Category Archives: Hilarity

Birthing Class – Round 2

Our second birthing class centered around the labor experience.


There were videos involved. With gratuitous nudity. The early 90s were a wild time evidently.

I’m about to give myself away as totally immature, but oh well. I giggled at several parts and whispered all through the 40 minute video.

Not at the nudity parts, either.

At the poor husbands they showed trying to help their wives cope with the pain of labor.

Those suckers do not have a clue.

One guy had his hands in his wife’s face doing a 5-4-3-2-1 countdown with his fingers. My friend L turned to her husband and informed him that if he got his fingers that close to her face, she’d bite them off.

Not that I know what is and isn’t going to be helpful during labor… but I have a feeling if The Hubs gets all up in my face while I’m trying to do some sort of guided meditation, I’m going to lose it.

The nudity was a bit much, but not giggle worthy. Is that really how it is in the delivery room? I realize I will lose any sense of modesty I currently possess once it comes time to knock this baby out, but am I going to just strip naked and go for it? Something tells me they let you wear a robe or a sheet or at least a bra, right?

One particularly sweaty nude woman was so out of it that when the doctor said, “Here’s your baby!”  she replied “That doesn’t look like a baby.”

Lord, help me not say anything too ridiculous in the delivery room.

Then we took a tour of the “Baby Floor” (as I like to call it) of the hospital. There are four delivery rooms in the hospital we’re having Baby Dub in. As we looked around the room at all the other couples who are due around July 4, we started to get a little competitive. Because three of the delivery rooms have jacuzzi tubs and the fourth sounds like a real dump. I don’t want to get stuck in that fourth room, man. My friend L and I are going to tag teaming those jacuzzis if we go into labor at the same time and one of us is stuck in the fourth room.

I haven’t confirmed this with her yet.

The Hubs impressed me yet again with his thoughtful questions for the nurse and his general decorum during the video. I thought he might involuntarily gag at some of the… uh…  gory parts. At one point he did turn to me and ask “Why do they have to leave that shot on the screen for so long?” but other than that, he was a champ.

Action Items:
1. Be sure to wear a bra to the delivery room
2. Bring gum and remind The Hubs before things get bad that he isn’t allowed to get in my face.
3. Learn to box out just in case we go into labor at the same time as 3+ other couples in our class.


The pregnant equivalent of the Murtaugh List

Anybody else watch “How I met your Mother”?

There’s an episode called “Murtaugh.” Murtaugh is a character from Lethal Weapon, and has a famous line:

“I’m getting too old for this shit.”

One character on the show has a Murtaugh List – a list of “stuff” he’s too old for. Things like getting his ears pierced, and going to a rave.

I’d like to make a pregnant equivalent of the Murtaugh List… because, I’m getting too pregnant for this shit.

Presently on the list;

bending over to buckle the backs of my sandals
push ups
bachelorette parties

This past weekend, we celebrated my lovely sister’s bachelorette weekend. Her wedding isn’t until late July, but considering our impending new addition and the limitations of what my body will be capable of come July, we decided to do the celebration sooner rather than later.

Hello everybody! I’ll be your designated driver for the weekend.

I don’t know if you know my sister, but… she’s kind of a big deal.

People know her.

Not one, but TWO local businesses made special accommodations for us on a busy graduation weekend… JUST because this was for my sister.

“I couldn’t have made this reservation if it wasn’t for your sister.”

“We don’t usually reserve tables on a Saturday night anyway… but for your sister…”

I hope she reads this and immediately feels special.

She’s a local celeb.

Being as such, she is quite popular and had many friends to include at the festivities. It was a weekend long bonanza with various parties coming and going and numerous locations (some of which fell through at the last minute) and let’s just say that this pregnant lady was hoofin’ it pretty good around Walla Walla to make sure things were organized and everybody knew where they needed to be and when.

Is this what it is like to have kids?

When you’re visibly, noticeably, unavoidably pregnant, and everybody else is there to uh… get DOWN… you become acutely aware of a few things.

