So I had this great, creative, witty, BIG post about the Zombie Apocalypse, sweet potatoes, and dead relatives, and then I hit “save draft” and my blog thought that I hit the super-secret non existent “delete all and waste my time” button.  So I was forced to rewrite a crappier version of the blog entry and when I hit “publish” my blog thought that was also the super secret “delete all” button that still does not exist.  So now you’re stuck with a crappier version of a crappy version of an amazing blog entry.  And you can blame it all on my computer being a bitch.

 

I am officially in the home stretch.  69 days stand between me and our expected arrival of Baby Rivas.  I commented to Angel yesterday that it feels like it went by so quickly and he said: “Really?!  No it doesn’t!” but I decided to assume that he meant that in a “no, you absolutely haven’t been a pain in the ass the last 30 weeks, babe” kind of way.  It also probably didn’t help that this conversation was had on the way to Buy Buy Baby to purchase a crib mattress against his will.

My pregnancy email this week says that my baby is 17 inches long and 3 pounds “or about the size of a head of cabbage.”  I would like to know what kind of freaky Farmer’s Market the writers of babycenter.com shop at that sells 17 inch, 3 pound cabbage because I call BS on their analogy.

My OB was right at 14 weeks when he told me that if I could already feel movement that it meant my “third trimester was going to suck.”  At this point I’m starting to worry that I’m gestating a pissed-off house cat.  He’s swimming around in about a pint of fluid now that will decrease as he grows.  It makes me happy to know that at least one of us is still able to drink pints, and I hope for his sake that it’s something good, like Four Peaks Brewery Pumpkin Porter.  I’m having a fall baby, after all.  Mini Me is also starting to thin some of his crazy body hair and will continue to do so until he’s born.

In nursery news, the furniture is getting delivered on Wednesday.  I think they forgot all about me until I called them last week asking what the ETA was on furniture that I don’t need yet.  The little boy on the other end of the phone asked me if there were stairs in my house and when I said “oh, yeah” I could hear a loud sign on the other end of the phone.  Yeah, I’m not stupid, I know this crap is heavy and there’s a lot of it and that’s exactly why we paid you to haul it up my stairs with the sharp turn half way up.  Enjoy, and you’re welcome.

My prayers have been answered!  I type this as it rains and my computer says it’s only 79 degrees outside at the moment.  I don’t think I’ve felt 79 since probably March.  Even though it’s humid as hell, I’ll take it over hot as hell.  All day.

The high today is 101.  I think I’m in heaven.

I also considered wearing a sweater to work because I wasn’t sure what to do about the “cold front” that we’re having.  I instead decided to wear a tshirt and embrace feeling cold!!!!!  (side note: I don’t actually feel cold at all.  I feel pregnant.  Still.)

At 28 weeks, I’m getting more and more confident that nothing more is going to fit in my belly.  But oh my God, baby still has about 5 pounds to gain.  He’s continuing to get longer and fatter by the day, which is shocking, I know.  In the last month alone he’s doubled his weight, so what’s good enough for baby is good enough for Mommy.  Except that my weight is following the “spike and plateau” method pretty closely.  After gaining SIX POUNDS last month, I’ve gained nothing the last 3 weeks.  Maybe half of a pound if I’m getting picky, but I consider that a small tremor on the Richter Scale of Pregnancy.  So I’m 28 weeks on Sunday and literally OVER NIGHT I gained 3 pounds.  Soooooo, here we go again and I’m bracing myself for the next spike as I’m dangerously close to outgrowing my favorite pair of maternity jeans.  Hell hath no furry like a hormonal woman who outgrows something with an elastic waist.

Speaking of weight, Mini Me is about 2.5 pounds of adorable baby-ness.  He kicks up a storm about once an hour, is developing sleeping patterns that I’m starting to notice, and he stopped waking me up in the middle of the night.  All is right in the world.  His fused eyelids now open and close, and this weekend I think I felt him hiccup for the first time.  He’s the cutest, most perfect little man I’ve never seen.

If the old wives tail is true that the worse the acid reflux the more hair your baby will have, then I’m preparing myself to give birth to a wildebeest.  Or perhaps John Mayer before he invested in some scissors and a razor:

I have 11 1/2 weeks left, and at this point I’m feeling both like this pregnancy will NEVER end and that 11 1/2 weeks is not nearly enough time to prepare.  Mostly the latter.  Has it seriously gone by this quickly?  I must move furniture, replace ceiling fans, clean carpets, fold clothes, organize the linen closet and finally get rid of the trash in the side yard and yes, darling, these are all essential tasks that MUST be completed before the baby gets here, DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME AND GO HANG UP SOME SHELVES.  I kid, he’s actually been a rock star when it comes to expecting husbands.  The first time I’ve heard him complain since we started on this journey came this weekend when I insisted he clean the carpets yesterday.  He came home from Dallas obnoxiously late on Sunday night/Monday morning, and by 9am I was waking him up and asking him to to pick up a carpet shampoo machine and clean the house.  And even his complaint came in the form of “that’s exactly what I want to do on my day off” but then he got up, rented the machine, and cleaned the house.  I must give credit where credit it due, and he deserves so much for being so good about my requests, demands, cravings, needs, emotions, etc.  We also got our latest electric bill (a new record).  We saved $70 for being on the “time of use plan” which essentially means we’re paying out the ass for all electricity used between 1pm and 8pm, and getting “dirt cheap” electric the other, cooler, 17 hours in the day.  I say “dirt cheap” because it’s Phoenix in the summer and having two air conditioning units in a 3k square foot house costs about as much as purchasing a small plot of land every month.  Angel saw the total and just said “I can’t say that I’m surprised” and nothing more.  I love him for not guilting me about how much it costs every time I turn it down a few degrees because I’m sweating.

