Amateur Crazy Lady

So I'm due in less than a week and I spent this past weekend preparing for the little one's arrival by trying to find new curtains and reorganizing the storage area of our basement.

You might be thinking "wow, good for her!" but really you should be thinking "why the heck is she doing that, a baby doesn't need a valence in the front room or a way to maneuver around a dimly lit concrete floor."

You could also probably add to that "her poor husband."

I recently spoke with a dear friend who told me a story that helps emulate the point of this post. About five days before she gave birth, she arose early in the morning to begin cleaning their outdoor storage unit (come hell or high water, it seems). In the end, it turned out to be quite a frustrating situation. When she related her story to a co-worker the next day, her co-worker commented "well, it is definitely a good thing you cleaned out that storage area, because I'm sure the baby will be sleeping there."

Touche`, you wise and witty co-worker. Normal person's logic: 1. Crazy hormonal pregnant lady logic: 0.

To help you identify the onset of this very real and terrible disease, I provide you some commonly heard phrases associated with what I call CHPS (aka "chops," for crazy hormonal pregnancy syndrome):
"I'm on borrowed time! I don't have a timetable! My life isn't my own! I can't plan anything!"

"We will get nothing done after the baby comes! That means all of the electric sockets, vent covers, and light switch plates must be replaced NOW or it will never happen! NEVER!"

"I don't know how I'll feel after delivery! I don't know who should come to the hospital! Will I feel like celebrating with the whole world or will I want to be alone with my little family? I need a plan! I don't have a plan! I don't know what to tell people!"

"Life will be SO different. I don't think you understand. We have no idea how nothing will be the same. NOTHING."

"Where are your priorities? We have to get this done! This baby could come any minute and we won't be ready! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Basically, symptoms include anything said with exclamation and/or a doomsday approach, an intense focus on items relating to a to-do list or making plans, frantically wiping down/picking up/straightening something while saying some of the above phrases, and a showcase of tears.

Sounds awesome, right? The worst part is that typically the one exhibiting the symptoms knows they are in the midst of a CHPS episode. However, even knowing that you are being a CHPS lady does nothing to repress the manifestation of the disorder. You actually openly accept the diagnosis and continue on, probably uncontrollably, until you find a friend who can sympathize and then you laugh together about how CHPS is nuts but what can you do?

Sister is a slave to her hormonal body, that's what you do.

So while I'm wading through the difficulties of CHPS with Scott, just be glad that you aren't an immediate family member of a CHPS lady. However, if you are in that unfortunate position, I'm pretty sure he will start a support group to escape the clutches of my current CHPS state of being.The support group will probably do something fun like get wings or chinese food, but the front will be a bike ride or run on the B & A trail.

38 weeks and full of the crazy juice 

Amateur Letters

Dear Ankles,

I miss you. Tell those sausage toes to get lost - I'm tired of having caveman feet. Additionally, why are my calves a canvas for imprinting whatever they happen to rest upon? Can you check on that for me? I really appreciate it and hope to see you soon.

Dear Busch Gardens,

Did you know the only ride a pregnant woman can go on is the carousel? I do. You have this sign everywhere. Does this mean I'm not in good health or cannot use the seat properly? I suppose I should thank you for looking out for my safety and ensuring a day of people-watching.

Dear Patrick Henry Mall,

Thanks for love, it made my day. Whilst entering a row of parking, my husband lamented our lack of luck in finding a spot. At first we thought it was a to-go area, but to our pleasant surprise we could pull right in! You almost make up for your distant cousin, Busch Gardens. Perhaps you can lend him some tips for how to treat those great with child?



Yep, still holding that belly. I think it is a chronic disease.


Dear Allergy-Induced Sinuses,

What did I ever do to you? I'm pretty sure you're the spawn of Satan. Did you know that I can't take any medication with a "d" suffix? What's that? Sorry, my ears are plugged and my head is stuffed, and I couldn't stop hacking up a lung long enough to hear you. Take this as your final eviction notice.

*I'll spare you a picture relating to this. Just imagine a lot of tissues and cough drop wrappers strewn about aimlessly*

Amateur Memorial Day Weekend Festivities

This most recent Memorial Day weekend started with a tradition and ended with an event that hopefully will never be a tradition.

