I’m in love… with a piece of furniture.

Angel went on Saturday morning to pick up our new La-Z-Boy rocker.  So let me break down how the rest of the weekend went after:

Saturday 2pm: Rocker arrives at house.  Momma-to-be (me) is out bringing lunch to her brother.

Saturday at 4pm: Momma-to-be arrives home to new, gorgeous, rocker/recliner in the loft in front of the TV.  It’s love at first sight.

Saturday at 5pm: Momma-to-be texts family:

our new La-Z-Boy rocker/recliner for the baby. It’s in the loft while Angel paints and I would take a picture of it but I haven’t gotten out of it yet so this was the best I could do

Saturday at 7pm: Starting to get hungry.  Still unwilling to move for food.

Saturday at 7:05pm: Baby disagrees.  I move for food.

Saturday at 8pm: Back in the chair, back watching HBO.  This is the start of a wonderful romance.

Saturday at 9pm: Chair seems to do the job…

Saturday at 11pm: Chair seems to do the job well.  Daddy-to-be wakes up Momma-to-be (and puppy) to put them to bed.  A successful night in the life of a chair.

Sunday at 11am: Momma-to-be takes a break from nesting.  Sits in the chair to relax for a minute.

Sunday at 11:30am: Momma-to-be is quickly joined by her fur baby who’s getting the hang of this:

Sunday at 1pm: Momma-to-be is woken by a swift kick to the bladder.  Baby hungry and not appreciating the chair as much as Momma-to-be

Sunday at 6pm: Back in the chair.  Seems to have a gravitational pull for Momma-to-be

This is the start of a beautiful relationship with my new chair.

Welcome to Maternity Monday in my 25th week.  I’m still feeling like a pregnancy rock star, although as I round the bases home I’m a little less mythical unicorn and a little more textbook.  First, I would like to welcome back my first trimester crap symptom of nausea.  It’s been….. at least 6 weeks since you’ve been around so I’m (not) glad to have you back.  Second, I would like to also welcome back first trimester crap symptom of fatigue.  While not quite as rough (yet) as first trimester, I vaguely remember how this started in February and it was something like how it’s going now.  I’m hoping that I could blame it on staying up late to watch rhythmic gymnastics on the Olympics, but now that that’s over I don’t feel like I have any more energy.

Went to the doctor this morning and I don’t have gestational diabetes, so I picked up some ginger snap cookies on the way home and I type this as I plow through my third.  He also mentioned something about the 6 pounds that I’ve gained in the last 4 weeks, but I would like to think that’s all due to the water that I’ve been drinking for this heat and nothing to do with me eating fruit like it’s going out of style (or my 4th ginger snap…. yum!!).  Whatever, my baby metabolizes sugar appropriately so I’m good and my doctor can continue to justify my dramatic weight gain as “typical due to water retention and extra blood creation” and I’ll go with that plus the fact that my chest is still fighting for a first place finish against my belly.

And before I forget, because my “pregnancy brain” has actually gotten worse, my baby is 13 1/2 inches and a pound and a half.  Which is the size of an average rutabaga.  Don’t know what that is?  Me either.  Therefore, I say it’s about the size of…..  whatever. A rutabega.

My maternal instinct seems to be kicking in nicely.  We started looking at day cares last week.  Granted we’ve only seen two so far, one I was ready to sign on the dotted line for and the other nearly threw me into a convulsive, crying, panic attack at the thought of having to actually leave my child in that building with those people.  I can’t put my finger on what it is in either place, so I decided that it must just be a mother’s intuition.  But then Angel agreed with my assessments, so perhaps it’s just a “parents intuition” that we’re experiencing in Casa de Rivas.

Speaking of the Casa.  This weekend I was able to pass off some of my sleeping misery onto those I love the most.  On Friday night my beloved fur baby Molly, who is known for her original sleeping positions, was sleeping on her back snoring (I’m not even joking) when all of a sudden there was the sound of knocking on wood followed by the loud thump of something hitting the ground.  My poor dog had rolled herself right off of the bed in her sleep and hit the foot board on the way down!  Luckily, she appeared to not be injured by the foot board or fall once she was in my lap being cuddled.  She’s still iffy about jumping back on the bed… as if it’s the bed’s fault.

