Signs of Labor

If having a lot of energy and wanting to clean your house means that you’re about to go into labor, then I’ve been about to go into labor for the last nine months…or nine years.

The other day, though, for the first time, I felt extremely tired. Like crazy sleepy. Like boring-work-meeting-can’t-keep-my-eyes-open fatigued.

I thought, “This is strange. I wonder if this could be a sign of labor.”

I typed into Google: Extreme Fatigue + Sign of Labor and all these results came up, saying it was indeed a sign of labor. There were stories of women who, instead of having a burst of energy, got really sleepy and whaddya know? Hours later their babies popped out.

Well that was Friday and I’m still not in labor.

But since then I’ve looked up other “symptoms.”

--Craving for graham crackers + sign of labor
--Pain in the right inner thigh + sign of labor
--Hysterical laughing + sign of labor
--Baby moving a lot + sign of labor
--Baby not moving + sign of labor

All signs. So I’ve decided that you could basically type in anything + sign of labor and somebody out there will have a story about it.

That's because women have decided that whatever they did the day they went into labor is what caused their labor:

“I watched an old episode of King of Queens and I went into labor during the ending credits. I guess Kevin James makes people go into labor!”

“I remember I went to get the mail and I had my first contraction. My son was born four hours later. That means the postal service brings on labor!”

“I was sleeping and I went into labor!”

“I was unloading the dishwasher…”

“I was picking my nose…”

Here’s hoping “I was writing my blog…” works for me.

Worth a Try

I'm not superstitious but since I like eggplant parmesan and didn't feel like cooking anyway, we thought we'd make a pilgrimige to Scalini's, a restaurant with a legend for speeding up labor.

Read the story from their web site.

Plus, if you have your baby within 48 hours you get to come back and have dinner for free and your baby gets a Scalini's t-shirt!

So far the only thing we have to report are a few stomach pains...from Frank.

Grout Godsend

Our shower makes me sad. It’s looked dirty ever since we moved in. So as you’ll recall, I phoned in for professional help. I didn’t care how much it cost. I didn’t even shop around. I just said, “Save me from my grout!”

They said they’d come that afternoon.
They didn’t.
Then they said they’d come the next afternoon.
They didn’t.

Mind you, each time they say they’re coming I get giddy. I take everything out of the shower and then triumphantly tell the grout, “Ha! This is the LAST day I have to look at your disgustingness! Soon you will be shiny and perfect and I won’t have to distract people with the heart-shaped tub when I’m giving tours of the house.”

They rescheduled for Saturday between 2-6. Who were they? The cable company?

I waited. I postponed a trip to Target. I got impatient. But I kept thinking that this was all for the good of the shower. And my sanity.

After awhile I called. They said, “I don’t know what to tell you” and they never showed. And they never called again. And I never called them. And I may have cried a little bit.

So I told my neighbor Debbie about my saga (who rivals Thea in the tip department). She said this cleaner, Comet Spray Gel, worked for her. I said, “But what type of tool did you use to get it out after you sprayed it? A putty knife? A chainsaw?”

Nothing. She said she just sprayed it, walked away, came back and her shower was clean.

Naturally, I was skeptical. She let me borrow hers to do a test area. I sprayed it on the ugliest grout in the shower and went about my business.

That night I told Frank about it and he was a total non-believer. So we went to check the area I sprayed.

I couldn’t find it.

That means it worked! We were amazed. Frank wanted to go pick some up that night!

So now we have our very own bottle. Frank has done a couple more test patches but he needs to do the whole shower (I can’t because of my condition). And yes, in some places you do have to scrub a little but only with a sponge. And for some reason Frank likes to use old t-shirts.

I’m telling you this saga of the grout in case you too are struggling with grout guilt. Do not break out power tools. Do not call incompetent, overpriced people to come fix it. And definitely do not shed any tears!

This has been a public service announcement from Writinggal.

Working on our Manners

"BS, don't you know it's not polite to be late?"

Especially when everyone is calling, asking where you are!

Real World XX

This is how old I am: when the Real World first started on MTV I was not allowed to watch it. This was the one with Julie and Eric and Norman. I guess I watched enough episodes to learn their names before my dad pulled the plug.

I argued, “But it’s called the REAL WORLD! You can’t hide me from the real world!”

Through the years I’ve caught some Real World’s: L.A., San Fran, Seattle, Hawaii, Paris, New Orleans, Chicago, Austin (and lived there during the taping!)
And missed some: Miami, London, Boston, Sydney (was there one in Sydney?)