First, the annual Chick-Fil-A 5k. We started with the inaugural race in 2009 (our first summer moving back East), and continued to participate each year. The course is a beautiful run through the Mariner's Museum Park in Newport News and you finish with a free chicken biscuit! Who doesn't love fried chicken in the morning just after a run?? Each year got better - we always saw the cows, but the second year they actually remembered to turn around us around (the first year was a 5-miler instead). And this year, they had all kinds of fun - bounce houses for kids, more port-a-potties, Luna bars at the finish (in addition to the chicken biscuits, of course), and cows also along the course (not just at the start/finish). What is more, we had my sister, her husband, and their baby boy join us (does the fetus count?) this year. Also, I discovered this year that yes, I can sweat from my shins. Who knew? Even though it was crazy muggy, we had a great time (as if you couldn't tell by the documentation below).

Pre-race: a little early for a Saturday.

Post-race: a lot more space among the group.  Refer to the above description of shin sweat for explanation.

A rare picture where I'm not grabbing my belly. Looking at photos lately, that's all I do. Like I don't want to forget that it is there? 

Now for the not-so-much a tradition event: floating down the James River on Monday with some of my favorite people. Let me start off with why we even did this in the first place:
+ It was a stifling 90+ degree weekend and the river was nice and cool
+ The James moves very slow (the lazy river at Water Country USA was always my favorite)
+ See above mentioning regarding spending the day with some of my favorite people
+ It came recommended by those who have done it before
+ It looked really cool online
+ It cost $3
+ I could get a tan
+ *TMI warning* you can relieve yourself at anytime. AKA a pregnant lady's dream.

So of course we got super excited in our preparation - parked a car at the end point, sun-screened up, packed snacks in a super cool waterproof bag, and hit the road (er, river?). Armed with sunglasses, a black rubber tube, and chacos (well, 4 of the 6 had water shoes - 2 wore flip flops), we set out for our "lazy river" adventure. And yes, the quotes are necessary. Keep reading, friend.

Before entering the river, the parking lot director warned us of a life jacket rule - since the water was high (at 7 feet), jackets were required. Although we had three life jackets (for each lady), only one of us chose to use it- the 34-week pregnant one. A little giddy to get going, but also apprehensive in the muddy water, we set on our way, and hit just a few little rapids (this is where I learned the rubber float is your friend and to use it to your advantage). We chatted, threw around a disgusting glass bottle, met some fellow floaters (rereading this just before publishing, I realize it sounds kind of gross, but whatever), and made our merry way. After we passed some people beaching along the banks and a couple of random signs by off-shooting creeks, we took a break for snacks on some rocks and reapplied some sun screen while one of us jumped off an old bridge support. We couldn't stop talking about how great it was.

We actually moved so slowly that we started to paddle (I think the chaffing on the inside of my arms finally disappeared). Hours later, we approached our destination. We could see Belle Isle on our right, but it looked about five feet lower that where we were on the river. Getting closer, we realize there is a huge concrete wall with a decent drop off in the way where we needed to cross to get out of the river. Once we finally all got hoisted up on the wall, we looked up and down for a way to get on the other side without killing ourselves. To our right was a giant chute of water (aka death trap). Just below, the water was very calm, but who knew how shallow it was? I must admit that at this point I was already so used to relieving the pressure on my bladder whenever I felt comfortable that I had to stop myself once atop the wall. Anyway, my fearless husband tossed his three-dollar tube into the water and belly flopped right on. Atta boy! He checked the depth and cleared us all to jump in. Once we all made it, we cheered. What success! What an adrenaline rush (it was quite the jump - not your typical diving board height, friends)!

Then we looked around and sawwe are surrounded by rocks.

Awesome.

It actually didn't look TOO bad, but we all got separated with different plans of attack. Joined by one friend, I began to walk across, thinking we could make it by foot. No dice. Three others floated down and stopped at some rocks with a look of confusion of what to do. Then we saw cop cars driving down to the beach and a fight break out on the shore. Are you kidding me? Bad omen. Worried about getting caught without a life jacket and needing to be rescued, my friend and I quickly got down off the rock and decided to just get on our tubes like our other pals and make our way down.