#1. Your boobs are bigger than anyone else’s that anyone has ever seen. Be prepared to talk about them.

Drunk people have no filter. So as our first night of fun progressed, several of my sister’s friends made louder and louder comments about my growing bosom.

People I don’t know.

And once they realized I could hear them, they started to ask me questions about them.


Yes, me and my cups are traveling aggressively towards the end of the alphabet. Let’s all discuss over drinks and charcuterie.

#2. Your belly holds magical powers and, like Abu in the Cave of Wonders, people just can’t resist the insatiable urge to touch.

Dude. Hands off.

I realize that you’ve been eyeballing me and this gut all night. I know that my bright yellow top is doing nothing but drawing attention to the contours of my ever-moving stomach. But for reals dude. No touchy.

People want to grope you when you’re pregnant, especially people who have been pregnant before. And drunk people are way more brazen than normal people. Normally self-respecting adults lose all sense of propriety when inebriated and in the presence of a gloriously pregnant woman.

But they also have short attention spans.

So it’s a quick and painless grope session.

#3. Drinking in restaurants and bars is REALLY expensive. 

#3a. Also, pregnant ladies get more free drinks in bars than bachelorettes.

I got mocktails sent my way all weekend, and none of them showed up on the bill. I drank more pomegranate juice last weekend than I’ll ever drink for the rest of my life.

Something about being pregnant AND tolerant AND the designated driver AND still making an effort makes the bartenders take pity on you, I think. And mocktails are pretty awesome, ladies.

They still feel special, even without the booze and umbrella.

I think that I’ll miss mocktails when I HAVE Baby Dub more than I’ve missed cocktails during my pregnancy.

And I’ll certainly miss the cheap tab at the end of the night.

#4. Pregnant-Fabulous and Regular-Fabulous are two different things.

I wore what I consider to be a fabulous maxi-dress out to a fancy restaurant on Saturday night.

And the waiter couldn’t tell I was pregnant.

I arrived at the restaurant first to make sure that the reservation was okay and see how much room we had (a-hem… we had PLENTY of room). Our dedicated waiter came to check on me and introduce himself. And he offered me a cocktail.

“No thanks,” I said, patting my belly pretty obviously. “I think I’ll be tapping out of the cocktails tonight… and for the next couple of weeks.”

My sister-in-law-to-be was in the bar and overheard the waiter go back and tell the bartender, “Well, the hostess of our bachelorette party is being VERY responsible. She’s not drinking or anything, she must want to keep it together for the group.”

No, buddy. I’m just 8 months pregnant.

That maxi-dress is out of the rotation.

#5. Family first

My sister is one of the most fantastic people I know.  I had a blast getting to know some of her friends over the weekend, and seeing her in her element, and showering her with affection and hopefully making her feel special.

For her, I’ll stay up past 11.

Two nights in a row was pushing it.

Let’s add that to the Pregnant Murtaugh List. Staying up past 11 two nights in a row?

I’m definitely getting too pregnant for that shit.

Birthing Class – Round 1

I didn’t meet my husband until after college. I have friends who met their spouse or significant other in highschool or college.

That’s neat for them.

That was not my experience. So I have never seen my husband in a classroom environment.

Until Wednesday.

We had our first birthing class this week, and it was everything I had dreamt it would be.





And my husband, while not the class clown he probably was in highschool, brought his A-Game to the class.

Walk into a room of expectant parents and you will be walking into a room full of nervous people. We don’t know what we’re about to learn and we don’t know if this class will somehow expose us as inadequate (or confirm how inadequate we might be feeling).

The tension is palpable.

Plus, class starts at 7 pm and goes for two hours. I’m not even confident I can stay awake for the whole thing.

I am fortunate to not be there alone. Not only do I have The Hubs at my side, but my dear friend LF is also knocked up and she’s due three days after we are. So I’m surrounded by people to make faces at and roll eyes at before, during and after.

The first thing we have to do is pick up a name tag and a baby.