But last night I saw that Real World XX was in Hollywood and they were replaying the first episode.

Frank said, “Didn’t they already have one in L.A?”

I said, “Yeah, the one with John, the country singer. He’s the one that says, ‘True Story!’” (and then I sang it just like him). “But it’s been so long,” I told Frank, “I think it’s okay for them to go back there.”

So we started watching: they had the typical crew—the pretty boy, the girl with a boyfriend who probably won’t have a boyfriend by the end of the season, the angry black man, the country girl who’s never seen a black person and says inappropriate things, the stripper…I’m sure there’s a gay guy but I haven’t figured it out yet. One girl (the one with the boyfriend) said she was going to turn 21 that weekend.

Then Frank said something seriously scary: “You know, when the first L.A. one was on, these kids weren’t even born yet.”

OMG.

Okay, so a quick check of Wikipedia told me that season aired in 1993 so they were born…but they were only like five.

About halfway through I said, “I can’t watch this anymore. It makes me feel icky.”

Sixteen years later I’m now hiding from the Real World by choice. Should make my dad proud.

The Big 4-0

Today is my due date. I think.

At first my doctor said my due date was April 14th. Then we had our first ultrasound and it changed to April 24th. Then I saw on some paperwork that it was April 23rd. One day I noticed that my online account with the doctor’s office said April 28th.

I tried to ask, but they get all huffy:

“So which is my real due date?”

“Um…the 24th…”

“Okay, because I heard the 23rd and then I heard the 28th so I wasn’t sure…”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. That baby is gonna come whenever it wants.”

“Yes, but every two minutes someone asks me what my due date is and when I say ‘I don’t know’ they think I’m stupid. And they might think I’m an unfit parent and report me to social services.”

That’s when I decided to go with the 23rd, because it was the soonest. But that was a mistake. Because basically, ever since April 1st, people have been acting like I’m overdue:

“You STILL haven’t had that baby!! I can’t believe it!”

And when my doctor said they would induce me one week after my due date, I INSISTED on knowing the real date. I mean, now it matters. If my due date isn’t until the 28th, I have to wait until Cinco de Mayo to have this baby.

He said the 24th. And that’s today. So I have to have the baby by Uno de Mayo.

And since there’s no action going on as I write this (except for a lot of hiccupping by BS), you can probably rule out today, my due date. You could probably rule it out anyway because only 5% of babies are born on their due dates.

And BS is not exactly cooperative.

So good news: I’m not sick. I made it to 40 weeks. There is an end in sight.
Bad news: The milk in the fridge will go bad before BS gets here.

Minute 14 of my 15

Yesterday when I was sick I really needed some Gatorade. And not just because Frank works for the company that makes the stuff but because the nurse I talked to on the phone said if I couldn’t keep anything else down then I should try the big G. You know, for the electrolytes.

But how would I procure this thirst aid? I was too weak to leave the house and as much as people had offered, “let me know if you need anything,” I couldn’t bring myself to call someone and say, “Could you get me some Gatorade?”

I decided I would have to leave the house in my condition. Now let me type you a picture:

Grey sweatpants (that I had been wearing for the past two days and nights)
A grey t-shirt
Stringy hair
Glasses
No make-up
Unbrushed teeth
An overall sickly, pathetic appearance
And of course, my giant pregnancy bump, poking out from said grey t-shirt

Walgreens was the closest but I hesitated. What about Wally? Will he try to talk to me? I felt so miserable that the very idea of having to make conversation with someone made me want to puke (which actually wasn’t that difficult since that’s the kind of sickness it was).

But then I thought it would be silly to go somewhere farther away, just to avoid Wally.

So I went to Walgreens. As soon as I walked in I realized that I had bigger problems than Wally. I had my public.

Surely, if I kept my head down people wouldn’t talk to me. Yet after I picked up my two giant bottles of Gatorade and walked through the store, not making eye contact (and looking the way I did, refer to description above), I still got comments:

“Hey!! You look like you’re about ready to hatch!!”

“Is it your first? Your second?”

“What are you having?”

“That child will bring you so much joy!!”

To these I answered, “I’m sick.” They might have thought I was rude but if they knew how long it had been since I brushed my teeth, they would be glad that I was short with them.

When I made it up to the counter after pushing my way through my “we’ve never seen a pregnant woman before fan club” I had to face Wally. To my surprise (and relief) he said nothing about my pregnancy! He didn’t even make small talk with me.