Oh, little did we know. I get anxiety just thinking about it again. The water was pretty crazy with a lot of rocks and rapids, but then I approached THE rock. The rock the size of my cubicle. My husband somehow wedged his float between his back and the rock and faced me. Later, I came to find out he was frantically trying to tell me to go to his right (while simultaneously trying to gain more solid footing thinking I may ram into him), but the water had another idea and I went to his right - in between the behemoth and other rocks with some reeeeally fast water. I totally ate it, slammed the right side of my body into the beast and fell off my tube. Meanwhile, Scott thought I hit my head. Poor guy. While trying get back on top of my tube, I hit more rocks and rode out the rapids on my back. Doubly awesome. I finally got inside of my tube (instead of on top of it) and began to kick and paddle for dear life. I saw that two of our friends made it to the shore line, and one was helping the other get up on land (again, after the event, we found out they made it because they went to the right of Scott). I tried to head toward them when I encountered more rocks (and a friend's hat that he lost in the adventure. I grabbed it and held on to it like a life-saving security blanket). After riding out more rapids (this time on my knees and hips), I finally got close enough to the shore to slow down a bit and touch bottom with my tippy-toes. Somehow my toes fell out of my sandal, but thankfully they stayed on. Clutching the hat, I realized I lost my sunglasses (big deal, sunglasses or life? I choose life). I stood in the river and watched my husband go after my dear, panicked friend. It was terrible - she looked scared out of her mind and deserved the sympathy of a drowning cat. She was right behind me this whole time, and Scott made the executive decision to go after my friend once he heard her cry out for her husband (we all got separated) and saw her struggle. I think he saw me trying to swim and knew I could make it. He got to her and they rode out a few more rapids while I stood and watched in amazement and horror. They were the two who wore flip flops. They put them on their hands, thinking it might help them paddle harder. Just a bit further down river, they made it to some calm water and took some time to catch their breath. Next thing we knew, some guy swam down the river right by them and a cop yelled at him to stop. The guy just swam harder and faster, forcing the cop to jump in right by Scott and my friend. They froze and decided to act natural (because just hanging out in a desolated part of the river is so natural... and no life jacket, remember?). Once we hiked through the woods to a path, we all met up. Cops were everywhere and all we can think about is avoiding getting a ticket for not wearing life jackets (not the fact that we all almost died or that something just happened to warrant the presence of many police officers).

We walked quietly back to the car. Everyone was still in a little shock, but just grateful to be walking. We all were bleeding somewhere, some more than others, and our spirits were no where near where they started. Our poor friends who planned the trip just kept apologizing and we told them not to worry. Once at their apartment, we all washed up, applied hydrogen peroxide (that river was a staph infection waiting to happen), aloe (in my case - the tops of my legs received a terrible burn), ate some pizza, and promptly left to head home (we made it back around midnight). Needless to say, it was a long day.

Throughout the following weeks, we all exchanged texts and phone calls (you okay? How was your doctor's appointment? How are you feeling? I'm so sorry! That was crazy!). Co-workers punished what they thought was an incredibly stupid move on my part by committing me to lame meetings and with threats to break Scott's knee caps if he even considered doing something like that again (my response of "We didn't know!!!" did not go far). Our friends who planned it later came to know that the recommendation was from a group that took a guided trip where you got off at one of the creeks, went back up stream, and repeated for a while. "No one ever goes that far" they were told (some recommendations leave out those crucial but minor details, I suppose).

Of course, the nurse midwife at my appointment a few days later didn't exactly approve, but she did offer some comfort: "There's a lot of women out there who don't want their babies... and have done far worse than what you did to rectify the situation. If floating down the James did the trick, you'd see a lot more women out there on the river trying to get rid of their babies."

Unfortunately, her words are sad but true.

I'm just glad we all came out alive, babies intact, and nobody went into early labor. Next year, I think we'll do a movie.