Not a live, human baby. Just a doll wrapped in a pink or blue blanket. I pick up a baby of the pink-blanketed variety and immediately feel self-conscious about my baby holding skills. Am I being graded right now? Is this one of those babies they give highschool students that have the computer chip inside them to record and report any mistreatment??

We are, of course, judging all the other parents in the room. And they are likely judging us as well.

Some of the dads are trying to be friends with The Hubs. He’s already the cool kid in class.

Class Number One is all about newborn care. Our first activity is practicing changing a diaper and swaddling the doll. The Hubs takes charge. I sort of watch.

Fingers crossed this is how real diaper changing is. “Go ahead baby, it looks like you’ve got it.”

I’ve been told that if you can wrap a burrito then you can swaddle a baby.

Usually the stuff I’m putting in a burrito is not MOVING VOLUNTARILY.

The fact that I pack a lunch for my husband every morning that includes a meat and veggie wrap does not make me feel prepared for swaddling my baby. And the fact that my husband “palms the baby” to position her in the blanket just right doesn’t have me feeling particularly awesome about baby handling. Mine or his. “Palming” seems like a good strategy when dealing with a 2 pound plastic doll, but not when dealing with a squirming infant.

So far, I’m not picking up much of value.

Then the nurse teaching the class brings out the slide show and the huge laminated pictures. In trying to prepare us for the fact that our newborns won’t look like “Movie Newborns”, Teacher trots out all this mildly disturbing imagery of babies with cradle cap, baby acne, sucking blisters, smashed heads and missing chins.

There are some things that you would NEVER think about unless you were having a baby. One of them is the umbilical cord. Nobody teaches you in sex ed that your baby will have a crusty little umbilical stub for a few days after birth. My many pieces of prenatal literature have mentioned this, so I’m prepared.

This is news to the Hubs, however. And his face shows his displeasure.

His face says, “Uh, that is gross.”

I’m pretty sure baby’s first diaper will be pretty gross too. One of the pediatricians who came to speak to the class described baby’s first poop as “Black rubber cement.”

There is gonna be a whole lotta gross in our day-to-day for the next few months. I suppose it is good to be prepared. But seriously, what’s with all the scare tactics? My baby isn’t going to have cradle cab AND baby acne AND A sucking blister and a rubber cement filled diaper at the same time, right? Why do you have to freak me out?

The most valuable part of the first class was definitely the pediatricians who came to talk to us. They were a husband and wife team who share a practice and were right in line with me and Hubs as far as philosophy goes. Plus they told us about the “football hold” – which made me feel better about the earlier baby palming. So not only did we learn a thing or two, we got the names of the pediatricians we want to request when our daughter is born.

Double whammy.

Birthing class isn’t a competition, but my husband and I are both pretty competitive and we will find a way to make anything into an “I’m better than you” situation if we can. For instance, the Apgar Score. We learned about the Apgar during class, the initial test of baby’s vitals to determine if you’ve got a healthy bambino on your hands. My husband and I immediately latch on this – “Is that like an SAT score? ITBS test?” We are totally going to brag about our baby’s Apgar score. “Yea, Baby Dub got a 10 on the Apgar. No biggy.”

Despite some of the disturbing imagery and graphic descriptions of baby’s first B.M., I left class with a good feeling overall. I didn’t drop the fake baby at any point. I learned a few things, but most of the stuff we covered was stuff I was familiar with and felt like I had a handle on. The only real curve ball was the umbilical cord thing, which I think the Hubs has since gotten over. Looking around at the faces of the other expectant parents, nobody seemed superiorly suited to parenthood. Nobody in there was ready, and neither are we.

And that’s okay. We have 5 more classes to go.

Facebook stuff

Today I posted this to Facebook:

“With 8 weeks to go, I realize I have no exit strategy.”

A friend responded:

“No, but luckily the baby does.”


Being pregnant – the grownup equivalent of being the Sticky Kid

Everybody remembers the sticky kid from growing up. You didn’t want to be the sticky kid. You know, the little muddy-faced urchin with streaks of dirt on their face, juice-box trail down their arms, grass stained pants, chips trailed down their shirt, chocolate bar melted on to their hands and a little schmeer on their face.