Speaking of, I woke up last night at 2am sweating, miserable, and throwing up.  All of these things may have been related.  I eventually made it to the thermostat and turned it down ONE simple degree because you’ve been reading about my electric bills the size of my mortgage payments, right?  Well it worked and I fell asleep feeling as comfortable as I can when I’m carrying around an extra 20 pounds, I’m nauseous, and my belly moves on its own.  This morning I had to laugh at my adorable family’s reaction to the temperature change as proof that all men (and dogs) really do notice a change in their thermostat (the photo is dark because I had the flash off so I didn’t wake them up):

A common question that I get is if I have any cravings.  I’ve really only had one in my first trimester when I called Angel at work and asked him to bring me home Keebler Grasshopper cookies and a box of raisin granola (he was happy to oblige his pregnant wife at that point because it was the first time I was wanting to eat in probably 4 weeks).  Other then that, fruit in general has always sounded good, but not to the point that nothing else would do.  Last night I woke up from a nap and the only thing that I wanted for dinner was a Taco Bell bean burrito.  I honestly can’t remember the last time that I ate Taco Bell, but I’m willing to bet that it was in college and there’s a reason that I don’t remember (blame it on the alcohol).  I have no idea where the craving came from, but I had to go get one because nothing else would do.

There are a few points to make with this post.  First- that I’m back to taking naps (oh my God, they’re like heaven again).  Second- I’m back to getting nauseous.  And third- I’m back to having an occasional, random, craving.  The moral of the story is that I have reverted back to a more uncomfortable version of first trimester– though the symptoms aren’t as miserable the second time.

And while I pop more Tums and try not to puke at my desk from acid reflux, here’s what I imagine my baby looks like this week:

I’m not entirely sure how far along I am now. 26? 27? 28? Somewhere in there.  I was just informed by Angel that I’m 27.  I’m sure glad that one of us is keeping track, although I’m a little concerned as to how he knows that so quickly….

Allow me to take a moment to welcome myself officially into the third trimester.  I’m in the home stretch now!!!  And while it was slightly terrifying to be told at 20 weeks to pre-register for the hospital because at “this point it’s a delivery either way,” I’m a little less freaked out that Mini Me is planning to arrive to the party before the invitations go out.  Nobody wants to be “that guy” and I’m glad that he’s learning this at an early age.

Although, can I say: Holy Braxton Hicks contractions!!  I know they’re “normal” but seriously, little man, cooperate with Mommy here because we still have 13 weeks to go and there are better ways to get your point across for me to drink more water than taking my breath away and then starting me in a progressive panic.  On Saturday morning I told Angel that I am determined to stay out of the hospital while I downed my third GIANT bottle of water.  I said this all because if I get more than 4 an hour, it’s like pulling the “Go directly to Jail!” card in Monopoly.  Pregnancy books say that dehydration can cause them, so I spent the better part of my weekend drinking and peeing and watching the clock.  I’m happy to report that thus far I have been successful in staying out of the hospital system although at one point I did count three an nearly burst into tears.

In another bad decision, we were at a pool party on Saturday and I exchanged my bottled water for a red keg cup of sunkist orange soda (living the life of a rock star, clearly).  As a general rule of thumb, fruit soda does not have caffeine, but as I always liked to remind my mom when I was little “there are exceptions to every rule.”  I haven’t had caffeine since February and about half way through my drink I started to feel a little…. off.  Mini Me was clearly feeling the same thing because: OH MY GOD! What are you- Ouch! That hurt! Wait, little man, I need you to- wowza! Okay, okay!  My little man went on a caffeine binge and decided to redecorate his room- with gusto.  So for anyone reading this and keeping track, Sunkist orange soda DOES indeed have caffeine.

Mini Me is 2 pounds and 15 inches of adorable baby-ness.  His eyes open and close now, and he enjoys moving (especially when given caffeine).  His kicks are a tad more painful than they were before and they reach areas that I wasn’t aware his little appendages were long enough to reach.  Seriously, I didn’t know it was possible to kick my left hip while punching my right rib, but I’m here to clarify that it is, in fact, possible because Mini Me is doing just that as I type this.  He’s still breathing, drinking, and peeing amniotic fluid getting ready for the real deals.

With that said, here’s what I imagine that my baby looks like this week:

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:

Saturday at 6pm: I’m joined by a guest:

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.

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).

 

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.

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):

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