Well, THAT was crazy!

(And look- it's Thursday! Sure, Thursday night, but still the right blogging day!) Ain't nothin' gonna break-a my stride!)

So, um, I had a baby! And here's how it went down: After my morning last Thursday of cleaning everything- twice- and overpacking for a three night stay at the most luxurious of hospitals EVER (and P.J.'s "working from home," which, God bless him, he really did try to do), we headed downtown. On the way, we said things like, "wouldn't it be hilarious if we had a girl?" Which, admittedly, had an exceptionally equal chance of taking place. Whatever. We knew we were having A BOY.

Got to the hospital, where they put us in the waiting room with other patients' parents and grands- the type of people prone to exclaiming, "She's been in there forever, I hope everything's all right." This did not calm us. Turns out, there were two emergencies right around the time of my c-section, and there was, quite literally, no room at the inn. About an hour later we were whisked into a recovery room and triple-teamed by nurses, an intern and the best anesthesiologist in the history of modern medicine. I was poked, prodded, hooked up and injected while I dutifully filled out forms and answered questions about my mental health. (Was I contemplating suicide? No, but I sure as heck was thinking about playing possum.)As P.J. put on his scrubs and I placed my beanie duck Samuel by my pillow (he has yet to miss a major surgery), I told P.J. that I was reconsidering. Slightly. I mean, how well did we really even know each other? Too late. The team arrived to wheel me out and P.J. and I told each other to be brave, like a toaster. (You either understand that joke or you don't- I will not explain it to you.)

And of course, the moment where I may have needed P.J. most in my life...was the moment which he was unable to be present. Now, I've been stressing about the spinal or epidural for the entirety of the pregnancy. Seriously. More than actual labor, more than the first year of the child's life, I focused all my fears on this one fleeting moment for no discernible reason other than my dislike of needles. And/or pain. Whatever. And P.J. (and other husbands- I don't think they singled out my husband as a wussbag) was considered a liability in the operating room. Apparently the fathers can't handle the sight of the mammoth needle and do embarrassing things like faint or try to drag their wives from the room. Whereas the wives sit there, sigh, and allow a giant needle to be shoved into their spinal columns like good little soldiers.

And aside from the "bee sting" of the lidocaine, I FELT NOTHING! It was awesome. And then, moments later, I felt nothing. Everything from my ribs down went completely numb and heavy (they said some women panic because they can't feel themselves breathing- I haven't been able to feel myself breathe since August. Score!) and a gigantic surgical tent was placed between my head and the unmentionable action south of my non-breathing ribcage. By this point it had been about fifteen or twenty minutes and I'm pretty sure P.J. thought I had kicked it. But no! They brought him in to sit at the left side of my head and my strapped-down arms (we redefined "natural") and we waited for the fun to begin.

I actually made the entire surgical team laugh when I told them that I'd only agreed to go out for one drink with my husband...and I had no idea how the rest of this happened. Someone suggested it must've been a rather large drink to result in a baby five years later. Perhaps a mai tai in a fish bowl?

Less than TEN MINUTES LATER, they announced that they were close and I'd be feeling some "pressure" and a little "tugging." (I did, but remember- for nine months I'd been feeling a LOT more than a "some pressure.") With a faint 'pop,' I suddenly felt a ton more room in the vicinity of my lungs and heard "We've got some feet." That's right, they had to ease the baby out backwards, sloooooowly. P.J. almost leaned up over the curtain to see but was then told, "Wait until we take care of her vital organs." (Wait, what? Mine? This IS like the game 'Operation!' Do you see a charley horse?) Finally, FINALLY, they let P.J. look up over the curtain and tell me what we had.

Now remember, for months and months I'd been having dreams wherein a little boy featured prominently. People told me I was carrying a boy, based on old wives' tales. I felt like I was carrying a boy, whatever the heck that means. I would've gladly welcomed a girl, but it was a laughable thought- it just wasn't going to happen!

"It's...a GIRL!" P.J. looked down at me and exclaimed this with a laugh. I laughed too, not quite getting the joke. WHO was a girl? Then, suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. She was a girl. The baby. I had a baby! Who was a girl! P.J. welled up. I welled up. We laughed some more. We said the word "girl" a few more times. I saw a vague, pink figure getting wrapped up on the scale across the room.

