Baby update.  Here’s MrsMouthy @ 34 weeks:


A couple weeks ago after a normal OB appointment and a normal ultrasound, I got a call from the doctor’s office that went something like this:

Calm voice on phone: I’m calling from the doctor’s office to set up weekly Neonatal Stress Tests. 
Panicky voice on phone (i.e. me): Neonatal Stress Tests?  Is something wrong?  What’s wrong with my baby?!!  The doctor saw something on the ultrasound, didn’t she?  It’s the cord—it was too close to the baby’s face.  I knew this was going to happen.  Is he going to be okay?  Is my baby going to make it?  Mah bay-baaaaaay!
Calm voice: I’m sorry ma’am; I’m just the receptionist.

Later I learned there was absolutely nothing wrong with Mbungo; my OB was just taking extra precautions because of Angelo and because I have a slight blood clotting condition.  But still!  How could I not be a little stressed out?  I mean, the word “stress” is right there in the name of the tests they signed me up for!

Anyway, for the past two appointments my stomach has been measuring a bit small.  If this had been my first pregnancy, the one where I didn’t worry about anything and where I was proud of my small size, I would have skipped out of the office and called everyone I knew who had been a boat when they were pregnant to tell them how small I was.  As it is, this is my third pregnancy and the one where I call the OB’s office if I don’t feel the baby moving for five minutes, so there has been no skipping or phone calling.

I have an ultrasound in the morning to make sure Mbungo is growing okay and I told myself I wouldn’t bing* “small fundus,” but then I accidentally did.  I’m trying to go with the safest possibility, which is that the baby is simply sideways and will probably turn his head south in the next week or two and everything will proceed as normal.  It’s just that there are much worse possibilities that a small fundus could indicate, and yes, Mom, I know I’m being a bit dramatic but the last time a doctor said that she was sending me back for an ultrasound but not to worry; everything looks mostly normal and this is probably one of those things that will just work itself out—that was the time I found out my baby was going to die.

I’ll write an update as soon as I can.  Probably nothing is wrong.  But I hate probability.

Herby turkey burgers
Buttermilk blue cheese potato salad
Fruit platter
Cherry sherbet in tuile bowls

*You’re welcome, Kevin and Microsoft

Feeding your addiction

QUICKIE: Vincenzo: “Mommy, are you my mommy?”  Me: “Yes, I’m you’re mommy!”  Vincenzo: “Oh.  I forgot.”
I have a policy to not blog when I don’t have anything to write about, but I’m torn today.  I know some of you have an unhealthy addiction to my blog and I’d hate making you go two days in a row without a hit…but I still don’t have anything to blog about.  Nor I have no real drugs to offer in my place.  I don’t even have any knock-knock jokes.  So I guess I’ll just write about REAL stuff?

I’m five months pregnant now and, as you know, still feeling sick all the time.  Blah.  my stomach has also started feeling like a balloon that has been blown up too much so I’m trying to avoid sharp, pointy objects lest something pops it.  Baby Mbungo moves around quite a bit, though last Friday he decided to take the day off and be completely still.  I was trying to be okay with it and remind myself some pregnant women can’t even feel the baby kick at 23 weeks, but by 3:00 I was laying on my living room floor, bawling.  My OB had told me to come in if I ever need to hear the heartbeat–come in every day if I need to!–so I woke Vincenzo up from his nap (now you know how serious it was) and headed for my doctor’s.  It took them about two seconds to find Mbungo’s heartbeat and I haven’t worried a smidge since then.  I consequently have a crush on everyone who works at my OB’s office.

Here’s something crazy: I just talked to my friend who I used to teach with, and the district is actually laying people off next year.  It’s a district that is one of the wealthiest in the state!  They’re looking for other ways to cut spending, too.  Teachers recently had to fill out a survey where they rated the feasibility of options such as:

*charging students $300 to ride the bus for the year
*charging student athletes $500 to play a sport
*cutting out all custodians–teachers would just maintain the classroom/buildings on their own
*cutting special needs classes within buildings

I’m shocked.  Which one would you choose, if you had to choose one?  I don’t think I could.

Lime cilantro burgers
Broccoli salad
Pound cake with almond whip cream and strawberries

Is this post half empty or half full?

QUICKIE: Aunt Jnet spent a lot of time playing pretend birthday with Vincenzo yesterday.  He woke up from his nap and asked, “Mom, am I four or five?”  I told him neither; he’s three.  He waited a minute, then asked, “So…was that just a pretend birthday party earlier?”
We’ve spent so much more time at home now that I’m pregnant.  I just don’t have the energy to go to the store or set up play dates.  Staying at home has a couple drawbacks.  Vincenzo now knows what, “Mommy is feeling understimulated” means, along with the phrases “mind-numbing,” “overqualified for this game,” and “leaking spinal fluid.”

For example, his favorite game now is Turtle Delivery.  He climbs in a laundry basket; I secure him in with a bungee cord and cover him with a blanket.  I wait for the pretend mail to be delivered while contemplating the meaning of life and I am likely doing in an alternate universe at this minute until the turtle starts making noise.  I open the box, am surprised to see a turtle in the mail, and read the tag to see who it’s from.  The turtle gets out and says, “Let’s do it again.”  The whole game lasts about five minutes–the kind of five minutes usually associated with the dentist drilling a hole in your tooth.

Staying at home isn’t so bad when I’m my normal self.  Usually there’s something to stir on the stove, or I sneak in a scrapbook page, or I put Vincenzo in the stroller and walk to Starbucks.  I just don’t feel like doing any of that now.  In fact, now that we’ve stopped the cat butt-licking charts, my days don’t have any fuel to them.  I don’t know how many people reading this have ever been truly depressed, but here’s what it’s like:

I wake up at 7 and wait for it to be 8.  It finally becomes 8, so then I wait for it to be 9.  Then I wait for it to be 10, and so on.  I find ways to distract myself throughout the day but the distractions are just like rocks skipping across the top of a deep, murky, stagnant pond.  When finally it becomes night and I’m tired enough to sleep, I crawl into bed feeling like the day was a week long.  I stare at the wall and imagine myself as 90 years old, and it doesn’t feel any different than it does now.  The things that used to make me happy–cooking and fancy restaurants and going on adventures with Vincenzo and traveling and scrapbooking and romance–those just seem like gruel.  Everything I do is just a way to kill time.  And I have six more months to kill time before I can go back to being myself.

Sorry to get down on you again.  I’s just trying to be real.