As I escaped the store I again reflected on how this is similar to being a celebrity. Like Eva Longoria, I can’t just walk into a local Walgreens without lots of questions. But unlike Eva, nobody wanted to take my picture. And if she ever looked the way I looked yesterday, she would definitely send her personal assistant instead.

50/50

The poll is even with only hours left to go! This is way more exciting than that whole Pennsylvania extravangza.

Sick Day

I’m sick. I’m NEVER sick. You know why? Because Weidmans don’t get sick. That’s what my dad says. And most of my life it’s been true. I did have the flu back in ’05 and last summer there was that 24 hour bug. But this is all since I wasn’t a Weidman. So I blame this illness on becoming a Simcik. It even has the word “sick” in it (even though it’s spelled “cik.”)

So this sick Simcik had to stay home from work today. And staying home from work when you actually work from home is so not as much fun as staying home from work when you work at work.

It just means I’m downstairs instead of upstairs.

And that my downstairs looks like this:

Be glad I'm not posting a picture of me. By the way, the baby is fine (must be at true Weidman).

Expanding Recap!

Get your votes in!

There are only four days left to vote on BS’s gender. I picked that day to close the poll because it’s a few days before my due date. So when you see “poll closed” next week it doesn’t really mean we know the gender. But we might.

At press time the race is tight: 51% girl; 48% boy.

In real life the votes are more lopsided—in favor of boy. People who don’t even know that I don’t know will say, “Are you having a boy?” All I can say is, “Maybe!” I’ll hear the occasional, “I think it’s a girl” but it’s rare.

I, myself, have boys on the brain. I don’t have a logical reason for thinking BS is a boy, just the following clues:

--In my dreams BS is always a boy.

--Whenever I talk about BS, I accidentally say “he” or “him.” (Does that fall under a Freudian slip? Or does it not count since I actually don’t know?)

--BS’s behavior: Surely, a sweet little girl couldn’t be this aggressive.

I’m not trying to sway your vote. In fact, I think I voted for girl way back when. But it might have just been because the blog is very pink.

Grandma and the Gadgets

I may have banned all texts, shunned instant messaging and recently become frustrated with Face Book, but when it comes to technology, I’m still way ahead of my 85-year-old grandma.

Grandma Lib’s take on…


Computers: “I don’t need to know about them…I’m on my way out anyway.”

The internet: “What do you mean your articles are on the internet? You mean like the TV?.”


Cell phones:
“What’s your new number?”
Me: “It’s the same number.”
“But you moved to Georgia.”
Me: “Right. But since I have a cell phone, I can keep the same number.”
“How can you do that?”
Me: “The same way I’m calling you from the car right now!”


Long Distance Charges: “Why are you calling me in the middle of the day? This must be costing you a fortune!”


Also on Long Distance Charges: “I don’t leave messages. They charge you the same whether you talk to the person or talk to a machine so I’d just rather wait until I can talk to a person.”

On cell phone voicemail: “I called you but instead of you I got some fancy lady.”

Caller ID: “I called you but you didn’t call me back.”
Me: “I didn’t know you called.” “I thought you had a way of knowing who called.”
Me: “I do but only if my phone is turned on. I might have had my phone turned off.”
“What? Your phone was off? Why did you do that?”
Me: “I might have been at the doctor’s office or in a movie or teaching spin class…Then I cut off my phone.”
“Well, I’ve been so worried!”
Me: “Next time just leave a message.”
“I don’t leave messages. You know they charge you the same-”
Me: “I gotta go. It’s the middle of the day so this is costing me a fortune!”

The Amazing Bowl Holder

Last year our friend Shannon came over while she was about eight months pregnant and just casually placed a bowl of fruit on her belly. She wasn’t trying to amaze anyone but she did. Well, she amazed Frank. “Look at that!” Frank said and insisted on taking her picture.

He hasn’t stopped talking about it. In fact, I think that’s one of the reasons he was excited that I was pregnant.

We tried the bowl holder trick in the Bahamas…although all I could manage at the time was this plastic cup. It was more like a coaster.

We tried it since then but I always had to hold the bowl.

Last week…bowl holding success.

Look, no hands!!

P.S. BS does NOT like this trick.

The Belly Game: A Rematch

Geometry finally worked in Frank’s favor. I am now the belly loser. It took 38 weeks of pregnancy but I now have a belly bigger than my husband’s. I think I’ve got an inch on him (Although it still appears that I am at least 22 inches bigger. Maybe it's because he's sucking in. No fair.)

Since Frank is a “glass-half-full” kinda guy, he sees this as a sign that he can change his ritual to “Five Beer Friday.”