And then...she was in P.J.'s arms. I looked at her, still not quite connecting the fact that THIS was The Bitsy, the one who really, really needed those pickles and onions, the one who'd been kicking and punching my ribs nonstop. I kissed her ridiculously soft cheeks and kissed her wide mouth that was an exact miniature replica of P.J.'s, and looked into her serious, terribly surprised blue eyes. Her hair, tucked under a pink Northwestern Memorial Hospital cap (for she was a GIRL), was brown with dark gold roots and as soft as duck down.

During this time, the surgical team (the doctor and anesthesiologist were both so amazing I almost named her after them, regardless of gender)sewed me up and had us out of there in an hour. Amazingly, the baby never had to leave our sides (like they could even pry her away) and I got to carry her out of there in my arms on our way back to the recovery room.

"Does she have a name?" The nurse asked us as she filled out the bassinet tag.

"Nora Jane."

And there you have it. An hour in recovery where people poked, prodded, injected and UNhooked me from machinery, did the same to Nora, asked us similar questions as before (I answered for Nora, being her mother and all) and began to share the good news on Facebook and via emails. (Unfortunately, the draft email we had saved with everyone's addresses and the heading "It's a..." sent without text in the body, thoroughly confusing and pissing off about fifty people. Thusly, P.J. had to quickly re-send, re-text and make some calls to head off the close friends and relatives at the pass.) P.J. got to put Nora in her first tee-shirt with mitten sleeves (it's a very "Dad" job, you see) and I took a break from staring into her face for about five minutes. Made some calls. Had some more things poked and prodded. Then I took her back and haven't looked away since.

That night, in our super plush room at Prentice (a corner room with floor to ceiling windows and an incredible skyline view- as the doctors who checked on us said, "How'd you get THIS room?") we played the Beatles lullabye album...and stared at her some more. Total and utter bliss. Sure, the DuraMorph was incredible (and sadly short-lived) but the euphoric high from having her was even cooler. (The next night P.J. informed me that I'd had four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. I DID NOT CARE.) Nor did I want anyone to take her to the nursery. Solid sleep is for the weak! I want my kid! Who is a GIRL!)

We left three days later (and with only one really rough night where the pain meds were but a sad, sad joke) feeling like the entire delivery was waaaay too easy. I could do this again! P.J. points at me every time I say this, but seriously. I had no idea SHE'D be the end result of nine months of utter discomfort, sickness and more than a little pain. (I mean, I had an idea, but I didn't even know her! Not the way I do now. Being her mother and all.)

My mother and father came first to royally spoil us (my Dad kinda finished the rest of the house projects and my Mom has yet to slow down her catering and cleaning) and our pals have been a nonstop source of awesome. P.J., sadly, had to go back to work, but we inundate him with pictures specifically designed to tug at his heartstrings and send emails about Nora's progress with training wheels and college applications.

And today's her one week birthday! It blows my mind. Sure, the drugs are pretty decent, but the passage of time has ZOOMED! (By the by, happy 31st birthday to my big sister and Nora's rad Auntie Kate! She gave me a birthday buddy with her first son and my first nephew- I gave her a birthday-week buddy with my first daughter and her first niece!)

Things are skipping along nicely here at home.

Nora and I sleep. A lot.

And we both eat. A LOT lot.

It is, quite simply, the sweetest gig I've ever scored.

Hey there, Scorpio baby!

Well, this is it.

The end of Date Night Month.

(And, uh, the BEGINNING OF THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A PARENT AND NON-SLEEPER.)

October has treated me pretty well. This week alone we rounded out the dates with a viewing of "Where the Wild Things Are" (I cried, surprise, surprise), a yum dinner at Kiki's Bistro (no relation) for Peej's birthday (we had steak pomme frites- bringing us up to...four steaks this week. Nice life) a walk in the forest preserve (where a buck crossed our paths, momentously non-concerned- later, we saw his wife and baby resting by a tree- he's a family man, too!) and discovered Susie's Diner (24/7 greasy fabulousness and fifty-plus milkshakes on the menu! Date SUMMER, coming right up!)

