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.

Kinda like Buy One Get One Free...

...of a really bizarre infomercial product...

...for which you ended up paying a ton of shipping anyhow!

Week 33. TWO classes this week, folks. That's right. Double your awesome info. Starting with Tuesday...a.k.a. INFANT AND CHILD CPR AND FIRST AID NIGHT. Now, I've been a nanny for seven years and know (roughly) how to keep a kid alive. But a refresher course is a refresher course, especially considering a lot of this "practical" knowledge will fly straight out of my ears the first 4am I get to deal with a hacking cough during cold n' flu season. Plus, I'm pretty sure P.J. hasn't studied this stuff since the early Clinton years.

SO. We started out tilting the head and breathing into the nostrils and mouth (just like a puppy!) of our black plastic infant...who possessed a twisted air pipe. HE WAS LIKE THAT WHEN WE GOT HIM. After some minor tweaking by the instructor, I proved I could breathe (and look and listen) with the best of 'em. And then we got to follow along with the video! Oh, the video. The narrator of each scenario looked like a cross between Olivia Newton John and Jane Seymour...if either of them had ever been grinning coke addicts. Boy, was she eager to tell you the terrible things that could happen AT ANY TIME! For example, your baby, apropos of nothing, could JUST STOP BREATHING. Or your dad, at a family picnic, could fall down in the backyard. Imagine that you were playing Nintendo with a buddy, chowing on some pizza. YOU COULD CHOKE. (The worst part is that they never went back to the "acted-out" scenarios after the instructional parts - we were left to assume that all of these folks died from ineptitude.)

And, oh, the instructional parts. Multiple people, dressed in the same grey breakaway track pants and baggy red tee shirts (you need to be ready to bend and squat at any time, apparently. The business of saving lives won't wait until you change out of your three piece suit, no sir.) These folks all stood, one at a time, in front of a sheet draped over a wall (the technical quality of these portions were phenomenal) and acted out imaginary scenarios...to no one in particular. One Asian gal had absolutely no intonation or vocal affect ("Hey...you. Are you choking? Someone. Call. 9.1.1.) On the other hand, a Black lady with 'tude for miles and half of her track pants open at one side (I am not even kidding) told an imaginary passerby to call 911 with such force that I almost reached for my cell. Now THAT is who you want saving your life.

Also helpful- you should only try to remove a food blockage from someone's mouth if it's right at the tip of their tongue (in the video, an M&M was picked up with two fingers from the mannequin's lips). Now, where I'm from, that's not called "choking" so much as "eating an M&M," but I'm no medical professional.

The best part of the video? When the narrator came back onscreen, proudly proclaiming that now we had "all the tools" to save lives...just like Gary.

Um, what? Who the hell is Gary? Did we miss his vignette? Was he the dad in the backyard?

There was no time to worry about such trivialities, because before I knew it, it was WEDNESDAY. That's right, Great Expectations, week three.

C-SECTION NIGHT!! (Yep, I thought we briefly covered that last week as well, but apparently not enough to be able to perform the surgery ourselves. I can think of no other practical reason to make me watch that nightmare-inducing procedure twice.) As P.J. later told me, they were clearly going for the 'this isn't so bad, right?' hard sell, but no matter how sunshiney and rosy they tried to make it seem, there was still a woman strapped onto a bed, arms out in the t-position, being rotated like a pig on a spit (for circulation, obviously), unable to move anything below her chin and telling the camera how nauseous she was. (Out of my way, kids, I'm first in line for THIS ride!) Also, the bit about mother/child bonding was sweet...insomuch as the nurse had to hold the newborn to his mother's cheek as she was incapable of doing anything other than wiggling her chin at him for an hour and a half.

Helpful tips: If you're feeling "anxious," (Good God, why on earth would that be?) ask your doctor to "explain each step of the procedure for you." Uh, if I'm having a panic attack about being strapped down and clothespinned open, perhaps telling me which layer you're dicing through won't have the calming effect you're expecting.

And the You Really Didn't Save Us From Witnessing the Graphic Awfulness Award goes to...the animated video showing how they clothespin you open and dice you up. In slightly more medical terms. That said, que sera, sera, right? If I get to experience a day like that, I can take solace in the fact that from shaving one's belly (Uh...?) to actual emergence of a child takes FIVE MINUTES. Perhaps we should slow down a little? That's freaky fast. Impressive, but maybe a bit too Get 'Er Done.

And, of course, I'd have P.J. there by my wiggling chin to, you know, poke me in the arm to let me feel his presence (an actual tip.)

With the A/V club portion over, we got to tour the facility (and pick up the slack. Okay, not really. We were actually probably in the way.) Turns out, these rooms are the reward for sitting through horrendous videos. It's like a day spa! Sure, a really crappy day spa wherein you leave a LOT less limber than when you entered, but still. Pretty. Floor to ceiling windows with views of downtown (do they have views of me? Ewww), wood paneling on the walls, a flat screen TV and Bose sound dock in each delivery room, plus none of that Oh My God I'm In An Operating Room lighting. I'd prefer to be backlit at all times, of course, but these options seem like a close second.

On our way out we passed a slightly shell-shocked woman in a wheelchair heading to Recovery, her dazed husband walking behind the nurse, clutching a duffel bag like his very life depended on it. Upon seeing all of us pregnant ladies, the nurse bent over and said softly, "Just think, yesterday that was YOU!"

I have no idea what sort of traumatic event THAT poor fool just went through, but God bless, right?

As I write this, my currently breech-positioned child seems to be kicking somewhere between my ribs and right side...certainly on the correct road towards a heads-down, can-do attitude, but most definitely in an area that CANNOT STRETCH ANY FURTHER. I am one lace-trimmed apron away from the knock 'em out ether, chloroform, whathaveyou method of labor from the 40s and 50s.

