So I guess when you have a kid your life is no longer your own, which can be depressing for some women.  Couple that with long bouts of travel to a strange country, baby in tow, and a thyroid disorder, and you might as well photoshop a black cloud over all your pictures from then out.   I am finally crawling out from under said cloud and getting back on my feet, but I have still not figured out how to go back to doing even an iota of all the things I used to enjoy doing, save hiring a full-time nanny.  (Paul votes for a hot French aupair.  I told him he could have a stocky Eastern European woman.  We’d be like twins!)

Other than a total upending of my lifestyle, few things have changed.  Coffee has assumed a starring role in my daily routine, and I am on a never-ending search for cool parents to befriend.  The test for coolness consists of sprinkling the playground conversation with a few tentative curse-words, and ordering beer at the mom’s night out and waiting to see who follows suit.  I’ve been lucky so far–no one has grabbed their baby and ran…yet.

now i know why all the women in my office who were initially so lovey dovey about my baby bump switched to maniacal laughter every time they saw me later in my pregnancy.

It’s true.  Blogging has taken a back seat to my burgeoning belly, which has started to show signs of alien life that are not altogether pleasant.  I’d feel worse if I actually thought people read this blog…although apparently more people wander onto it than I thought.  Perhaps when the baby is out and I don’t have to be in front of a computer all day at work I’ll want to blog a bit more, and actually dedicate myself to this site a bit. 

In the meantime, piecemeal it will have to be. 

So many things have fallen to the wayside in the past few months.  Foremost on my mind is the reupholstering of my couch, which was a crazy project to take on, I admit, but I didn’t feel I had much of a choice if I didn’t want to spend more than the couch cost to begin with on a professional job.

Looking back, I should’ve just paid the damn money.  Reupholstering is a pain in the ass.

Work has been crazy, and trying to rearrange all of the stuff in our tiny house to accomodate a baby and all its stuff is like playing an unpleasant game of tetris against someone who you know will smoke you every time.  It seems that I can have two rooms that are uncluttered and somewhat peaceful, but it’s at the cost of every other room being jam packed with crap.  I would say I don’t know how I got so much stuff, except I totally do–since we can’t afford a proper house, we’ve been consoling ourselves with THINGS that on their own are not very big, but all together make a mound of junk that I’m fairly ashamed of.

I don’t think I’m alone–is everyone just hoarding more stuff now that the economy is looking like it’s taking a swan dive?

I am trying to keep a sense of humor about it all.  After all, no one likes a sad fattie.

One:  Grown ups do not have a 9:30 bedtime.  Unless they have a job that requires them to be up at the ass-crack of dawn.  And I do not.

 Two:  Maternity clothes are not elegant.  Unless you find an empire waist tied with a huge bow elegant.  And if you do, I banish you from my blog forever (or until you’ve spent a good long time at www.gofugyourself.com and see the error of your ways).

Three:  I’ve tried to dance around it, but frankly, I expected to spend a good portion of my thirtieth birthday elegantly wasted.  I have not spent an entire birthday-day stone cold sober since the age of 19, and if ever I needed a drink, it would be on my 30th–whereupon I gaze at the ruins of my youth and pretend that I haven’t taken to counting down on birthdays instead of up (if I live until 80, I’ve got 50 more years ahead of me…I suppose you could look at that as incredibly morbid, but hell, I think I’m being pretty optimistic–80 wouldn’t be bad.

So, others have drummed up some ideas, and I will apparently be surprised by the form the celebration takes–although I checked to see if I could nap during if necessary (yes) and if it would be depressing if only the family showed up, because either people are just all really busy on the 26th, or else they took my email bemoaning my lost youth (and looks, and ability to get drunk) a little too seriously and didn’t want to commit to attending a drag of a party (answer: no). 

 However, whether I can drink or not, I absolutely insist that people get trashed when I have my baby shower–those things are insufferable when you’re sober.

 It might help that this weekend was an orgy of accomplishment.  In order, I:

Made one more step toward reupholstering my couch

Returned old knitting needles for needles of the correct size and bought buttons to attach to the cardigan that has been going without for too long

Got a new prescription for my glasses that should put an end to the awful headaches I’ve been having

Picked up my medical records for transfer to my new doctor

Returned awful maternity shirt to Marshall’s and bought bedspread for guest room/nursery

Took dog to dog park for short romp

Cooked delicious meal of cherry cabernet lamb with mixed greens

Bought new mattress for new bedroom set

Set up new bedroom set

Set up guest room/nursery and reorganized office space

Did laundry

Cooked chili

Went to the gym (for the first time in about 3 months…ouch)

Did grocery shopping

Went out for breakfast

Bought lamps for bedroom at IKEA

Received new mattress

Napped

Went to about a gazillion open houses

Picked up hardware for mounting new mirror above new dresser

More laundry

Bought mattress cover, step stool and odds and ends

Baked cornbread for dinner (with chili)

Passed out.

Shoot.  I’m tired just reading all that.

So far, I’m not impressed with this condition.  I thought I’d be one of the lucky few who enjoyed pregnancy–I now know that those women are mythological.  Do no exist.  I have been pregnant for only a little over 2 and a half months and already: I require 12 hours of sleep a night, and naps whenever possible to supplement; when I am awake, invariably, I am shoving food into my face, which has resulted in eating of any kind feeling like a terrible chore; I am not showing–I swear–I am simply fat and bloated.  If you touch my belly I will kick you.  I am alternatively nauseous, constipated, fluish, cranky, teary-eyed and terrified that the half-glass of wine I drank last week will cause my child to sprout an extra set of genitals.

10 and a half weeks in, and I’m ready to call it quits.  My plantitive cries for my husband to punch me in the belly have gone unheeded.  It’s not hard for him to ignore me, since I’m only awake for about a hour during which he’s actually home, and I suspect he simply deletes my emails.  I know I wanted this, and I know there are too many woman who would kill (preferably me, if they read this post, I realize) to be pregnant.  I’m sorry.  I’m happy to be pregnant, I swear.  But if it doesn’t get better, I don’t think I can do this a second time. 

 I’m secretly hoping that I will wake up two weeks from now and magically make the 1 hour drive to work without the irrepressible need for a granola bar lest I faint or vomit or both.  I will sleep an undisturbed 8 hours–6 if there’s something good on TV–and wake up feeling refreshed and well-rested.  My stomach will start to sprout, just a bit, but in a way that’s clear that I’m prenant and not just a fattie.  And I will not need to pee twice before I leave the house, directly when i arrive at the office, then every half and hour on the half an hour until I leave for home, where, upon arrival, I must sprint directly to the bathroom.

 But I suspect that’s another myth that will shortly be revealed.

 on other fronts, went up skiing on saturday–probably not on my ob/gyn’s list of fun things you should do in the first trimester, but I took it very easy.  not easy enough to avoid catching a cold, but I did manage to come out with limbs intact and unbroken, so I say it was a successful outing.  the only good thing is that the throbbing of my head is distracting me from my morning sickness.

 to the doctor tomorrow–haven’t yet decided if I’ll share the details of my exercise routine with him or not.

 http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/01/23/partner_yoga/index.html?source=rss&aim=/mwt/feature

 There are only a few people in this world who I want to touch and be touched by, and even then, not during my yoga practice.  I like the personal, meditative side of yoga, where I can fall into myself a bit and relax.  I don’t want to worry about if I stink or have a hangnail or how far down my shirt my “partner” can see while I’m working deeper into downward dog.  And I don’t think I’m in the minority.