I love P.J.'s birthday- I love most birthdays, really- because the idea of celebrating for an entire day is so, so appealing. I made him breakfast kinda early (he's a bit of a "rusher" in the mornings...) and watched him open his prezzies. We had opened a few the night before (spoiledrottenbaby) because the stack of presents was mammoth and he was "only thinking of me" getting to see him open all of them. That. Is. Love. And nothing says "love" like an 18 volt Black & Decker drill. (The cats got him socks and boxers- unoriginal, but hey- they have no thumbkins.) Spent the rest of the day emailing him 28 reasons why he's so great (Peej started that tradition on my 25th...my youngest sis said that it would be pretty difficult by middle age. My thought: if I can't think of ONE new thing I like about my husband each year, it's gonna be a loooong marriage) and then we had a little French bistro action. This was followed, of course, by a chocolate Sweet Mandy B's cake.

For P.J., of course.

This week was also spent running errands on a gigantic to-do list, checking things off like God Himself was going to point down at an item and proclaim: You didn't pay your library fines? No more books for you. EVER.

Finally was able to use a gift card to a swank maternity store- ended up buying a sweatshirt. Whatever. I love it. I did, however, have a moment of delirious laughter when I saw the "Nine months" option hanging in the dressing room. Ever seen one of these? It's like a toddler's water bubble for the pool, 'cept it goes in front- you know, to guesstimate how big a size you'll need at "nine months."

Except.

It was the size of a volleyball, cut in half. Now, a volleyball isn't exactly tiny...but it's certainly not even coming close to the span of my midsection. I'm pretty sure it's even smaller than the circumference of my kid's head. It may actually be boob-sized. Regardless. This is not helpful and it a) will only perpetuate this idea that WOMEN GAIN SEVEN POUNDS IN PREGNANCY and b) make you come back for a new hoodie. Except you'll be crying. For you'll feel obese.

Thanks, "Nine months" option!

Also did that all-too-critical eyebrows step prior to one's delivery. (Now, I don't necessarily have any illusions that I'll look like Heidi Klum in the hospital, but I'd rather not look like Gary Busey, either.) There's this place down the street that looked shady and cheap- but it had been recommended- so I gave it a try. You would have thought a military operation was going down. Turns out, they didn't "wax" so much as "thread" the living daylights out of any hair within the vicinity of my eyeballs. This was a two woman job. And I was clearly in the way as the third. Like a really uncomfortable game of Cats Cradle, they pulled, twanged and sawed at my eyebrows until I was pretty sure raw nerves were exposed. At one point I began to giggle (even though, truly, nothing was funny AT ALL) and also tried to wipe away an errant tear.

"You no help." (Story of my life, sister.)

And just when I thought my head would explode from a sensation akin to holding in a sneeze for an hour, underwater, while being stabbed...there was a big ol' mirror in front of my face.

"You like?"

DID I LIKE?! My head was now glorious! My brows conveyed a look of stylish, confident wit. And the price? FIVE DOLLARS. (I'm going back next month.)

And now, with no further ado...I'm off to the hospital to meet my kiddo! I am unbelievably excited to see the baby who has kept me on a strict diet of pickles, onions, tacos, Italian ice and lemonade for the past nine months, as well as see JUST HOW BIG the feet are that have dragging across my ribcage for the past two. Hopefully we'll be able to loosen the ball that is my child's body within the next month- after all, any kid that chooses to spend a trimester with his face against a lung and ankles over the forehead (with hands making "fish face" gills) is destined to be slightly cylindrical in shape. I'm already in love.

So today, October 29th, 2009, the day that the Billboard Pop Charts insist that Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is the best song EVER and "Paranormal Activity" is the biggest box office smash ("Where the Wild Things Are" is third!), I get to officially...

...wonder if the term "lollygag" is already a sweet, laughable, never-again-kinda phrase.

(Happy birthday, Bitsy!)

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

Two weeks. Gosh, that sounds definite.

I've been watching a lot of television lately. I have little to no energy left to renovate or get the house baby-ready at the end of a workday (my new mindset: the baby can sleep on me. Here, throw me that towel.) Between episodes of Ghost Whisperer wherein I cry like my arm is being broken off at the shoulder (I don't know where this new obsession is coming from- I never used to watch 'ion: positively entertaining' tv) and various Laws & various Orders, I've been enjoying the heck out of batty commercials for folks who have been "trapped" into debt. Sure, debt is superbly easy to accrue (I've, ah, heard) but the best part is the statement in bold across the screen that reiterates what the "paid spokesperson, not an actual lawyer" proclaims: "Over 2k in debt? IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT." Really? Not even the InStyler hair straightener or the Slanket? (I can't resist the new skull n' bones pattern.) I mean, I definitely believe that infomercials hold a certain sway over all of us, but no one's holding an UltraSmooth to your head to fork over your AmEx. I feel better, however, knowing that I am not to blame. If there's anything I hate more than debt, it's personal responsibility. (And frizzy hair, cold appendages and stubble.)