As long as I don't have to watch the video.

It's like a bee sting. From a truck-sized bee.

Week 32! Already four and a half pounds (the baby- I weight a biiiiiit more), blood pressure great for both mom n' kid, extremely active baby with a superb heart rate and...OH YES, the kid is standing straight up, a.k.a. breech, a.k.a., I'm gonna need that part of my lung and ribcage back. We had evidence of this acrobatic acumen with our latest ultrasound- our child, on its belly, ankles up to the forehead, hands pushing on its face. Impressive, uncomfortable and kickier than a donkey. Nice trifecta. The baby is currently in a position called 'frank breech' ("Frankly, your kid is breech.") This is no big deal medically, excepting the fact that if the Bitsy doesn't turn on its own (15% chance) my team of doctors will try to TURN THE BABY at 37 weeks (40% chance and um, ow) and if nothing happens, c-section at 39 weeks. The week of P.J.'s birthday and perhaps on the day of his lucky 27. I smell conspiracy. (And bacon. Who's cooking bacon at 1pm? Halfsies!)

I've gotten some pretty helpful advice for "turning the child" and some even includes doing it "naturally." An example of "natural?" Leaning an IRONING BOARD against a couch and propping myself upside down on it- something I couldn't have done even had I NOT been entering my 8th month of pregnancy, mind you- and letting the child decide that s/he doesn't care for that position any longer. What could be more natural? How about frozen peas on the head? (The baby's, not mine.) Perhaps clothespins attached to the outside of my pinky toes? Acupuncture, acupressure, prenatal massage, jiu jitsu (not really) and my personal favorite: getting in a pool (okie doke! Where is this magical pool?) and doing a HANDSTAND. Never mind the fact that I also cannot do a handstand, pregnant or not, in water or otherwise, and my balance is already atrocious. Do I want to flip this child or terrify it into submission? Why not just go on a roller coaster? Enter a chili pepper-eating contest? Make a funny paper hat and place it in a scrapbook? Bizarre suggestions all, but more importantly- holistic. (And thanks, Kat, for sending me a website solely for the reason you commented- "They used the word "foetal.") Now, I know that a c-section wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but...I've read Macbeth. I know how this kinda thing turns out. (Gettin' a little literary up in here, no?)

But more importantly- last night was week 2 of Great Expectations. Epidural Night! (I asked people if it was anything like Taco Night- which I LOVE- and all I got for my trouble was a resounding "Ah, no.") And that's fine. Because it wasn't.

It was BETTER!

We began with a ten second clip from the movie 'Nine months" with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore, in which Grant takes Moore to the hospital to have her baby. ("My water broke!" "Well, we'll get you another one!") Hijinks ensued, Robin Williams, M.D., produced an epidural needle the size of a small pachyderm and Julianne Moore's wheelchair got pushed down the hall and into an open elevator.

"That's how NOT to go into labor," our instructing R.N. told us.

I am not even joking.

We then saw a video with proper birthing positions (upright, seated, side-lying) to alleviate different kinds of labor pains. And the headbands! Ooh boy, last week's headbands had NOTHING on the bespangled creations this week, the kind that said "Out of my way, hair (and husbands), I GOT THIS ONE." And then there was a third video- obviously staged, as the best scene came when a 'laboring mom' huffed and screamed and sweated for a good while, looked up demurely and said "I think I'd like an epidural," and then when the attending physician came by, asked "Will it hurt?" Well, no more than the water buffalo you were apparently trying to dislodge! And then P.J.'s favorite part; after the placement of the epidural, the doctor and patient smiled at each other, the doctor signed off on a chart, left the room, LOOKED UP AT THE CAMERA and, still smiling, assured us "She'll be fine." Please continue to walk us through this hard-hitting slice of reality television! Is this Sesame Street? Can we now see a llama getting its teeth cleaned?

And lest you think that the husbands were not represented as well this week- oh no- we had a guy whose mustache would put Magnum, P.I.'s to shame who continuously pushed his wife's bangs out of her face (for she did not have a headband) and muttered like Rain Man "You're doing good. You're doing real good." (She asked for the epidural reeeally early on.)

Best yet, we got to practice what we saw! Balancing on yoga balls, bent over chairs, on all fours and purring like cats (okay, so she didn't SAY to purr like cats) and getting to breathe deeply while looking in each others' eyes. Turns out, if I hafta breathe deeply and look into P.J.'s eyes during labor, it may not work out. He is really, really funny. Even if (and might I add- especially) when he is TRYING to be SERIOUS. And when he had to massage out my "back labor," he really went for the gold. He destroyed that contraction. Also a hip joint. But he was SERIOUS.

They also snuck in a video about c-sections, which was NOT COOL TO DO. If I have to get a c-section (no) I'm fairly certain all I have to do is show up. The less I know about that needle and the clamps FOR MY SKIN the better. In fact, let's pretend we didn't see what happens on the other side of the curtain, lalalalalalala. (This goes double for episiotomies, bodily fluids and functions during labor, and gowns that fail to cover one's body adequately- none of this EVER happened.) Found out video taping during labor isn't allowed- aw, shucks!- but we're allowed to take as many pictures of our child AFTER the fact as we'd like. Thanks! You're sure we don't have to sign a waiver?

I think that getting pregnant is the best thing that has EVER happened to my writing career. Lamaze class is coming in at a close second. I plan to live-blog my labor and delivery. Or maybe I'll let P.J., if he's not too busy.

I'll bring a backup headband, just in case.