Nobody likes the sticky kid. Eww, don’t touch me with your 3 Musketeers paws!

Tonight we went out to dinner with some friends and I realized that being pregnant makes you the grown-up version of a sticky kid.

I have enchilada sauce all over the front of me. Tiny chip bits and Spanish rice somehow made it on the ledge between my belly and my bra. I missed my mouth several times with the water glass.

When you’re pregnant, things stick out further than they used to and catch any number of food particulate.

Wear dark colors and avoid salsa.

This too shall pass.

The Registry – aka Horror of Horrors

According to Momma Sue, 5 items on your baby registry is not enough.

Evidently, a crib and a changing table is not the full extent of what you need when you bring your firstborn home.

Registering for baby stuff is not as much fun as shopping online should be.There are too many options.

I went to a baby shower this weekend, and heard repeatedly from the “Been-There, Done That” Mom contingent “They didn’t have those when I had my kids,” or “They sure have come along way since I was pregnant.”

True. Fair.

But what all these options and all these contraptions do is confuse and befuddle the novice mom-to-be who wants the best for her baby.

There is just not enough time in my life to research all the baby products that are available. At some point you must pull the trigger.

We don’t even have a baby to feed yet. How are we supposed to know what kind of bottle she’ll like?

It’s totally overwhelming and frustrating to register, and when you have to register online, add about 2X the confusion and frustration factor. You can’t try out the stroller to see how it feels. You can’t pick up the car seat to see if it’s even humanly possible. You can’t hear the song the Baby Einstein orchestra plays to see if it will, indeed, make your baby a genius.

But when your sister and your mom are throwing you a baby shower, yes, you do have to have a registry, and no, evidently, it cannot consist solely of the place your child will sleep and a Belly Bandit (for you to get your body back).

So I toughed it out not once but twice. We registered at Target and at Babies R Us. And when I say “we” I really do mean “we”. While working on the registry one evening, the quantity and volume of expletives coming from my corner of the living room became too much to ignore, and The Hubs took over for a while.

In true “Be Prepared” style, Mr. Dub indiscriminately added just about every item that the Babies R Us Registry Builder tool suggested. When I later reviewed his handiwork, I found that we had registered for about 1000 baby hangers, two jogging strollers, toys she won’t use until she’s in the first grade, and several varieties of lotion and cream, the purposes of which I am not 100% sure were clear to him when he added them to our “Needs” list.

So, we’ll be prepared.

Thank goodness for Facebook.

I cried out for help, and moms the interweb-over answered my call.

Recommendations of the best brands, must-haves, life-savers and baby-whispering products came flooding in, and I used this advice to shape the things I added to Baby Dub’s registry. Several friends still had their registries up so I was able to use them as inspiration.

For the first time ever, Facebook saved me some time.

For first-timers everywhere, I have one or two pieces of advice when you set about the daunting task of registering for your new little human.

#1. If at all possible, start your registry AT THE STORE.

If you can’t touch it, you don’t know if you want your baby in it. The internet is tricky and full of deceit – colors, sizes, sturdiness, all can be warped through the “magic” of technology. The big purchases, like the crib, your stroller, car seat, even your baby monitor, require the Touch and See test, and that can’t be replicated online.

#2. Enlist the help of experts.

Talk to your friends who have had kids recently. See if their registries are still available to peruse. Post a desperate comment on Facebook and see how many wonderful and thoughtful friends share their must-have list. It’s doing online reviews one better, because you know the people and see their still-alive-and-healthy babies/kids as proof that the product did not have some hidden flaw that didn’t make the online review scene.

#3. Don’t stress out as much as I did.

You will probably be overwhelmed and you might feel inadequate, but as one wise woman informed me, “All you really need is diapers and a car seat. And you only need the car seat to get her home.” Keep it simple for yourself. You’ll probably end up with a few items that you have to return, and a few items that you use once and discard, and you will come to grips with this and you will sleep better at night.

