The world is still full of serious injury...

And this baby disapproves.

But here are some pictures, for you non-facebooking-types. (*ahem* Grandpa Fox, I'm looking at you.)

I've kept her alive a lot longer than any of my houseplants

But that's not really saying much.

We were at the doctor's office yesterday for Brooke's four-month checkup. When the nurse came in to check her vitals and such, she (the nurse, not Brooke) asked:

"Do you shave her head? Or does she just not have any hair yet?"

Uhhh, what? Do I shave her head? What kind of a question is that??

When I indicated that she just didn't have any hair yet, the nurse replied condescendingly:

"Well, don't worry about it. She'll get hair eventually."

I know. I wasn't worried about it. But now I guess I should be, lest someone think I'm shaving my baby's head.

For all you non-facebooking types...

Look what I got in my Easter basket this year...

It's the Easter bunny herself!

Yes, that is a bow on her head. Wanna make something of it?

Shine little glow worm... glimmer, glimmer

Eeeeeexcellent idea. Hand over those creme eggs!

We're both tired after a long hard day of being so dang cute.

Baby, baby, baby

My mother-in-law has a special little song she sings to her kids and grandkids. It goes:

"Baby, baby, baby... baby, baby, baby..."










Meet Brooke Donna Fox. Our tiny little peanut of a girl. She weighed in at a measly 5 pounds 7 ounces (maybe... there's some confusion on that point). But I'm happy to report that both mom and baby are home and healthy.

The horse pistol

So, like many of you, I was born in a hospital. I've visited sick friends and family in the hospital. I've taken people to the ER. I've even spent the night at the hospital (not as a patient, as a family member of a patient).

And as awesome as my health has been for the past 35 years, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have tried harder to get hospitalized earlier in life. You know, just for the experience.

Because I'm looking upon my upcoming hospitalization with more than a little trepidation.

Yeah, I'm freakin'.

Spring chicken, part 2

My boss's wife was in the other day and we were chatting about all things pregnancy related. I told her that I've already had 4 ultrasounds done because I am past the cut-off age for being a spring chicken (maternityally-speaking). She said:

"Wow. So you're thirty-years-old already, huh?"

And I said:

"Yes. Yes I am."

Four minutes

My wonderful husband insisted that I get a massage last week. I was informed that I needed to specify "prenatal massage" when I made the appointment so they could be sure to have a certified specialist available for me. Because I am that special.

The massage, of course, was heavenly. The lights were dim, scented candles flickered on the shelf, mood music filled the air along with the aromas of luscious oils and lotions. She worked my back and shoulders, then wrapped my feet in hot towels. I confess, I might have drooled a wee bit on gigantic pillow supporting my head.

Naturally, I was on my side, since laying face down these days is akin to trying to balance myself on a watermelon. (A watermelon that squirms around and kicks when you put pressure on it.) At the midpoint of my session, my masseuse asked me to flip over to my other side.

Uh-huh. Right. First of all, I have one of the salon's gigantic pillows stuffed between my knees "for support." Just above that, there is the watermelon-belly, so I'm not exactly the most nimble person right now. Then there's the matter of the massage table. It's not wide. As a matter of fact, I'd call it "fairly narrow" or even "exceptionally narrow." It's not like I can just flip over. I have to turn, skooch, turn, skooch, turn, skooch, so I don't end up in a big heap on the floor.

Oh wait, yeah... a big naked heap on the floor. Let's not discount the modesty factor. I'm trying to keep my bits covered here as well. But as the gigantic pillow between my legs turns with me, it flaps the sheets around, and I'm only a few thread counts away from giving my 19-year-old masseuse with the pierced lip a huge eyeful. Poor girl. She didn't know whether to try to help or just avert her eyes and let me holla when I'm a bit more situated.

Turn, skooch, turn skooch... was that a breeze I just felt? Nevermind, keep moving! You're wasting valuable massage time with all this turning and skooching! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Gak! Pillow tangled in sheets! Disengage! Disengage! Still covered? Check. Keep turning! You're almost there! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Oh wait, you're only on your back. That's only halfway there. Stop flailing like a upside-down turtle and put your back into it. Heave-ho! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch.

Eventually, I made it to the other side. With my modesty intact, thank you very much. Total turning time? Probably about four minutes.

Can I get a little refund for that?

World, meet Liam. Liam, the World.

Hey you! Head on over to coolestfamilyever to get a first look at Liam (Official title: CoolestNephewEver). Doesn't he have the fluffiest little cheeks and roundest little belly you've ever seen? We've not met in person, but I hear he's scrumptious. Nom nom nom!