On a similar note, what would really happen if I followed the advice of some of those ads that implore you to "Tell 'em ___ sent ya!" If I walked into a pharmacy and proclaimed that Wilford Brimley should've called ahead for me, do you think that would fly?

"Oh, how is he?"

"...Fine."

And while we're on the topic of blatant consumerism, what the heck is Target's problem? I went in seeking nursing bras (sorry) and asked a lady in the section clearly labeled 'Maternity." You would have thought I asked her to jump my car with the look she gave me.

"Uh, that's not my department. Maybe try LINGERIE?"

(My bad. Many things come to mind with the word 'lingerie.' Snap-top bras and supportive elastic bands are not two of them. Those definitely seem "maternal" to me.") Searched for about ten minutes in the lingerie section and almost ventured over to Patio Furniture to ask for help when I finally found them. They were clearly marked and displayed in the three inch by seven inch gap BEHIND a support beam and hidden by two perpendicular racks of knee socks. OF COURSE. I actually did have to ask for help in getting them out (I no longer span 3x7 inches in any part of my upper torso. Sorry.)

And why oh WHY do maternity pants have sewn-up pockets? The inside fabric is still there, why all the secrecy? I really don't think anything with the word "maternity" in it should be just for show. For I have nothing I wish to show any longer.

One last gripe. For today. I think. If one more person tells me how 'lucky' I am that I don't have to 'go through actual labor,' in terms of my impending c-section, I may rip out their tongue and shove it down their throat, gushing about their luck in not having to actually swallow any longer. That's me, Lucky Charms Flynn. When's the last time major abdominal surgery was considered a prize? There will be a person there whose sole job it will be to hold my major internal organs outside of my abdominal cavity for about an hour. I mean, I would never say the same to a gal who was about to undergo a natural childbirth, proclaiming her luck in avoiding needles and all forms of nasty painkillers! LUCK would be used to describe someone who was tapped gently on the shoulder and woken from a lovely sleep only to be cheerfully told that she seemed to have had a baby in her sleep. Would you like an ice cream sandwich?

I DO, however, feel lucky that I live in a time where the term DuraMorph is a real one. Think about how lovely those words are and how sweet they sound all mashed together like that. Morphine for the Duration. My new Emo band.

And finally, this last little bit of awesome was sent to me by my sister, who had had it forwarded to her from a pal. But it is I who will put it out there for public consumption and discussion: click here, please.

Check out the 'About Us' section. Go down to bio of ol' 'Chuck.' I'll wait.

Okay. There are three phrases that stand out to me. "All inclusive neutering" is one. "Special gift" is another. Also, that (unnecessary) bit about the more exciting relationship with Barbara.

Your assignment? Tell me what's going on in that scenario. Also, what to do about my now-bleeding ocular cavities.

Seriously. I will wait here until you do. And wish that Slankets came in psyche-size.

Theatre references are always funny.

News! Insomuch as there's no real "news." The baby has not flipped. The baby has a finite amount of time left in which to flip. The "baby" has an enormous head. (Okay, okay, maybe it's not *enormous,* but it's certainly bigger than it ought to be at 36 weeks. I mean, we're not talking John Merrick here, but rather large for my ribcage.) In fact, the baby's head is measuring at 39 weeks. Or, as someone mistakenly heard- 39 inches. (That's less 'Elephant Man' and more 'Dudley Moore's entire frame.' Owie.)

But there's still time! And, as my doctor so optimistically averaged it- less than 1% chance that the kiddo will flip on his or her own! Great! (So...you're saying there's a CHANCE.)

That said, we have THREE WEEKS left to do everything I've ever wanted to do as a childless person. Or, at least everything to the upstairs of the house and/or a few scenes of plays that should be done before a child is clinging to me like...oh, who the heck am I kidding? I already have a toddler-sized baby swinging from my ribs and rendering me useless, cranky and more than a little sleepy. So come on over, folks! The house is apparently done!