Follow these tips, and your house will be loud-expletive-free!

At least when it comes to your internet shopping time.

I cannot make any guarantees on other times.

Baby Dub does Fenway

Our Baby is already a Red Sox fan.




Belly comments and gender confusion.

Today, I wore a particularly bump-emphasizing ensemble. I thought I was getting my hair done, so I was excited about looking cute and pregnant and newly coiffed.

As it turns out, my hair appointment is tomorrow. I refuse to acknowledge baby brain on this one.

I went into the local Starbucks for a little mid-morning snack and was greeted with “Hey preggers!”

Yes. I suppose now there’s no mistaking this bump for too many beers and evenings on the couch. This is a baby bump. I’ll take Preggers over “Beer Gut” any day.

The barista then informed me that the other store manager had seen me walking down the street the day before, and had mentioned to him that “She’s really pregnant.”

As in, I’m pregnant in actuality? Or I’m visibly, noticeably pregnant?

Ahh the belly comments.

Later, I went to what I thought was my hair appointment. Someone at the salon took one look at my belly and said “Are you having a boy?”

“Nope. It’s a girl.”

“Your belly looks like a boy.”

Say wha?! My daughter is not even out of the womb, and already we are having gender confusion issues?

A while back, I might have jumped at this type of comment. I really wanted a boy first. Could the ultrasound be wrong?

But today, this comment almost offended me.

I can’t wait to meet our daughter. And maybe round two will be a boy. But I’m attached to the pictures I’ve already created of our little family and can’t imagine things going any other way.

Funny how fast things can change.

Catching up with old friends

It becomes much harder when you’re pregnant.

I’m not talking about “keeping tabs on old friends”, which is what you do on Facebook.

I’m talking real conversations on the phone with your mouths.

Unfortunately, many of my friends live far, far away. And phone conversations are hard to come by.

Tonight, I got the chance to chat with a good, dear, old friend.

She’s not old. But she’s one of my longest-tenured close friends.

It has been months since we talked, and I was so excited to finally be up late enough to talk to her.

When you’re pregnant, you crave your girl friend time. But it’s awfully hard to come by when you go to bed at 7:30, and long car rides are painful on your body and your psyche.

So a good phone call will suffice, and even though it wasn’t an hour long gab fest, it was lovely and refreshing.

Pregnant friends be ware. You have to work a little harder when you’re pregnant to get in your girl time. And after the baby comes I have a pretty good idea that the only “girl time” I’ll be getting is late night feedings with Baby Dub.

My dear friend put it best during our chat tonight.

“It’s been forever!”

“I know! But you work until 8:30, and I go to bed at 8, so our schedules are just not conducive to catching up!”

“It’s like we’re on different time zones.”

Pregnancy is its own time zone. And I feel big enough to have my own time zone.

So there’s that.

Kicking. Screaming. Baby Stuff.

We’ve seen the baby kick, people.

As I grow more and more rotund, my belly cushion is being stretched out to the point that Baby Dub’s most ferocious kicks are visible. To the naked eye.

In other words, my body is no longer my own.

I am renting my body out to a very demanding tenant.

She requires absolute quiet after 8 pm, but starts banging around at like, 5 in the morning. She demands that the place be stocked with gourmet flavors of ice cream, but does she ever go to the store to pick it up? Oh no.

Without my prior consent, she is expanding her living quarters exponentially, at the sacrifice of my belly, hips, thighs and upper arms (how am I getting fatter there, seriously?). She refuses to pay rent.

She’s been a total nightmare on the plumbing.

Sometimes I swear she’s going to kick right through the wall.

I  just know that sometime soon – probably in the dead of night – she’s going to decide that her current accommodations aren’t adequate, and she’s going to ask to move in to our house full time.

This, like many landlord/tenant showdowns, is sure to result in screaming, swearing, and probably a little bloodshed.


She’s just so darn charming.

I guess I don’t mind if she wants to hang around for the next 18 years without paying rent.