Pictures Now, Story Later

Last night, Daniel drove this baby home from Chicago. Isn't it perty?

Eat, Drink and Be Merry For Tomorrow We Die, Pumpkin

Last night I attended a bachelorette party for my friend Hannah Parish who's getting married this Saturday, which, incidentally, is also the long awaited Day of Judgment. We had so much fun celebrating her upcoming nuptials and kicking off our last week on this earth. Her Aunt Diane threw her the most fun lingerie shower I've ever attended, then we got our nails done. After that we went to dinner, where I enjoyed a faux cocktail, and then back to Sarah Emily's house where we played games. The girls had cocktails while I had more mocktails and got myself all hyped up on juice. It was a wonderful time with very special ladies.

I am looking forward to this wedding so much. Hannah and her groom Daniel (I know, weird coincidence) have incredible taste in clothes, art, music, food and friends, so this wedding is bound to be abundant in style and personality. Daniel and I are so excited for this sweet couple, and Daniel has looked forward to the prospect of shooting their wedding since long before they got engaged. That's how cool they are. As excited as I am to celebrate with them at their wedding, I'm even more excited I'll be there to see what adventures lie in store for this sweet new family in the future.

Here's something else. Last night when we were at the restaurant, I caught myself just in the nick of time before I called our 40-year-old male server Honeybear. What? Why would I even think that? The thing is, this has been happening to me a lot. I don't know what to do about it. I've never been much of a pet name person, and I actually have some pretty intense pet peeves related to that. I hate it when anyone who isn't extremely close to me* calls me Honey, Hon or any variation of Sweetie, especially if it's a girl my own age. It seems really condescending to me. So why am I suddenly bursting with the impulse to call perfect strangers Baby, Babycakes, Babychild, Honeychild, Honeybear, and Boobear, to name only a few? Every time I get coffee, I consider calling the barista some new term of endearment. Of course I never do it, but it always leaves me feeling really disconcerted. I ask myself, why do I want this so bad? Why am I like this?

I don't know if I can directly pass this one off on pregnancy. You have to pull the pregnancy card sparingly, by the way, or soon you'll be justifying all kinds of inappropriate behavior like arson, kidnapping and grand theft auto. I definitely think it's indirectly related to being pregnant, though. There's the chance that thinking about my unborn baby all the time makes me misplace my affection for the baby on whoever's in front of me at the moment, (for instance, middle aged men with receding hairlines and visible nose hairs). Maybe since I don't have a baby that I can physically see and squeeze and call cutesy names, I feel the need to at least do that to somebody. The other theory I've considered is that maybe I think that the fact that I'm somebody's mother now gives me a license to act like everybody's mother. Like I have some kind of special privilege. But I have no idea where I'd have gotten that notion. I don't see other young mothers running around calling fellow adults baby names and getting away with it. I mean, people do it, sure, but people also dress dogs in tiny human clothes and carry them in tote bags. You can do a lot of things in this world, but that doesn't mean you should, or that those things aren't awkward for everybody around you.

I guess that concludes my random pregnancy observations for the day. Now for a brief update on Trimester 2 thus far. I've been feeling much more energetic for the past few days. I usually still need naps, but when I'm awake I feel more alert and energetic than before. My nausea hasn't gone away, but it has changed. Anytime I get nauseated, the onset is really sudden and intense, and I'm more likely than before to actually throw up. But the good news is that it's briefer, and doesn't seem to happen quite as often now. Oh, and my baby is the size of a peach. And that's all I have to say about that.

*A few questions to help you determine if we're extremely close:
1. Are we married to each other?
2. Were you in my wedding party?
3. Are you related to me by blood or marriage?
4. Have I ever peed in front of you?
If you answered yes to any of the above, you are qualified to call me whatever you want. May I suggest Love or Dear?

Super Daniel

Today, I want to talk about what makes Daniel Meigs is the best baby daddy a girl could hope for.

I mentioned a few of my annoying pregnancy symptoms in my last post, including fatigue. I'm going to talk about that one some more. Y'all, I've been a mess. I can barely pull it together long enough to get myself cleaned up, dressed and to and from work, where I'm pretty much a zombie. On days I don't work, I'm generally about as productive as one of these guys. For a while, the tasks around the house that I normally take care of- cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, etc.- were either being severely neglected or performed by a very cranky little girl. But not anymore. Because guess what? Daniel Meigs to the rescue, that's what.

I've been so thankful to have Daniel these past few weeks. He noticed that I was struggling to keep my head above water, so one day he just started doing everything I was too tired to take care of. He didn't ask me if I needed help, he just started helping. One day, out of the blue, I came home from work to find the formerly filthy kitchen spotless and dinner in the oven. Dinner! Dinner has been the bane of my existance on days I work, because it involves forethought and preperation, and by the time I get home I'm already starving, and there is nothing scarier than a hungry pregnant woman. Trust me on this. Fixing dinner after work has probably made me the crankiest I've been over anything these past 13 weeks. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I just want to lie down and magically have food in my belly. But it's not. And I have to stand up on my angry pregnant feet and make it. So if Daniel had presented me with a diamond encrusted tiara in that exact same moment, I probably would have been like, "that's nice, honey, but DINNER?! This is too much!"

Another thing: I don't know where Daniel is getting all this energy and time. He works too, you know. When he doesn't have a shoot, he spends most of the day editing. I don't understand how he's getting all his work done and still managing to pick up my slack, but I'm grateful to be married to Mighty Man.

I feel so blessed to be going into this whole parenting thing with such a sweet partner. It's so good to know that when I have too much on my plate, he'll come through for me and he'll do it with such a cheerful spirit.