Kind of looks like my Little Man’s ultrasound photo

Then on Sunday Angel informed me that he had a dream that the baby came early.  I started laughing because now the shoe’s on the other foot.  In his dream I had the baby on a Thursday in October and was home from the hospital that day with Mini Me because we were apparently taking a road trip to Las Vegas the next day.  So Angel said that he was sitting on the living room floor playing with Mini Me while he and I freaked out about what we were supposed to pack for a baby on a road trip.  But I really don’t see what the problem is, if we’re taking him to Vegas all we need are clean diapers and beer for the bottle.  But it was nice to see that Angel has finally joined the ranks of sleepless nights due to odd baby dreams.  Also, I breezed right over it, but I do wonder how he was “playing” with a 24 hour old baby?  Does he think this little guy comes out kicking soccer balls?  But awww, he was picturing himself being a hands-on dad and I think it’s adorable in any capacity that it comes.

I really need to stop typing and go pick up paint to finish up the nursery.  We’re planning on getting the furniture this week/next week and the room is still under construction.  Besides, I really need an excuse to separate myself from these damn cookies before I eat the whole dozen and get another lecture on “appropriate weight gain” at my next OB visit.

P.S. I consider “appropriate weight gain” to be the final tally as I cross the finish line at 40 weeks as long as I’m not looking like Jessica Simpson did during ANY part of her pregnancy:

I was watching the news last night, preparing to become an old, domestic, mom when they mentioned that we have set 6 temperature records in the last 5 days.  In fact, yesterday we set a record (hotter) “low” and a record (hotter) “high” with 98 and 115 respectively.  I thought it was just me, but I have been validated that it really is hotter this summer.

I mention this now because it’s 9:23am and already over 100 degrees outside.  It’s going to be another hot, hot, day followed by another high, high electric bill.

Therefore, I would like to mention that I hope pregnancy memories fade along with child birth memories.  Otherwise there’s a strong possibility that my little boy will be an only child until I move out of the greater Phoenix area (or hell freezes over).

It’s official: I’m in hell.

I have done it. I’ve found the worst job in the world.  It’s worse than the guy who gets paid to peel wild animal body parts off of the highway, possibly worse even than the schmuck whose job it is to organize speed dating exercises:

The poor little boy at Sonora Quest who’s job it is to fill starving, pregnant women with sugar and then go after them with needles.

Today was the day of the much dreaded gestational diabetes test.  Not only do I have a strong fear of small needles and an uncontrollable urge to eat everything in my presence, but I also have a 4 year old diagnosis of hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) and memories of the orangy, sugary, substance that I was going to have to choke down.  It was a Full Monty of all of the things that I hate if “Fully Monty” really meant “shit storm.”

My doctor stressed having an appointment so I don’t have to be the pregnant lady weeping in the corner of the lobby while they make me sit for an hour to be seen.  I took his advice, only I had no idea that there were two locations RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER.  Naturally, I guessed wrong and had to go through the check in process twice but I blamed that on my own stupidity and let it slide.  Right about the time I’m driving to location number two the low blood sugar starts hitting me in the form of light-headed dizziness which made me (roughly) the most dangerous driver in the state.  I fly through the check in process knowing that there is sugar at the end of the tunnel if I politely explain that they need to put the petal to the metal and lay me down first.  So I do, and they do, and 5 minutes later I’m feeling like myself with a tummy full of sugar.

Enter problem number 2: I now have a baby in my belly with nothing in his belly except sugar.  Woah, Nelly!  That munchkin was practically building an addition onto his temporary residence and delivering blows with super natural strength in the process.  “Listen up, Mini Me!  Mommy is NOT in the mood for this right now and I will TURN THIS CAR AROUND if you don’t settle down!! Oh, I’m sorry sweetie, it’s not your fault I’m just really hungry and where are these tears coming from?!”

30 minutes into my hour wait, enter problem number 3: The sugar high.  I think I’m going to puke.  Or fall asleep.  I’m not sure which first.  Is that wall supposed to be moving?  This must be how Mini Me feels.

Finally, in the longest hour of my life, they finally call me back to draw my blood for a whole list of tests that the doctor has ordered.  I request to lay down so I don’t pass out, which is a pretty valid concern at the moment since I have no control over my blood sugar and he’s staring at me with a needle about to take out 5 vials of blood.

Well I don’t pass out.

Yet.

