Countdown

It's now 11:23 p.m. on May 12th, and I turn 30 in exactly 37 minutes. I think that right about now, many people are having panic attacks at the prospect of their 20s slipping away. I spent the day wrapping up my last day at work before maternity leave, seeing a chick flick with my friends, then coming home and joining in a round or two of Guitar Hero with Michael, Brent and Scott. It was a great day. It's been an awesome year. And overall, I've really enjoyed my 20s.

But how cool is it to know that in just eight days I'll be ringing in the early days of my 30s with an even bigger "birth day?" I'm really excited about all that Michael and I will experience together with our new family in the next decade.

And so I say, good riddance, 20s. It's been real. I had a great time finally drinking legally with you, even if it meant paying ridiculous cover charges and $10 per cocktail. It was great throwing a few dollars on the blackjack tables in Vegas with you. I was glad we got to stop paying rent together, even if it meant a mortgage payment, HOA fee and property taxes. And I'll always remember how you were with me as I found a career, and an amazing husband, too.

But I've got things to do, 20s, so I need to say goodbye and welcome the adventures my 30s have in store. And none too soon, either. Only 11 minutes left...

A Mind of Her Own

We found out this week that the baby is breech. All this time, we've been thinking that the lump up under my ribs was her little butt. But it's her head.

Dr. Barmeyer had scheduled me for one last ultrasound, just to take a look and make sure everything was going according to plan. I had my mom and Michael come, since it's always fun to see what's going on in there. As soon as the doc squirted the clear goop and put the wandy thing against the top of my belly, there it was: her sweet little round head where we thought her bottom would be.

My heart sank. I knew at this stage it meant there was very little chance of the baby turning, and that I'd need to have a C-section. I'm growing accostomed to the idea, though. Every woman I tell has a similar reaction ("Oh, good." or "That's the way to go, honey."). Moms who've given birth both ways add a knowing nod and a "Trust me."

Dr. B reassured me that it'll be just fine. He reminded me that the goal is "healthy baby, healthy mom." And, he said that the recovery all depends on the mom and the baby.

If my mom's pregnancies are any indication (and they have been, from the lack of morning sickness to my sister's butt-first entry into the world) it'll go just fine and I'll be up and about in a couple days. And ultimately, it doesn't matter which end of the baby comes into the world first. We'll just be glad to finally have her here.

It's No Bugaboo...

… but we still think our new stroller is pretty bad-ass. We got our Quinny “Buzz” stroller yesterday and the thing is awesome. It’s got air-filled tires, alloy wheels and a hydraulic folding mechanism. It came with accessories including a reclining seat, undercarriage shopping basket, rain guard and bug shield.

We buckled in our test subject, Mary the Little Lamb, and took it for a spin through the house and yard last night. The thing corners like it’s on rails. With gas prices what they are, we’re thinking we’ll strap a motor to it and use it as a commuter vehicle once the baby outgrows it.

Binkies, Blankies, Wipies, Daipies, Boppies and Onesies

My co-workers Lynn and Angie hosted a baby shower at work for me yesterday. With nearly 50 RSVPs, I was once again overwhelmed by the generousity of my friends. It was a really fun party, complete with yummy punch, my favorite strawberry-filled Costco cake, and the most adorable decorations including a clothesline strung with little onesies and booties. It's now official – the baby has a better wardrobe than Michael and me. Combined. Thanks Auntie Lynn and Auntie Ang!

Nesting, Chapter Two

The nursery is getting closer to being done! Our dresser/changing table got delivered on Saturday. Here's another peek at our little nest in the making...

Showered

My mom and sister hosted an amazing baby shower for me last Sunday. The decorations were so cute, with a little figurine of a different mom and baby on each table. I felt like a kid on Christmas while opening a mountain of awesome gifts. The best part was having all of my great girlfriends around to celebrate with. I can't wait for Baby Berberick to meet all her aunties.

Here are some shots of the festivities:

The Girls, Ready for a Party

The Aftermath

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?