I am sadly without a lot of pictures of this pregnancy! I'm most often the one (wo)manning the camera, so most pics are of everyone BUT me, except the ones I take in the mirror (and I think you've had enough of those to last a while). So please enjoy this small video of our pie-in-the-face party – it was my husband's birthday, and my younger stepson had told me his fondest desire was to see what it would be like to throw a pie in someone's face. I thought those two concepts went together nicely. Everyone got a pie in the face – except me and Penelope. Birdie took it for the whole team!
The reason I keep frantically yelling "put a B! put a B!" is that we pretty much know the baby's name, but I'm horribly superstitious about it. My stepson was putting the first letter of The Name, and I wanted him to put B for Baby just in case. I'm such a dork!
Anyway, given the dearth of images, I just posted to Facebook, looking for someone to take photos of this great bump and my toddler together. I can't stand it. I am so impressed with this thing, and while my arms and thighs may not be ready for prime-time, I can work with that. The kid that's out of me and the kid that's in me are the main event, and I've got to have them on record. Here's hoping I get some great leads – you know you'll be just about the first to see 'em if they happen.
You know what I don't have yet? A stripe! This time last time, I was just getting my linea nigra, the brown line down the middle of my belly. I absolutely loved it, it was such a sign that this was really happening (as if the bump, kicking, and mood-swings weren't enough), and I was terribly sad to see it go. Though I gather not everyone gets one – 25 percent of women don't. Did you?
My belly button is flattening, though, so I can see the stretched inside where I connected to my mom all those years ago. It's all making me very thoughtful and contemplative as Miss Somebody races around my insides.
I had my bi-weekly ultrasound and I have to say I've reached a point I never expected to reach: I'm tired of ultrasounds. Yep, there she is. Baby. Check. I do appreciate getting to see which movements are coming from her feet, her head, or her teeny fists, but it has lost the magical power to captivate me. I look up, admire the beating heart, peer at the tiny face, and then I'm ready to go, as the nurse and the doctor pore over my cervix and marvel at its length.
The fact is, I'm having a normal, great pregnancy. I'm healthy as a horse, and now that I've gone through my most recent growth spurt, I have a ton of energy and barely any aches and pains. I feel like an idiot, reporting to the hospital every two weeks, with more appointments scattered in between at random intervals, when there is obviously nothing wrong. As ususal, right after the appointment where I could see my thick cervix and my healthy baby, I went out and took Penelope for a celebratory circuit around the nearby playground, overdoing it in the process and needing a lie-down – but any pregnant lady would have to do that. I came very close to breaking the "pelvic rest" rule, too – but stopped short. How do I explain that lapse when I'm delivering a preemie for the second time? Awk-warrrd!
Meanwhile, my OBGYN is painfully aware that I am 2 weeks away from B-Day. Regardless of what I say or how I feel, she only knows one thing: I had a baby at 30 weeks, and I could do it again. "It's great that you're feeling well, but call if anything changes." "I'm so glad you're in good shape, but don't ignore any symptoms." For once in my life, I'm not the most worried person in the room. This is quite a switch! And it's a good feeling – knowing I'm being watched like a hawk. Some people might squirm under the microscope, but not me. I've always felt safer with someone's eyes on me – hence the time spent nearly flunking 7th grade, doing standup comedy, and happily avoiding being promoted from writer to editor.