood counter of the store, and for the rest of this tale, a biblical tone will be used, as there is a lesson to be learned here:

8 And they did approach the counter where the meats and fruits of the seas were kept, and their child did continue to endanger himself, for lo, they were Motards, and with this malady did they also afflict the child.

9 It came to pass, moreover, that the Master of this place, a butcher, did see these things as they did occur.

10 This butcher was of exceptional grace, moreover, and was known for his wisdom, which did rival that of Solomon in his early years, and did leave the wisdom of certain other elders as if biting unto the dust.

11 It was noted by this man that the child was not at fault, for, verily, it is said that if a tree or fruiting body be accursed with rot and Motardness, so too must the fruits of that entity be also accursed.

12 And because he did not prophecy that all was lost, he did undertake to protect the child from its own heedlessness and debaucheries.

13 In a voice resonating with power, he did say:

14 Aroint ye, thou miscreant! Thou wast cast into the outer darkness at birth, through no fault of thine. Thus do I bring ye back into the Light! Seat thyself! And properly in thy cart, lo, for an I see but a mustard seed of foolishness my wroth will be greater still than it is now, and many will taste of the dust, and there will be wailing and the gnashings of teeth!

15 And the child did hear, and was afeared. And so did the child at last come to be seated correctly in the cart, and the danger to the brain was averted thereof.

16 The parents of the child were amazed, for they had made a feeble attempt, with but half a heart, to accomplish the same ends anon, but had been rebuffed by the child, and had thereunto ceased to attempt this feat, for lo, it is said that those with the hearts and minds of poxy sheep do behave in such a manner, and it is even as the prophets say.

17 Whereupon they did ask of the butcher, How is it that you can command our child? Long has he resisted our words; long has been our suffering. Do ye possess some grace of which we knoweth not?

18 Yes, said he, I do, for understanding hath been given to me that children are like unto the beasts of the trees, and must be commanded in a firm tone to cease that which is dangerous unto them. It is my way to know that children are not equipped, verily, to make unto this world their own decisions, and must be guided by a hand wiser and greater than theirs. If such a hand must come from outside the family then so be it, for should I allow Motardness to claim the lives of children who are innocent despite themselves, would then I not be even as are ye, a blight upon creation and all that is?

19 And all around did they hear, and were amazed, for this was new to them. And they were also afeared, for one such as this was truly a giant bestriding the earth.

20 And one of those gathered did say, Thou art truly a great man, and a lord of mysteries.

21 And he did reply, Damn skippy, muthafucka.

The lesson is thus: if you do not want to be considered a motard, be a parent to your children, and require obedience and respect. If you want to be friends with your children, be prepared to have a lot of conversations about prison food and tossed salad.

TWITCH, take note. I make this vow to you. I will personally guarantee that I will see through every stratagem, every manipulation, every ruse that you try on Me. I will always have My Burning Eye on you. I will know where you are, what you are doing, who you are with, what you say, and what you think. If it ever appears that I have missed a trick or been fooled, rest assured: I am just following a plan more sinister and complicated than you could understand, and you are just digging a deeper hole if you think otherwise. That oppresive pressure you feel on the back of your neck is Me watching you, and that oppresive pressure you feel in your ass is My foot, punishing you for screwing up. I will not raise a drooling monkey, and you will thank Me for My care when you finally understand. This will probably be on the day you strangle the life out of Me and seize control. On that day, My pride will know no bounds, and as you crush My trachea know that your Father cries tears of happiness, and be content.

Lofty Goals

Here is something you may not know about my husband and me...we are masters of pointless conversation. We thrive on inventing hypothetical questions to guide us into the most obscure possible discussions. Proof positive of this occured two years ago when we took a two week road trip to Kansas City. Over the course of the 4000 mile round trip, we never ran out of crap to talk about. It was at that point that I realized our marriage would last forever. Much has been said and written about what happens in a relationship when you've heard all of each other's stories. In our case, we just make shit up.

It is in this way that we have, over the years, finely honed our parenting philosophies. One of our favorite topics of hypothetical conversation has been our unborn child/ren. These discussions started out simply enough (How do you feel about spanking? What kind of chores are fair to give a child? What should we say when our child inevitably discovers us having sex?), and eventually evolved into longer, more philosphical inquiries (What if our child is gay? What if our child wants to become a vegetarian? What if our child is a Republican?). In this way, we have mentally prepared ourselves for whatever Twitch throws at us.