Babycenter.com says that my child should be about the size of a Crenshaw melon, which is probably the least helpful imagery ever. A), because it's clearly incorrect. Whatever the heck a Crenshaw melon is, I've just been informed that my kiddo is most likely bigger than it and b) what the heck IS a Crenshaw melon? And stop with the food comparisons! I'm not going to eat my child and I already find myself famished every twenty minutes as it is. (I blame babycenter.com for my pregnancy weight gain. Yeah, that's it!) I understand size references like: bowling ball. Laptop. Breadbox. (On an unrelated note, P.J. was describing something to me the other day and I asked how big it was. He replied, "It's actually EXACTLY the size of a breadbox!" I wondered how long he'd been sitting on that descriptive turn of phrase. And no, the object wasn't specifically a breadbox. I think it was something to do with home repair.)

I've been taking Lil to preschool on Wednesdays at a superbly pricey and preppy early education center lately ...and regardless of my advanced physical pregnant-ness, I am STILL the social pariah because of my nanny status. That's right, because I take care of children, the mothers cannot converse with me ABOUT children. I'm sure it makes sense to them. However, I do get to take a lot of good notes- not on childcare, mind you, most of these women don't know their own kids' middle names- but on the rank of certain possessions in their lives. FOR EXAMPLE: One of the moms was mugged a few months back, in Lincoln Park, while pregnant AND while her toddler was in tow. The first questions asked of her?

"Oh my God, was your iPhone out?"

"Did he take your ring?"

And the responses?

"Yes, he TOOK MY iPHONE!" ("Oh, you poor thing. Did you call AT&T right away?")

and (my favorite): "No, the ring was at the jeweler's- THANK GOD!"

I assume the kid was fine, as was the unborn child...or it would've come up. Right? Right? But I also learned how unfair the housing market is to PEOPLE WITH MONEY. (That's right, P.J., remember when we were feeling stressed about finding our home? Imagine if we had really had money! We have no idea how the other half has to live.) Turns out, if you're poor, people THROW mortgages at you, but if you have "too much money" (actual quote) it's really, really hard.

Sigh.

One woman also had the complaint about finding a gorgeous home that she could NEVER live in...because the master bathroom was, well, "you know what I'm talking about." And the other women nodded sagely.

What? What can it be like? My "master bathroom" is a makeshift closet off of a onetime D.I.Y. shoebox kitchen (next to the baby's room- nice) that currently has a ceiling furnace vent that FELL onto the floor the other night with such a loud bang that we believed a wall had fallen over. And the "vanity mirror" possesses a folded paper towel scrap in one corner that, if removed, causes an entire sheet of plate glass to crash into the sink. PLEASE tell me what a dealbreaker of a bathroom you saw. Was it beige? I bet it was beige.

On an extraordinarily positive note, our local Jewel has recently restocked AirWicks apple cinnamon air freshener. IT'S ABOUT TIME. After about three months, "fresh linen" scent no longer smells "fresh" or even particularly like fabric. Plus, we had a coupon for a free warmer! I have no idea why I need this! It's called a "Hidden Pleasures" AirWick wamer, which sounds fabulously deceitful and decadent. It also boasts a "discreet frosted" plastic cover. Why are we hiding this? I feel no shame for my love of apple cinnamon AirWicks, nor does a cover, discreetly frosted or otherwise, make it look less like an air freshener. Maybe each one should come with a Chia Pet cover! We could market it as "Obvious Quirks!"

Some people just have a head for business, I guess.

Are they trying to intimidate me?

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.

Just like a feral cat!

Firstly, let me terrify everyone who may be having a child within the next nine months...

Have you read about the woman who got pregnant WHILST pregnant?
http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/
For serious, this is a bit much. One woman, pregnant- twice- within three weeks. PUT HER HUSBAND IN ANOTHER ROOM, PLEASE! No matter how "rare" the doctors say this may be, *one* case within earshot of my pregnancy is entirely one too many. Pretty much the only perk of the first trimester is that this should NOT happen. (Granted, if you were anything like me, you spent the first three months sobbing into your Italian ice and throwing shoes at anyone who happened to walk into the living room, especially if he was the one who did this awful thing to you. This was before I was deeply in love with my bundle o' joy, let the record show.) But seriously, this is how the mother of my cats was impregnated, and Bean and Ender (though dearly beloved) are kinda nuts! I wonder if one of the babies this lady is bearing will be a tabby. I guess only if the father is a carrier.