Amateur Book Clubber

I'm starting to read (or re-read in some cases) again. I'm thinking in these last couple of months I'll really need to get back on the train because my reading-for-fun days will soon wind down and be replaced with reading about why my baby won't sleep/eat/poop and how I can save my sanity/marriage/child's life. But maybe that's just me?

Anyway, this summer began with a newly formed book club group (thankfully). So far this summer I've enjoyed The Book Thief by Mark Zusak (again), Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns, and These Is My Words by Nancy E. Turner. I'm also concurrently reading Cleopatra by Stacy Schiff and Tipperary by Frank Delaney (both are great so far, but I'll put up a full review once done. Publishing this posts also helps make me accountable for my goal, so I'll probably actually finish reading them now. I'm so good at working psychology on myself!).

The Book Thief is one of my all-time favorite books. I love the narration, the imagery, and the writing. Who knew that a book narrated by death about the Holocaust could be so beautiful? Here is one of my favorite passages:

Cold Sassy Tree was okay. The plot is interesting enough, despite being pretty predictable. Burns really worked hard on writing it colloquially. The narrator is a boy (Will) in his early teens in the South and she writes just like how he would talk. That was tough for me to get into, but she found a nice rhythm with it. I like her theme of life vs. death and focus on family. When Will seems a little beyond his years, she puts in some great comedic relief to remind the reader that this really is a young boy with teenage thoughts and actions.

These Is My Words was wonderful. This goes down as a favorite, as I'm sure I will reread it. I love her characters, their trials, and their love story. Move over, Romeo and Juliet, Sarah and Captain Jack are in town. Her foreshadowing was well-written and not too obvious (in the form of dreams and other events), and I particularly latched onto her themes of endurance and education. Pick it up ASAP if you haven't read it - and if it's been over a year, pick it up again.

Amateur Mother-To-Be

What did you feel when you saw those two pink lines?

Maybe you know how to answer that right away - maybe you were filled with pure joy. Maybe it was a confirmation that this is the moment you've been waiting for for a long, long time. Or, maybe you didn't quite believe it, but there it was.

Just typing that questions makes me sit quietly for a while. I think back to that Christmas Eve morning - how I wasn't even planning on taking a test that day, but thought, "hey, why not?" And I think back to previous mornings when I would take the test and what I felt during those long 90 seconds. I would go back forth - half hoping it would confirm a pregnancy but also talking myself down at the same time, saying to myself that "yeah, probably not..."

I think I was mostly in shock. I sat back in the bed and looked at Scott who was getting ready to head into work.

"So... umm... I have some news." Definitely hesitant. Kind of giddy, but certainly anxious.

"I know. You're pregnant."

What the heck??? He said he just had a feeling that I was probably pregnant now. He just knew. Just like that - no tests, no lines, no 90 seconds. And it seemed so natural to him, like knowing I was pregnant was the same as knowing the next day was Christmas.

Ever since then, I've struggled with legitimately answering the ever-prominent, however mostly unspoken, issue of my level of excitement. It seemed like that was what you were supposed to say when you announce you're expecting "Yes, we are due in August and we are so excited." "We are very excited to have a girl" If asked, would I really say no? Of course not! I suppose, yes, we are generally excited. Yet, excitement is not how I would characterize the majority of my feelings toward carrying a child right now.

My feelings are more like this - scared out of my mind. I know it is the right time - we will be almost 27 and 31 and do want a handful of kids. Scott started a great job as a federal employee and we finally found a house. Also, not that pregnancy should be a bandwagon kind of thing, but many of our friends have children, mostly two now, or even three. I prayed to be able to have children, and there was my answer. And it was answered with each following test (I guess I'm one to double check), ultrasound, and heartbeat. It continues to be answered with every kick and hiccup I feel.

So here we are. We have the crib, the stroller, the car seat. We picked a color to paint her bedroom. We have a very small list of names we actually (kind of) agree upon.

But none of this makes me a mother. Let along an excited mother.

I see friends online who excitedly purchase outfits, take weekly belly pictures, write monthly letters to their unborn child, all in great anticipation. They are EXCITED. Me? I take the hand-me-down clothes and monitor with gratitude, but mostly without realizing that I will be using them soon. VERY soon.