My take on trip takers

Before we book a hotel we usually check out Trip Advisor. It’s great because people give their honest opinions, sometimes in great detail, about their experience. And sometimes they post their pictures in "candid traveler photos" which is even better.

But I was recently checking out TA for an article and realized something. There’s a pattern. Every hotel/resort/motel gets the same reviews. They go like this:

First, there are the Major Complainers:

“Worst vacation I’ve ever had!”
Coco Loco Moco Resort was nothing like the pictures. The grounds were dirty, unkept and the pool always had leaves in it. Our room was even worse. It smelled like my uncle’s armpits (and he worked on a goat farm). And the service? Those people acted like they didn’t even want to be there. They were slow, rude and didn’t speak English. The food was bland. The entertainment the same. We spent two weeks there and it was a nightmare.

WG comment: The MCs usually go on and on about very specific situations that happened only to them like how their room wasn’t ready so they had to wait. Oh, and MCs always switch rooms a minimum of three times.

Then there are the Overly-Pleased:

“Amazing vacation! Would go back in a second!”
Coco Loco Moco Resort was amazing. My family and I had the time of our lives. We will never forget it. The service was incredible. (Thanks, Enrique, for the great pina coladas!) The food was phenomenal. (You have to try the eggs benedict that Frederico makes!) Our room was immaculate. (Loved the towel characters, Marta!) My kids keep asking when we’re going to go back and I say, “Not soon enough!” Definitely go to this resort! You won’t be sorry!!

WG comment: OPs always post candid traveler pics. You start to wonder how these people could be talking about the same place and then you get to...

The Voice of Reason. These are the folks who read Trip Advisor before they went, got their hopes down and were pleasantly surprised, thus having to point all this out on TA. You can always count on at least 40% of the reviews on any place to start with “After reading all the bad reviews…”

“Much better than expected!”
After reading all the bad reviews, I wasn’t sure what to expect form Coco Loco Moco Resort. I think that some of the people who were complaining are just way too picky. I mean, it’s not the most expensive resort; you get what you pay for. Sure, the rooms were a little outdated but they were fine. I mean, you’re not going there to hang out in your room, are you? Some of the restaurants were good, some not so good. The drinks were a little watered down but at least they were included and that’s kinda what you expect at an all-inclusive. For a decent family trip at a reasonable price, I’d say this place is just fine.

WG comment: The VoR comments usually help us to make our decision about the place. If you’re debating about a vacation and feel you’re being swayed by the two extremes of MCs and OPs, just do a quick search for “After reading all the bad reviews” and you can find a more balanced report.

Or you can just look at the candid traveler photos and see which places have the fewest Speedos.

Super Dad, Super Swaddler

We’ve watched our Happiest Baby on the Block video (thanks, Team Patel!) and we’re sold on swaddling. We even understand how to do it—conceptually.

But we’re both hands-on learners so we needed to practice. BS has lots of stuffed animals but they don’t have human-like arms and legs.

Thus, we ended up with Bart Simpson.

Frank was a natural. Watch him swaddle the other BS!

All you have to do, according to the video, is remember the acronym DUDU. It means “Down, Up, Down, Up.”


I guess since Frank has DUDU down, he’ll be in charge of swaddling. Does that mean I’m in charge of the other DUDU?

BS: “Who you callin’ little?”

Last Friday the docs said BS may be small. Not freaky small but just smaller than average. They can tell by taking a vertical measurement of my belly. I measured at 34 weeks instead of 37. My doctor said, “You’re small so it would be great if you had a small baby. But let’s get an ultrasound just to be sure.”

In the days after that I told BS, “See? Everyone was crazy for saying things to us like, ‘are you sure you’re not having twins?’ and ‘you’re not gonna make it until April!' You are actually quite petite."

I assured BS that it was okay to be little. It’s much for fun than being Amazonian tall. Or really fat. “You’re just a wittle baby…a wittle baby who’s going to make labor easy for mommy…thanks for being so itty bitty,” I told BS.

Well, BS struck back.

By Monday I had gained FOUR more pounds. That’s in one weekend. And when they estimated BS’s weight on the ultrasound, he/she weighed 7.2 pounds. And I still had three weeks to go!

I asked the doctor, “This baby seems to be getting big, is there a chance you would induce me early?”

“No,” he said. “You’re a little lady. But I’ve seen some big babies come out of some little ladies.” He then went on to tell me a tale of a 12.5 pounder he once delivered. And I’m not talking about a C-section.

Ouch.