My father-in-law called last night, beaming about his new grandson (and his new car) and we had the following conversation about hairbows:

Him: And did you see all that hair? It's a good thing he's not a girl otherwise, *voice dripping with disdain* someone would have tried to stick a bow in his hair already. Wait a minute, you're not planning on sticking a bow on my granddaughter's head for her blessing, are you?

Me: Nothing bigger than my fist, I promise.

Him: No, really...

Me: Not really. I dunno. It depends on what she looks like. Personally, I think only bald babies need hairbows. Ironic, I know. Babies with hair don't really need decoration up there. It's only the really shiney ones who need a bow to break up that great expanse of forehead/scalp.

Him: *Harumph*

Me: But, I promise, if there is a bow involved, it will be very small and very tasteful. You probably won't even notice it.

Him: *Harumph* Okay. I better not.

You know it's an awesome day when I get to have a discussion about infant haberdashery with my father-in-law. Oh yeah... and a beautiful new nephew. Let the nommings begin!

Open mic

At my last doctor appointment, I was advised that the time has come to up my office visits from once a month to every two weeks. Based on past experiences, I am thrilled to have this opportunity. So, I know that this every-two-weeks things means the end is quickly drawing near.
(Not that I would know when exactly the end will be because I am Mrs. RottenMotherAlready.)

I guess I'd better start getting ready.

So, all you pregnancy-gurus out there (you know who you are), tell me about childbirthing classes. Do I need them? What would you recommend? The hospital offers Lamaze classes but there are private instructors in town that offer other methods, for a price. I'm not planning to try a natural or low-med birth or anything crazy like that, so would it still be of value to take classes?

I've been told I have a low pain-tolerance so I'm open to anything that minimizes the pain.

Discuss.

Rub-a--dub-dub

Quote of the day:

"No one wants to touch your belly when it's just FAT, but put a fetus in there and BANG, you're fair game."

Another no-so-update

By popular demand, more of my uneventful pregnancy:

I've been having monthly appointments with the OB/GYN. (Which reminds me: Brett wants to know why it is pronounced "Oh-Bee-Gee-Why-En" instead of "obgin." Any input?) The routine is pretty much the same, I check in, pee in a cup, get weighed, and have my blood pressure taken. Then, the nurse asks me for my due date, which I think is funny because she has my chart in hand as we are speaking. I tell her, "March 7th" which she notes and then tells me exactly how far along I am. Then invariably, she looks at the chart and says, "Oh, you are actually due on the 9th!" Then she revises her estimatation of how far along I am and gives me a look that says, "You are a rotten mother already. You don't even know when your baby is due!"

Two thoughts to keep in mind here: If I tell her I'm due on the 9th, the exact same scenario plays out. "You're actually due on the 7th. Mrs. RottenMotherAlready!" Also, two days? Does it really matter? Aren't there only, like, 5% of babies born on their due date? Honestly woman! You are just setting me up for failure. I can't live up to your expectations. I'm going to have the baby 3 weeks late, just to spite you.

So, then my doctor comes in. I like my doctor. She's easy-going and sympathetic and never tries to make me feel bad for not knowing my due date. She's got a big smile and you can tell she just loves babies. She reviews my chart and then always asks, "How are you feeling?"

From what I can tell, this is why I have an appointment every month. So a person with a lot of schooling can ask, "How are you feeling?" And then, so I don't feel bad about paying $40 to have someone with a lot of schooling ask how I am feeling, she listens to the baby's heartbeat.

These appointments are riveting, I tell ya.

But, in other baby news, we've been testing out names. Brett will lean over to my belly and say, "Hello. How ya doin', Helga?" or "What's up, Baby Olga?" You know, we're just throwin' names out there to see if they stick.

I felt one stick, just a wee bit, last night.

So, we have a contender. But it's a strict "don't ask don't tell" policy 'round these parts. Sorry.

Now for the weekend not-an-update with Andrea

Last week, I was talking with my boss and he said that his wife keeps asking for updates on my pregnancy. (For those of you who don't know, or don't know me, I'm pregnant. Great, now it's no longer a secret.) Anyway, he said his wife asks about it every night and his response is always the same:

"I dunno."

"How can you NOT know?!" she cries. "This is a big deal! I need details!"

"Well, honey...I'm a guy."

I told him to reassure her that everything was normal as far and I knew and not to feel too bad on not having any details for her.

There aren't any.

The doctors tell me everything looks normal (even though I will be officially "old-fart" age in terms of giving birth by the time the baby is born next March), all my test results have been satisfactory, and I feel fine.

But for those who really, REALLY want something juicy...I still can't brush my teeth without gagging. Should make for a fun dentist appointment next week.

Oh, and she's a girl. Please let me know if you would like us to consider naming her after you or someone you know.

Sorry I'm so boring. *sniff*