Then, of course, my selfishness kicks in. Following a nice swim after work, I come home to eat a quick dinner with Scott while watching TV. All I can do is comment on how life will be so different in a couple of months. That nothing will be the same (except for probably the quick dinner). And I worry. I worry about how I will function on little to no sleep. I worry about how my body will recover. I worry about being responsible for another human being. I won't even begin to tell you how much I frighten myself just thinking about the act of giving birth.

As you can see, most of my worries are very self-centered. How terrible is that? I do have secondary concerns about my ability to parent, but there are really just that - secondary to myself. I do fret over screwing up this kid. But I think that it isn't as big of an issue because I know that if I am doing the right things - spiritually, physically, mentally, fiscally, then my children should be okay. If my own house is in order, then I believe that my children will see that example and things will fall into place (to be sure, with much guidance). If I am faithful and diligent in my spiritual beliefs and do the things to help make those beliefs stronger, the same goes for this child. If I set goals to be physically fit, mindful of others, and debt-free, then hopefully my child will witness the happiness those things bring and likewise have the same desires. Sounds so easy, right?

Knowing my personality, when I'm not sure how to do something, I'll look it up. I know I'll hit roadblocks, but I also know of the many resources at my disposal - scriptures, personal prayer and revelation, family, friends, and entire sections of book stores and libraries. I feel like it will be easier to fix something outside of myself rather that inside of myself. Unfortunately, to raise semi-decent children, I need to be semi-decent myself.

So what worries me the most is me. That I won't be diligent, I won't work hard, I'll get too tired, and I won't care. That I'll be too self-absorbed to see the needs of my children. That I'll be too lazy to build and ensure a warm, open, spiritual, orderly, and loving home.

Perhaps it is because I already see that I'm falling into this trap whilst pregnant. I always thought I had a vague idea of what kind of expectant mother I'd be - that I'd take the pictures, write little notes to my fetus, read a plethora of birth/pregnancy books, peruse baby sections of stores, compile a wish list of cute (albeit needless) goodies from Etsy. I thought I would be barefoot, refining my homemade bread recipe (still nonexistent), eating whole foods (not endless amounts of skittles), and decorating my new home to welcome baby (walls are still bare). I pictured weekends learning how to coupon and craft with the best, not to mention exercising with ease to maintain a decent weight.

What I didn't imagine was being utterly exhausted all the time. Or being hungry A LOT and wanting to come home and veg out to a movie. I didn't picture feeling so gigantic that I avoid cameras unless I'm having a particularly great day (this usually only happens when someone at work says something about looking great for being x weeks along). I felt so out of it, I stopped writing in a blog and journal, I stopped reading, and I let my thoughts wander to the negative. In essence, I let myself give up and resolved to that notion.

But you never hear about that part of it, do you? No pregnant woman ever says "well, actually, I'm incredibly nervous and have no idea how this will work out and effect my life and the life of my husband." Nope. Instead, they grin, say they feel great, and look forward to their due date.

A friend a church a couple of months ago said that she was finally excited to be a parent - 4 years after the birth of her son, and 3 kids later. I found great comfort in that. I'm sure it isn't something easy to admit, but I realized that this is what we do - we do what we need to do, what we should do, and press on. Even if we still maintain feelings of inadequacy, or lack the "right" feelings about parenthood, we have our children and we raise them the best we can. I guess I'm learning that it is okay to not be excited right now. It doesn't mean I've already failed. I can be scared - I just can't let it take over my life.

I also take much comfort in another thought heard at church recently: if we've tried our hardest, we haven't failed.

In the end, I think there is still hope for me yet. I can try harder to get ready. I can get excited. I can try hard to be a good parent. I don't know when I'll really feel like a mother, but I will try to be one. It's all I can do.

Amateur Black Tie Event

Why don't I update? Because I get home from work and sit around eating bonbons while my husband makes dinner. I've only got nine months to milk the whole "I don't feel so good and I'm carrying your child" routine, people.