He ain't too hard on the eyes, neither.

One Down, Two to Go

I'm now 12 1/2 weeks, and baby and I hit a couple of milestones this week. First of all, at long last, The Bump has begun comparing baby to decent, respectable fruits. This week, baby has reached the size of a plum. This may not sound like much of an accomplishment to anyone who hasn't had a baby in the age of the The Bump, but what you need to understand is that our baby has graduated from being compared to wimpy and often unappetizing foods, such as apple seeds, olives and prunes. Poor Baby Meigs' cuteness has been insulted time and time again, but we're past all that now. We have crossed into the land of sweet, adorable, plump fruits, and no one will ever compare my baby to a prune again if they know what's good for them. Also, about a week ago, Baby Center's artist's renderings of fetal development started looking significantly more baby like, and less like some kind of mutant grub. Baby Meigs is getting more attractive by the minute, as evidenced by those ultrasound pictures, which I just can't stop looking at. Do you guys want to see them again? No? You're sure?? Okay. Here are some labeled pictures of someone else's reproductive system, though. You're welcome. The first picture depicts week nine, while the second is week twelve. See what I mean?

The second milestone is that these next few days in week twelve will be my last days in trimester one. Crossing over to trimester two is something worth celebrating because everyone is projecting a significantly more pleasant existence for me during the coming three months. Legend has it that during the second trimester morning sickness is forever banished, energy returns, and by some accounts, the hormone-induced emotional roller coaster I've been riding levels out. It sounds just like the Promised Land. I hope every word of it is true.

At this point in time, all three of these things take place every day of my life:
1. Nausea, often accompanied by dry heaving. At least I haven't thrown up much, but still... this is getting old.
2. A nap. If I can't take a nap, I develop a miserable headache between 2 and 4 and can think of nothing but my bed and how comfortable it is and how good it would feel to be in a horizontal position.
3. Tears. I'm pretty sure I've cried every single day of my pregnancy so far. It's pitiful. Adele's new album is good, but I suspect it's not really all that sad.

So as I said, I am happy to leave trimester one behind and move on to bigger and better things. Although I'm pretty sure "bigger" is the operative word here.

Welcome to Prego Land

Remember that time I didn't blog for two months? Well, this time, for once, I have a legitimate excuse. We found out about six weeks ago that we're expecting, and decided to wait till after my first appointment to make a public announcement. In the meantime, could not think of one single thing worth blogging about that didn't involve babies and pregnancy.

Yesterday, at long last, I had my first prenatal appointment and everything looks great. Now I'm free to sing of my pregnancy loudly from a mountaintop or, more practically, plaster photos of my uterus all over the internet. Incidentally, I am aware that some people are uncomfortable with ultrasound images. I have never been one of those people, so I'm not very sympathetic to their plight. But I would like to formally apologize now to anyone I've offended. I know some of you who I'm facebook friends with have not seen me since high school and probably don't care to see my insides. That being said though, if you knew the first thing about me in high school, you really shouldn't expect better behavior from me now. We're talking about the girl who co-founded and regularly celebrated the holidays "Vagina Tuesday" and "Uterus Thursday." Not because I was making some bold statement about celebrating femininity, but because I was profoundly immature, and thought that was hilarious. Come to think of it, you probably shouldn't be facebook friends with me at all. I'm kind of gross. Am I really the kind of person you want to be associated with? Your mom told you in high school that you're known by the company you keep, and that's why you stayed far, far away from me. You should probably keep that up, because, as I've already pointed out, I can be pretty crude and immature.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's move on to the very pressing matter at hand: boy or girl? Okay, so it's really not pressing at all. But it feels that way to me and this is my blog, so I get to call the shots on what's pressing and what's not, okay? I hearby declare this a pressing matter of extreme urgency. So here's what I want to do: when my sister Haley was pregnant with her first child, Kate, she held a poll on her blog and had people place their bets on the baby's sex. It was a lot of fun, and by the way, I guessed right. I have a great track record in the baby-sex-guessing department. But you can bet your hiney I'm not telling you what I think the baby is now, because then it may compromise the results of the poll. I don't want you guys peeking at my test paper now that you know I'm a straight A student in Divination.

If you're still reading this and didn't peace out a few minutes ago when I made my very convincing case for why you shouldn't be my friend anymore, please leave a comment and cast your vote. I'm going to have to think of some kind of prize for the winners. You know those contests where you guess how many jellybeans are in the jar and if you guess correctly you get to keep the jar? It will be like that. But wait... in this case, I think Jar of Jellybeans = My Baby. Never mind, bad example. You can't have my baby. But I will give you something. Like, maybe I'll let you name the baby. Just kidding. But maybe though, because we're kind of stumped. I know we have almost seven months left to figure it out, but I'm starting to worry we're never going to find a name we both love. We might end up having to settle on a name neither of us like, just so it will be fair. Like Urkel. Or Fanny.



(Oops! But look how sweet! I just can't help myself. I hope I successfully weeded out those squeamish guys earlier.)

I also have a pregnancy related update on my haircut situation from February. My backward bangs have grown out at lightning speed! It turns out that was such a fortunate time to get a bad haircut. Thanks, baby! And the length grew on me after a week or two. I may start getting it cut that way from now on. But, you know, without the unfortunate... features.

I leave you today with the promise of much more frequent updates. Now that I'm free to talk about morning sickness and nurseries and fruits that thebump.com is comparing my baby to, (this week it's a lime,) I am confident I will have a lot more to say for the next seven months.