Also, terribly, my first thought upon seeing this clip was how huge the woman looked. Which is awful. Because I've pretty much based a blog around the fact that people are so mean (i.e. careless in speech) to pregnant woman and how obese my doctor feels that I am. (However, this woman was wiiiiiide. Maybe she's carrying an ocelot.)

And now, sadly, it's my duty to announce the end of Great Expectations. Yep, we graduated. I have no idea what to write about anymore, frankly, since this class inspired a War and Peace-type of prolificacy in me and I have a few weeks of gestation yet to go. Last night was POSTPARTUM ISSUES NIGHT (the night least like Taco Night of them all, I think.)

Apparently, we have to take the baby home eventually. And some women have ISSUES. Like exhaustion, pain, worries and depression. (Aw, junk, that's how I feel NOW!) Plus, we'll have the added joy of the imminent Chicago winter. (Who DID this to me?!) And did you know that TERRIBLE THINGS can happen to the baby at ANY time? Basically, the safest thing you can do for your child is to place him or her (on their back, obvie,) in a barren crib, after ONLY feeding from one's breast (preferably the mother's), with three industrial-strength fans overhead (for circulating air), completely naked.

And these are the mothers who care too much! Sounds like a healthy dose of neglect would be comfier.

After a circumcision slideshow (which I DEFINITELY do not need to be able to perform, COME ON), and watching all of the terrible things they're required to do BY LAW to my child (Steroid eyedrops! Vitamin K needles the length and width of Guam!), a "goody bag" of postpartum necessities was passed around the room, one to a person, to ready ourselves for the next discussion. However, as I was busy texting my mother (Hi Mom!), down the street at the Apple store while we Lamazed, I was understandably confused when I was handed a gigantic sanitary pad.

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

P.J. gave me a look and I shrugged at him, as if to say, "You wanted a certificate or a medal?" I even put it in my bag. Later, when the nurse mentioned each item and the student held it up for discussion, I understood and sheepishly got it out of my bag to show the class. Sure makes a lot more sense why some guy was holding a bottle of stool softener.

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

But that's it. We are now child-havin' experts. Which is good, because according to the way people have been treating me, it could happen at ANY MINUTE. Which would NOT be good, as P.J. is out of town tonight and tomorrow for a super-secret mission on the East coast. (Plus, he desperately wants a Scorpio baby, ever since we received a super cute onesie proclaiming "Scorpio." A Virgo would not cut the mustard. Or spread it, for that matter. Who gets hard mustard?)

Plus, word on the street is that I'm getting showered with baby this weekend, so it would be nice to actually participate in THAT (as opposed to active labor)...and finally, I can't have the baby before the end of OCTOBER DATE MONTH. Yep, we're slowing home renovations (we are so nowhere close to done, but whatever) so that in the month of October we can a) make dinner, b) watch movies, c) go outside and d) sleep entire weekends away. (I think that 24-year old and 29-year old Keely would each be appalled at the other's idea of a swell date.)

We're done with travels (for now), finished enjoying the heck out of friends' and families' weddings for the year, no more baby showers in far-flung locales such as Cincinnati (although Dorrie's recent one at the Country Club was posh and superbly catered- I think I had twelve pieces of hors d' vours that may or may not have been potatoes- and I don't even like potatoes) and I'm wiiiiinding down the days of nannying. Before nannying again. With a baby. (As I was explaining to various people who say "Oh how easy for you! Taking the baby to work!", yep, it'll sure be lovely, but kinda hard. I mean, I'm not a forklift operator, but it'll still be two full-time jobs AT THE SAME TIME.)

But after eight weeks of "resting" with the baby, I'm sure I'll be ready for anything. Even finishing the two plays that were due August 1st. Or rediscovering where I left my bottom ribs. (Maybe under the last two banana-nut muffins.) Do not judge. At least I am carrying one, non-catlike baby from a one, non-alley cat father.

And at least I still have my delicately turned, non-swole ankles.

It's the little things.