About a month ago, Scott and I were fortunately invited by my company to attend a  sweet gala at the Ritz downtown (doesn't that sound so fancy!?). It was a night to remember for many reasons:

First, we were NOT invited to the special pre-party VIP event at the art gallery next door. But did we get in? Heck yes, we did! We ran into the honoree of the night, the most humble guy on the block, and he walked us onto the red carpet and right in the door. We explained our situation to the sweet check-in ladies (after our escort left us), and they let us continue on inside. Once we meandered further inside, a random guy stopped us for some chit-chat. Little did three of the four us know, but he is the second-longest held POW (now the longest held still living) POW. I'm still kicking myself that we didn't take a picture with this guy.

We hung around for a bit with half of us sipping club soda, the other half some wine, and enjoyed the art and surrounding uniformed heroes. Once we decided to head into the silent auction, Scott stopped me and asked, "Don't you recognize that guy?"

"He does look familiar..."

"Journeyman!" (of course, we know him by a random one-season tv series, not by a hugely popular and  golden globe-winning series).

Yep, and we chickened out on getting our photograph with him (strike two!). Need I remind you this blog is about how we are amateurs? Anyway, for the record, I imagined him taller.

So we went to our real check-in point, where we picked up a locked iPod Touch for the silent auction (major cool factor points). We perused the various donated items: vintage baseball cards, weekend get-aways, wine, jewelry, art, cigars, etc. This will get more attention later.

Let's get to the good stuff: the food. Flat bread topped with veggies and cheese, sweet potatoes au gratin, and a steak filet where they didn't even give you a steak knife. That puppy melted like butter once your fork hit the meat. As for dessert, I know this may sound silly, but the vanilla ice cream that accompanied our chocolate souffle was to die for. It had the consistency of the perfect home-made ice cream and just the right amount of real vanilla bean specks and cream. Excuse me while I dab the drool just recalling it.

As the evening wore on, the end of the silent auction closed in. At the last minute, Scott put a bid in for some cheap Orioles tickets (let's just say most items there had a starting bid waaaay out of our young family's budget), because in his words, "someone needs to at least put in a bid for the home team." Of course, someone immediately outbid him, and then his competitive drive kicked in. Thankfully that only happened once and we won! Pretty exciting stuff. Also, unbeknownst to me, he bid on a Morton's gift certificate and also won that. All for a good cause, too. Does it get much better than that?

Here comes strike three for the night: when I go to pay for our items, the poor volunteer couldn't work the credit card machine. Unfortunately for him, he had a very rude donator putting on the pressure (which I don't understand... if you're going to give thousands of dollars to a charity, wouldn't you be nice about it?). The poor guy was so flustered that he stapled my list of items to Mr. Grouchy Pants' receipts. I tired lightening the mood when he asked me when I was due by responding that I REEEEALLY enjoyed dinner. That was fun.

Once I finally made it back to our table, Scott asked a little while later if I had the tickets. Doh! A swing and a miss. So when I found where I could pick our goodies, only one envelope remained of O's tickets - an envelope for  four club seats (instead of two), food, parking, the works! Needless to say, those were NOT our tickets. I felt terrible, but the volunteers just said to take them - they offered to find the real owners, but made it sound very difficult and inconvenient. Who cares that the game is 10 days before my due date, anyway?

Most importantly, I must emphasize that we spent a majority of the evening honoring some pretty amazing people in our military: the medical staff. Those men and women do some amazing things for wounded service people. We saw unbelievable documentary clips, heard great speeches, and found great appreciation for what these people do.

While we left that night sans photo-ops with super stars, we did leave with sweet baseball tickets, full tummies, and warm hearts. 

*All photos were taken by the event photographers

Amateur Ultrasound

On a Sunday afternoon in March, we* (*this is the collective we, meaning not just Scott and myself, rather the F A M I L Y - MIL, FIL, BIL, SIL - as a whole) discussed the logistics of the next day's big show.

"So, if it's a boy, we'll go to Five Guys... and if it is a girl, we'll go to... hmm... Q'doba." Burgers for a boy or chips and salsa for a girl? I can't say no to either, so I was good to go. This mode of information via surprise also ensured that no one had to make dinner on Monday, so we* were all for it.

