The Baby Comes First

I've reached the point in my pregnancy where my belly enters the room before the rest of my body. The baby now literally comes first.

With B-Day quickly approaching, I realize that there's a lot no one tells you before you get pregnant. Like the fact that the "nine months" of pregnancy actually takes 40 weeks. Something's wrong there, right? Or the fact that along with the joy and excitement of anticipating a new baby comes one emotion only the most candid of moms-to-be will cop to -- sheer terror.

Michael and I are dealing with the stress of the unknown in our own ways. He's developed an obsession with shuffleboard and become exceedingly protective of me ("You can't bowl in your third trimester!").

I’m being self-indulgent, sleeping in 'til noon on weekends and buying cookies from every Girl Scout I see. And bowling in my third trimester if I damn well feel like it.

I'm also feeling far more escapist than usual. I recently tried to convince Michael to go on one last trip to Vegas before the baby comes, but he was having none of it. I tried the “It’s not like we’ll be in the middle of the desert” rationale. But he reminded me that we would, in fact, be in the middle of the desert. Then I tried “but it’ll make for such a good blog entry. I can title it ‘Vegas, baby. Vegas.’” He didn’t seem to feel that was sufficient reason to head off to Sin City, unborn child in tow.

I'd say it's just Michael being overly protective again. But in reality, I know he’s right. After all, the baby comes first.

Nesting, Chapter One

I admit it. I’m obsessive when it comes to paint colors. I suppose I could chalk it up to my growing nesting instinct. But the truth is, it’s an affliction I’ve been dealing with long before I was pregnant.

As a psychology major who works in advertising, I’ve been trained to understand the power of color on mood and behavior. I know, for example, that red stimulates impulse and appetite. Just think KFC, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Jack in the Box … that’s no coincidence. I’ve read that yellow causes anxiety, and babies with yellow nurseries tend to cry more. And I know that green is one of the most restful colors to the eye. Hoping for a baby that would sleep through the night, we decided to paint the nursery green. And that’s where the obsession began.

See, for me it’s not as simple as, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty.” I approached the task with a fervor that drove some to deem me “The Paint Nazi.” I brought home volumes of paint chips. Purchased a dozen sample-sized colors. Created a crazy checkerboard of color on the nursery wall. Considered the grayness and yellowness of each shade. Reconsidered. Contemplated their warmth/coolness. Their Light Reflectance Value, a figure the paint company actually provides as though to mock my suffering. Looked at the wall in the morning. With the shades up. Shades down. Then again at night. At dusk. At dawn (when I’d likely be in there for a morning feeding, of course). Compared. Contrasted. And finally, after two weeks, decided. Floating Lily Pad it was. I was certain. Michael – perhaps the kindest and most patient man on Earth – concurred.

And so it was that two Sundays ago, Brent Kelly came over for an afternoon of painting and pizza with Michael. To escape the paint fumes – God knows I was loopy enough already – I headed to the mall on a mission for maternity shirts that didn’t look like circus tents.

Three hours later, I returned to a nursery beautifully cut-in and twice coated with Floating Lily Pad. And I hated it. Understanding that there’s a limit to Michael’s patience, I hid my true feelings and told him what a beautiful job he’d done. But I continued to creep back into the room, hoping the color might suddenly look somehow different. About three nights later, Michael happened upon me crouched on a footstool in the center of the room, crying. He knew immediately the obsession had continued. And he took it very well.

“Honey, if you really hate it, I’ll repaint,” he said, with all the tenderness and compassion I love so much. “But, I’m only doing it once more,” he said firmly. “So pick right this time.” After all, I didn’t marry a push-over.

As it turns out, he’s not repainting. Evidently, one of the symptoms of Paint-Obsessive Disorder is a reluctance to let go of the decision-making process itself, and simply accept that you have, in fact, chosen the most perfect hue possible. I walked into the room several days after the paint dried, and the heavens opened (or had the fumes just finally all cleared?). In any case, I was smitten. I suddenly couldn’t imagine a more ideal reflectance of light or a better balance of gray and yellow. Go figure.

No question about it, this was a labor of love but the end result was worth it. Much like real labor, I suppose. Though I hope that’s not quite as painful. Now about that changing table…

Way too gray. What was I thinking?

The Name Game

Here is a partial list of the criteria we’re considering when deciding on a name for our new baby:

- Is it pretty, but not too sugary sweet?
- Does it sound good with our last name?
- Will her initials spell something inappropriate?
- Does it work equally well for a little baby and a grown woman?
- Will it be mispronounced/misspelled her whole life?
- Will people make it into a nickname? If so, shouldn’t we just name her the nickname?
- How will it look on a resume?
- Does it sound like a pet’s name/food item/soap opera character?
- Will people frequently confuse it with something similar?
- Will it make her the target of schoolyard bullies?
- Is it too common? Is it too weird?
- Does it fit a little too comfortably into the phrase, “Gentlemen, put your hands together…now appearing on the main stage, let’s hear it for [insert name here]!!”?

In short, it’s dang hard to pick a name for a new baby. And so, when Michael and I finally decide on one, we’re planning to keep it to ourselves until after the baby’s born, lest input from others compel us to reconsider. In reality, there’s no name everyone will love, and people will be a lot more polite once the ink’s dry on the birth certificate.

Truth be told, we decided on our frontrunner name option really early on. We had just found out I was pregnant and I’d seen a name in my new baby-name book. For the sake of explanation, I’ll use the code name “Goldilocks.” I said to Michael, “I really like Goldilocks.” He said, “I really like Goldilocks, too. If it’s a girl, we should just go with that.” After several months, we both still really like it.