One of our favorite parent discussions, though, is who we should use as parenting role models. Of course, discussing real people here would be no fun at all; rather, we choose to analyze the parenting skills of television characters. Thus it was that one day we challenged each other to come up with our personal lists of the top three TV moms and dads. I thought it might amuse our gentle readers to see the results.

The Television Parents We Will Strive to Emulate

Tracy

1) Ma Ingalls Ma is the greatest television mom ever. Period. I accept no argument on this point as it is FACT. Raising seven children (four her own and three adopted) in the harsh landscape of 19th century Minnesota was no small feat, and yet she succeeds at maintaining a happy family life against all tragedy. She is a rock. A gorgeous, eloquent, talented, tireless rock. At the worst of times, when even Pa loses it, Ma holds it together. If her children go blind, fall down old wells, become sick with plague, get their hearts broken...whatever, Ma is still her strong, beautiful self. She is wise and well-educated. She is gentle but firm. She can whip up a fantastic pie and then go out to the fields and help Pa bring in the harvest. Best of all, she always knows the exact right thing to say to her kids to help them through tough times. Conversations with Ma inevitably end with one or more kids exclaiming "Oh Ma!" and throwing themselves into her arms. She makes great coffee; sews all of her family's clothes; and lances her own infected wounds whilst in the midst of horrendous fever. Oh, and having the hottest husband in town ain't such a bad thing either!

2) Kitty Foreman I just love Kitty, and really, what's not to love? Kitty is the type of mom who is so great that she becomes the coveted mom, collecting kids from all over the neighborhood who hang around because they secretly wish that she was their mom. Kitty is a career woman but still makes sure that her kids have hot breakfasts in the morning and fresh baked cookies when they need a snack. Much like Ma, Kitty can bake a mean pie. (Pie always works its way into any discussion of my future happiness.) She is a strong believer in the power of a mother's love, though, like any mom, gets upset when that love is taken for granted. ("You know I love my family. It's just sometimes I want to get in the car and run 'em all over!) Although Kitty can become easily frustrated, she knows when to hit the juice to get herself through a crisis. She laughs easily, yells sparingly, and gives lots of hugs. Best of all, she embarrasses her kids regularly and could care less. That's the price they have to pay for her undying maternal devotion.

3) Lois Wilkerson If Ma and Kitty lack one thing, it is the ability to inspire fear. And let's face it...sometimes you need a healthy dose of fear to keep your kids in line. Enter Lois. Admittedly, Lois is far from the perfect mom. All of her kids are seriously screwed up. Even so, she keeps them in line through a reign of terror to rival even the most bloodthirsty dictator. She is also cunning. It takes weeks of planning for any of her kids to pull one over on her. Lois' ability to sniff out a lie is spooky. Her talent at knowing exactly when one or more of her kids is getting into trouble is inspiring. It is Lois' near-psychic connection to the sick minds of each of her children that I most admire. I can only hope to someday perfect that singular look that conveys to Twitch, "I know what you're thinking and you'd better stop. Disobediance will be swiftly punished." When Twitch withers under this look, I will know I have achieved the ultimate in parenting. I don't think Lois has ever baked a pie, but I'm sure she buys them at the store once in a while.


Himself

1) Julius Rock Here is a man who knows the cost of everything, and despite this horrifying knowledge, comes home from work and raises three children anyway. His wife is constantly quitting her jobs because he has two, but he doesn't get a divorce. When he chooses to do the housework and cooking, he is three times as good at it as his wife is, but allows her the conceit that she is a better domestic than he. He is tall, attractive, and one of only three fathers on his street (and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, for that matter) who meets his responsibilities as a man, and yet he does not cheat on his wife with the stream of women who come to his door looking for a man just like him. Were I in his shoes, I'd take the one useful member of My household (Chris) and run to the hills, but he stays, works from before dawn until after dusk, pays every bill on time, raises his children correctly, loves and encourages his wife (and cedes most authority to her), and walks the line with head held high. What is his reward for all of this? Smothered chicken-fried bacon, gout, and baldness. His life is the example I would point at when asked, "Master, why choose the Dark Side?" But he chooses to live this way, and for these acts, I must anoint him as the greatest TV father ever. That's 42 cents worth of soda you're wasting, fool. Pick it up and drink it before the next entry.