Both Scott and I planned our work days to leave early and make it to the imaging center for their latest appointment. I'm pretty sure I drank 438290 ounces of water just to make sure my body was ready for picture day (oh, the vanity of wanting to constantly over achieve).

And then we waited.

And we waited some more.

For the love, this is getting a little anti-climatic already.

We finally met sweet Bonnie, our ultrasound technician, and I attempted to lie down (hey, lady - I've drank the weight of a baby elephant today and used the bathroom once this morning) and she told me to use the restroom and let out a little. "Count to two and stop," she said.

COUNT TO TWO?!

I take her offer of little relief and miraculously stopped the waterfall after two counts. This may be TMI, but it is my blog, so whatever. Let's just say that I'm also over achieving on my Kegel exercises.

I got back down on the table and what does she first point out? Nope, not a baby, but the giant black blob of my bladder. Holy guacamole, that thing was taking up any millimeter of free space. I think it was the size of Rhode Island. She took the proper measurements and then told me I was free to go relieve myself fully and come back for the second act. Woohoo!

So I get all goo-ed back up again and we start. Bonnie likes her clients (I say clients and not patients, you'll see why) to feel relaxed and comfy - dimmed lights, a soft playlist, a pink flamingo theme, electric candles. I kid you not, I felt like I should have gotten a massage. However, the room did not lend to your typical Hollywood set-up of husband and wife holding hands, watching the undecipherable screen. Scott sat on the other side of Bonnie and I craned my neck sideways to see the images. It was either that or my feet for a view. Oh well.

She shows us the feet, the spine, takes measurements, and comments on how busy the fetus is - it was cramped up all day to make way for my super-sized bladder and was ready to stretch out. I get it. I'd do somersaults, too, if I was stuffed in an amniotic-fluid box for hours.

After busting out some sweet break dancing moves and hearing the heart beat, the kid also decided to wave to us - a wave that looked like a one-fingered salute, that is (yep, that's ours, no doubt about it). Finally, it settled into child's pose (that's my little yogini!):

Unfortunately, the umbilical cord went right down the middle of the body, blocking ANY view of the gender determining factor. At first the little one moved too much for a view (and not just for us to know the gender - we also couldn't get a decent profile shot with all the movement and hand-waving near the face) and now it wouldn't budge after its dance party.

Awesome.

And totally my spiteful (independent?) child. Of course. Let the payback begin, mom and dad.

Sensing the verge of a huge emotional let down (me, broken hearted by disappointment that my expectations were not met?), Bonnie said she would keep our study open until tomorrow afternoon and that we could just pop in at the same time and we try again.

Gotta love Bonnie.

So we go back again, sans full bladder (whew!) the next day. We get all ready to go for the much anticipated to-be-continued and guess what our yoga master zenned out to that Tuesday? The butterfly:

See where the heels are? Well, you guessed it again - strike two.

Ugh.

Bonnie came to the rescue again, and told me to just give her a call directly to her "office" and pop in when we both had a break. I found a good time to stop by two weeks later (Scott gave up at this point and I don't blame him), and Bonnie's sure she found a winning shot. I had her seal it up in an envelope and took it home on my way to an evening work function.

By this time, no one really knew when we would find out (if ever). It wasn't on anyone's radar anymore, and I was to the point where being surprised was much more appealing than defeat.

On my way back from the work thing, Scott and I decided the best thing to do was pick up some take out for the collective we* (plans were already in place for us to eat over there that night, anyway).

I arrived at the compound (my in-laws home), with everyone hustling and bustling around: on the phone, on the computer, in the kitchen, in their room, studying, doing homework, etc. I placed the take out on the table and we all sat down (finally!) to pray. FIL asks me to say it.

Not one to be shy, mince words, or be patient, I found a way to thank my Heavenly Father for a successful ultrasound that day during the dinner prayer. Scott kicked me under the table and I could feel my MIL's mouth drop a bit. After quickly wrapping up the prayer, emotions ensued after saying "amen."

"I had no idea it was today!" "I can't believe you did that in a prayer." "Ok, I can't remember, what does this food mean again? I'm so lost!"



And so I sat with a foolish grin on my face and dug into some nachos.