And so that’s what we’re thinking it’ll be. Of course, it all hinges on our final, most important criteria – once she’s born, do we take a look at her and say, “Yep, that’s our little Goldilocks”? Because all we really want is a name that fits our baby just right.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Over the course of the next few years, the baby and I will experience many firsts together. This past week, we had one of our first firsts.

We’ve just returned from a trip to Boise to visit Joe and Linda Berberick. We picked the perfect time to go. It was the only time it’s snowed in the city of Boise in recent memory. I'm a San Diego girl through and through, so I've never played in the falling snow. It was a blast. Here are some shots of the baby’s (and my) first time frolicking in the fresh snow.

Winter Wonderland

Keeping Warm the Ol' Fashioned Way

I'm Snow Angel

It's a ...

I lay on my back with my bare belly to the ceiling and I watch their faces – mom, Amy and Michael (dad’s home sick). But mostly, I watch her face – illuminated blue by the flickering monitor in the dark room – trying to detect the first sparks of recognition. It occurs to me that she’ll be the first person in the world to know whether Michael’s and my first child will be a son or a daughter.

Her name is Kelly, an ultrasound tech and co-worker of my mom’s. It’s Christmas Eve, my mom’s office is slow, and we’re getting anxious with anticipation. So we’re back trying to figure out whether the baby’s a boy or a girl. Kelly tells me to shift to my left side, gives a “Hmmm.” Then all the way over to my right side.

“I can stand on my head if you need me too,” I offer.

“No, no. Hopefully we won’t have to resort to that,” Kelly reassures me. Flat on my back again. “I’m just trying to see if anything’s ‘tucked,’” she says, “It’d be great if the baby would just roll over so we could see what we need to see.” With that, I’m convinced Michael’s declaration that it’s a girl is probably right; she’s stubborn just like her mom.

And then it happens. Kelly’s eyebrows raise slightly, her eyes widen. She’s seen what she’s been looking for. She takes a deep breath and says, “Well, it looks like you guys are having a little girl.” The room is filled with “Awwhhhh’s” and “I knew it's.”

We’re all on an adrenaline rush and can’t stop smiling during the ride home. Michael goes outside to smoke the cigar he’d saved for this occasion, and then we all sit in the sun on the patio and talk and laugh. I drag out the baby-name book; we make calls to our family.

I can’t wait to go to the Christmas Eve party tonight at the Gutschmidts’ and share the news. But before we leave, I go online and order the baby her first dress.

The Three Generations

Kelly with the Proud Parents

Dear Daughter: This is a Nasty Habit Which You Should Never Try

What We're Thankful For

We have a whole lot to be thankful for this year. Michael's mom and step dad have been out this week visiting with us and it's been great. We're going to celebrate the birthdays of Michael and my dad tonight. And, I made my first Thanksgiving turkey which turned out perfectly (with a lot of help and guidance from Emeril, Martha and Lynn Weber).

Today we went to my mom's work -- a medical imaging office -- for a second sneak peek at the baby. Lynn, Rich, my mom and my dad got to see first-hand what Michael and I saw a few weeks ago. The baby's doubled in size since then and is now 9 cm "crown to rump," or about 15 cm stretched out.

We were hoping we might see whether the baby's a boy or girl today, but it wasn't to be just yet. Nonetheless, it was amazing watching the screen and seeing how much more developed the baby is. We all watched as it hiccupped, touched its face, and gulped amniotic fluid. And now you can, too:


Baby Face


Hiccup



Slurp, Slurp


Hiccup Again

Our Baby

Now that my co-workers, friends and acquaintances all know about the baby, people ask me almost daily, "So, how are you feeling?" or "How's the baby?" It's more than polite conversation; they really want to know. Mothers offer unsolicited advice and relate stories of their own pregnancies. A print vendor I know stopped me in the hallway today to say that she saw a pregnant lady and thought of me. She wanted to know if I've been sick at all. I think the day will come once I'm bigger that strangers will ask to touch my belly, as though they want to be among the first to connect with the baby.

I've been thinking a lot about why people I hardly know are taking a vested interest in my well-being and that of the baby. I've realized I always used to do that, too, but I'd never really put much thought into it. I think it must have some evolutionary basis, that humans are naturally predisposed to care for babies and the mothers carrying them. Some sort of "It Takes A Village" thing. (Somewhere Sean Hannity is gagging.)

It's an awesome realization, though, to think how much bigger this whole process is than just me and Michael and our future little family. In a way, the responsibility is a little overwhelming. But in another way, I'm relieved to be bringing a baby into a world where so many people are hoping only the best for it. I know we'll all be surrounded by a lot of love and support, and for that I'm very grateful.

Butterflies in My Tummy

I may not be Ally McBeal, but I am convinced that we're having a dancing baby. It's no surprise, really; Michael and I both love to dance and take every opportunity to hone our "signature moves." It could be a friend's wedding, a night out, or just a great song on a Chrysler commercial. OK, to be fair, he's never danced to a Chrysler commercial. That was me. But he did win a breakdancing contest in high school and can still pop-lock with the best of them.

Our offspring is already starting to bust moves of its own. I began feeling flutters a couple weeks ago. It feels like little butterflies moving around, and it tickles when their wings brush against me. On Friday, I took the baby out dancing downtown in celebration of a coworker's 40th birthday. We were on the dance floor for a good couple hours and it was so much fun. Who needs prenatal yoga when you got House of Pain and "Jump Around"?

Saturday night, we went to see Jersey Boys and had dinner at The Hard Rock Café beforehand. The baby was active all night, though it was partial to "Paradise City" and Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You." I'm not sure Michael's convinced when I tell him the baby likes the music, but when we're watching our kid at the So You Think You Can Dance finals, he'll understand.