No, that comes an hour and a half later when I’m attempting to eat lunch at a sandwich shop and half way through my celebratory foot long (in honor of my baby being about a foot long and me making it through that stupid test), when I look at my 8 month pregnant friend and say “Oh my God, I feel like I’m about to pass out.” And she plasters some extremely concerned look on her face that’s probably a mirror expression of mine mixed with shock at my sudden change in color.  And then come the sweats, tunnel vision, and extreme headache, all while I pound down Minute Maid pink lemonade (made with nothing but sugar) hoping that I can be fast enough to ward off the diabetic coma coming my way from the sugar crash of this morning’s events.  I don’t know how to describe it unless you have blood sugar problems, but all of these symptoms come at once and about as quickly as it takes the average woman to fish her car keys out of her purse.  Literally.  Only by the time you get symptoms, you are in very dangerous territory with, well, about as much time as it takes the average woman to fish keys out of her purse before you hit the ground.

Luckily I did not pass out at the restaurant, but that little episode about describes how my day has been.  I’m generally good at managing my hypoglycemia and I’ve been a down right rock star at it during my pregnancy.  I eat fruit right before I go to bed, I drink decaf coffee (with cream and sugar) in my car and a bagel and cream cheese as soon as I get to my office, and I’m set for the rest of the day.  Take away my fruit before bed, my coffee, tea, bagel, and anything else before lunch and I’m a train wreck of sugary problems feeling extremely guilty for what I’m putting my baby through and eating candy like it’s my last day on Earth.

Today I am not a happy, cute, pregnant lady.

The bright side of this all is that my sugar crash came dangerously close to causing major problems about 2 and a half hours after I choked down the nasty stuff.  Therefore, I have self diagnosed that I do NOT have gestational diabetes because I believe that I would have been feeling high as a kite for hours if my body had a problem producing insulin.  The only problem that my body has demonstrated is still present (and perhaps gotten worse) is producing sugar when I drop below 70 mg/dL.

One of the many things that I wish my child doesn’t develop that I am now terrified of.  I’ll just add that to the list behind “Autism” but in front of “6 Toes” because it’s relatively easy to just lop that extra one off.

Screw you, Glucola. You started this.

It would appear that my loathed scorpions have mastered a counter attack in response to my throw down last week.

Game on.

We haven’t gone outside with a black light in a few days (and by “we” I really mean “Angel”).  The last we went out was the day that we turned our backyard into a toxic wasteland and we only found one.  We then trusted the chemicals that were used by the pest control company.

In the words of the movie Pretty Woman: “BIG mistake.  Big.  Huge.”

Last night I sent Angel out during a break in the Olympics armed with his typical black light, stick, and can of scorpion spray while I started making popcorn (because hey, I’m pregnant and it sounded good.  Don’t judge).  He comes back in a few minutes later and says “hey babe, you’re going to want to see this.  There’s a scorpion with babies on their back!”

Gross, gross, and more gross.  Just so you get an idea, this is what it looks in the dark with a black light (except moving):

30 babies on her back. In total, this is only about 2 inches long.
Translation: GROSS

I’m also learning so much more about scorpions that I never cared about. For instance, they have about 30 babies at a time.  30.  Take a minute and let that soak in.  That’s at least 2 weeks worth of scorpions all in one place at one time armed to kill my dog or my unborn child or perhaps even us seeing as how these are bark scorpions and the most poisonous kind.

So naturally, Molly comes out of her dog door to see why Angel and I are both in the backyard. Not the time to decide not to follow commands, dog! So I turn around, yell a quick “Molly, wait!” and she stops dead in her tracks across the yard just watching us while I tell Angel to unload the whole damn can of spray and bark a lot of other commands like I’m choreographing a musical in my backyard.

Angel said he couldn’t see if they all died or not because there was too much white foam from the spray, but just for good measure he came back a few minutes later to cut the head off of the mom with his stick.

It’s all just too gross for words.  But last night’s death toll was by far our highest yet: about 32.

So this morning I called pest control company number 2, hired them to come starting on Monday, and threw up a little bit in my mouth at the thought of more freaking scorpions in my house.

I used to think that the 90’s movie Mousehunt about 2 grown men tearing their house down trying to kill a mouse was stupid.  I mean, who goes to those lengths to kill something so small?  I now just believe that they were misunderstood homeowners at the end of their rope.

You can’t say I didn’t warn them