So it seems about time I make my monthly appearance here. You know, often enough that all three of my readers don’t think I’m dead, but not often enough to be of any real substance. Maybe it has to do with being pregnant, because I can remember that I used to enjoy blogging. Now I can’t seem to find much of any value to say – and I’m sure you don’t want to hear about how much my hips hurt, or exactly how many times a day I need to pee.
Dylan will be here in five weeks. If I say it out loud it’s enough to send me into a panic attack. Jim is already experiencing several panic attacks a day. We aren’t ready yet. I used to think I wouldn’t mind getting this little monster out a week early or so, but no, we need all the time we can get. His crib is still in its box, pushed up against the wall of our bedroom. We don’t have a mattress for it yet. We don’t have sheets. We don’t have a car seat yet – we couldn’t even bring him home from the hospital. We don’t have a baby bath yet (I’m thinking of these things even as I type).
We got quite a bit of loot from the baby shower, but nothing we can really use yet. He has a high chair (we don’t even have a dining room table!). He has a lifetime supply of bibs. He has the cutest and bounciest bouncy car that he can sit in when he’s about four or five months old.
But we did buy a new car. A vehicle worthy of transporting a child. A Pontiac Vibe. It has air bags and four and five star safety ratings. It has an enormous amount of room for transporting baby things. (Does anyone want to buy my Camaro for dirt cheap? )
We never did get those 3D ultrasound pics done. We went for the appointment and it turns out our child is a contortionist. He had both his hands and both his legs and feet up in front of his face. He’s not giving anything away. But we were able to get a couple of fuzzy 2Ds of his face (I can make everything out, but just about everyone else in the world would need a three-hour presentation to see anything).
I can remember when we first saw him, when he was only ten weeks along, when he was tiny, shaped like a potato, a kidney bean, just and head and body, little stubs that would become hands and feet. And now he’s got me stretched out like a watermelon. He’s so strong. He squirms and morphs my belly into odd shapes and angles. He digs his little hands and feet into my skin, he punches and pushes like he’s trying to dig his way out from the inside. (Sorry kiddo, that’s not the way out).
A real live squirming baby. Holy crap, somebody gave us a baby! Don’t we need a license for this thing? Don’t we need to pass a test? You mean, they’re just going to let us take him home? Really? Really?