2) Reginald "Red" Foreman Kitty Foreman is, as She notes, beloved by the entire neighborhood. Red, however, has only Kitty. This is all he needs. Kitty provides all of the love, support, and emotional connection that any child could need. Red provides the rest. Failing math? How about a foot in the ass. Arrested by the police? Would you like a foot in the ass? Marrying your girlfriend in spite of your parents? Hmmm, Let me think. Oh, I know! How about a FOOT IN THE ASS. Red has one job: to provide the impetus for his son Eric to succeed in the world and be a good man. He has the perfect tool for this job: his foot. Red does not need to go to church, because he and God had a heart-to-heart when his destroyer was going down in the Pacific during Korea. He need not worry about the spectre of Communism, because he has lots of experience killing Commie bastards like you. In fact, he does not worry about violence at all, because he is the only local guy who has ever killed anybody, and he will be happy to give anyone who forgets their place a generous sized helping of foot in the ass. His only regret is that he does not have 2000 feet, so that he can put 500 feet into Eric's ass and the asses of his idiot friends, who are coddled by Kitty and clearly have no idea what a hard life is. Everyone in the neighborhood loves Kitty, but they fear Red. Everyone. Even the professional wrestlers who come to visit have the good sense to fear Red. This is why Red has no problems being a father to Eric, and despite his best efforts otherwise, to all of the other neighborhood children, who, he notes, quite obviously need a tender fatherly foot in the ass. Did you finish that drink yet? No? How would you like a foot in the ass?

3) Jonathan "Jack" Donahue Bristow How do you know that Jack Bristow is a good father? Simple. He will happily kill anyone who interferes with his daughter in a negative fashion. Anyone. Including her mother. Now there is a father that can be trusted to follow through. He is a master spy, knows everything about everything, is sexy, deadly in combat, speaks almost every language, is an unsurpassed actor when he needs to be, and even in the throes of radiation-induced hallucinations is still ten times more sane and rational than anyone else. Oh, and he nailed his wife's hot sister. But this is acceptable, since they were divorced and he later had to shoot her in the face for putting a contract out on his daughter anyway. His advice to Sydney (who, despite also being a spy, and having two master spies for parents, is a complete moron) is always 100% correct, he always shows up to rescue her, he constantly monitors her like any good parent, and whatever his mistakes, he corrects them, usually by killing the cause of the mistake in the first place, to insure that it doesn't happen again. His reward? He has to blow himself to pieces to protect his daughter, who repays him by naming her first son after him. Is that all, you ask? Yes, but Jack does his duty out of love, not for the reward. Jack's love for his child is so great, that like any good father, he will commit treason and kill all of her other relatives by gunshot to the head to make sure that she grows up properly. That is the kind of father I want to be. (Do not take this to mean that I want to shoot Herself in the face, I'm merely pointing out what I find the appropriate level of devotion. I will happily shoot your interfering ass, though, so watch it). Ah, I see you finished your drink. Too bad I poisoned it to keep TWITCH safe from you.

Private Parts to the Gods Are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 2

TWITCH, Mighty Fetus, Cruel Tyrant, Crusher of Bladders, Destroyer of Worlds.

Actually, Shiva is the Destroyer of Worlds.

Fetuses (Fetii?) cost a lot of money. Babies even more so. Why then, when I tell people that I need a job and can't find one, do they always say (wait for it):

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

In a perfect world, that is, a world run by Me, this would follow:

--Smiling "Really?" Gleaming teeth emerge from behind tightly grimacing lips
--Cannibal holocaust ensues
--Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple washes down unsatisfying meal of motard
--Smiling "You know what, I do feel better." ERA detergent used to wash clothes, because protein gets out protein

I want a job, not empty platitudes. Just being this cool is exhausting, let alone all of My other reponsibilities. I don't have the energy it takes to keep on plowing through Motard Optimism with an unchanged demeanor.

In the Real(ly pathetic) World, this will have to do:

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

--"Thank you. I'm sure it will. I have to go now, swallowing this much bile is enough to sicken even My iron constitution."

Happy Third Trimester to Me!

So Tuesday marked the first day of my third trimester...only 14 weeks to go! 98 short days! Not...that...long. Um, I don't know how I feel about this. Ian asked me if I was looking forward to getting this baby out of me, to which my immediate thought was, Hell, yes! She's a mean little bugger! Plus, I'd kill for an extra large latte double the espresso and a double tall Jack and Coke. But, on the other hand, it is quite easy to take care of her while she's still inside of me. She eats what I eat when I eat it; I poop what she poops when I poop it; and, best of all, her tiny little lungs are filled with fluid preventing the operation of vocal chords. I think I prefer my daily beatings to a screaming baby.

So I'm torn between "Can't hardly wait" and "Omigod! Already?"

Well, I guess I have 98 more days to figure it out.