We bought a new car last month - well, certified used actually, but it’s only a year old. 22,000 miles on it. This is our attempt to maybe rise above, take a shot at that good ol’ American dream or whatever. You know, it’s what everybody wants, to be richer and more successful than the generation before. To make our parents proud.

So this morning our shiny new Vibe wouldn’t start, and we had to watch it be towed away to the dealership to be poked and prodded and whatever. And right there in the parking lot, right next to where that shiny symbol of our progress in life was, is our janky rusted-out old Camaro. Yup, still there. And the muffler is still falling off. And the back hatch is still tied down with a bungee cord. But you know, it starts and it drives.

Funny how life has a way of reminding you exactly where you came from, and from what you might never escape.

I figured I’d start my own flickr account. Because everybody else is doing it. And if everybody else jumped off a bridge, well, you know… I’ll have one of those cool flash slideshow links on the side bar too, as soon as I can get my webmaster (husband) to do it for me There isn’t much uploaded right now except the complete chronicle of my pregnancy (Ha! and I say this isn’t a mommy blog!).

This picture here is just practice - I just wanted to see if I still remembered how to write the code for posting a picture. I’ve got a digital camera and I figure I should use it more often. Oh, and don’t mind the spill on my belly. All of my maternity shirts have stains on the belly. It’s like a magnet I tell you! Or a tray. I can set a bowl of ice cream right on it (which might be the real reason all my maternity shirts have stains on them…)

Look how big my little monster is getting!

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?