Here is a picture of our potentially gargantuan baby. The top is BS spazzing out as usual. And the bottom one shows a giant eye but they assured us it's just the "eye orbit" and that these non 3-D ultrasounds don't pick up eye balls.

BS does not think this picture is flattering and asked that I not post it. But hey, it’s the only one we’ve got! I just hope he/she doesn’t punish me by gaining more weight.

Ask Aunt Marilyn

This is Marilyn vos Savant. You know her. She’s in Parade magazine every week, answering questions that make my head spin. Frank always calls the column “Ask Aunt Marilyn.” Apparently she has the highest IQ in the whole wide world. And look at her. She’s the ultimate "smart and pretty.”


I like the ones where we have to figure out how people are related like, “Joey and Matt are cousins. Melissa is married to Matt and Joey is her brother. Joey’s son is not related to Sam but is related to Mary. How are Mary and Melissa related?”
(Don’t try to solve that. I made it up. And I’m pretty sure Melissa is breaking some laws by being married to her cousin.)

I don’t so much like the ones that have to do with numbers or shapes or trains.

Last Sunday I read the best question ever. This is something I didn’t know, always wondered and will now use the rest of my life. Check it out:

Preheating ovens seems like a waste of gas or electricity. Couldn’t we put the food in the oven when we turn it on and then reduce the baking time? For example, instead of preheating the oven at 350° for 10 minutes and then baking cookies for 10 minutes, the cookies might spend the first 10 minutes at the lower temperature and need only five more minutes at the higher temperature.—Kevin Miller, Madison, Ala.

Aunt Marilyn’s Response: I’m afraid not. Regardless of taste considerations, the most important issue is safety. Bacteria thrive in warm temperatures, so they would multiply rapidly during those preheating minutes, giving you many more bacteria to kill during the shortened high-temperature cooking process.

Brilliant! While I always waited until the oven pre-heated, I didn't know why I had to. And sometimes I did get anxious and throw something in before the beep. Never again!

Then she went on to pose a question about this silly box…

…and my head started spinning again. Oh, well. I guess some of us have to settle for just being pretty.

Professional Nesting

They say if you suddenly get the urge to clean your whole house, you may be about to go into labor.

Today I got that urge.

But when I got to the master bathroom shower, I got fed up. I can never clean that thing good enough! I scrub and scrub but it never looks clean. I actually shouted at it today, "This is not clean! It's not even cleaner! It actually looks dirtier. I'm so ashamed!"

So my question is, does it still count as nesting if you quit your household chores and call professionals to come clean your shower?

They'll be here at 10 tomorrow. I hope I'm not in labor.

Lobster with my lobster

Frank and I are like Ross and Rachel. We're each others' lobsters (without all the "We were on a break" fuss).

Saturday was our five-year wedding anniversary. As we headed out to dinner to celebrate, Frank said, "Are you sad we're not going somewhere fancier?" I said, "Are you kidding? We're going out for lobster! What's fancier than that?"

Okay, so it was RED Lobster. And it was free because we got a gift card from the place where we set up our wills. But still, the only thing better than free lobster on your wedding anniversary is free lobster PLUS cheesey biscuits! And what can top the feeling that if we ate too much and died, we would totally be covered?

We also took the customary anniversary photo where one of us holds up the number of years we've been married. I do the odds; Frank does the evens. When we run out of fingers, the kids will get to join in. And if we run out of fingers after that, I think we'll just add toes rather than adding kids.

Awwww...

Way Better than a Manger...

...because it's a GREEN manger!

We've got all the essentials in BS's room. This weekend when we were getting the curtains, Frank said to my belly, "I sure hope you like green."

Check it out:

Baby got Back

With only three weeks to go we’re at the point where I can tell which body parts are doing the kicking and punching. Well, I can’t really distinguish between hands, feet, knees and elbows but one body part is very identifiable: the bootie.

BS loves to stick out its butt. It makes my stomach look all out of whack. One side is deflated and the other side has this round thing poking out.

When BS does this I like to say (in my high-pitched mommy voice):

“What’s that? Is that your little bootie?”

“Are you putting on a show?”

“Oh, der’s a wittle bootie. Oh, so cute. Whatcha trying to say?”

“Show daddy! Show daddy what you’re doing!” (BS, who is amazingly uncooperative for an unborn child, usually does the opposite.)

But when we get a big bootie show I like to sing Sir Mix a Lot’s “Baby got Back” with lyrics I wrote especially for BS:

I like big butts and I cannot lie
Those other babies can’t deny
When my baby dances around
All over the place
With a round thing in my face
I say, “Hey, baby, what’s going on?”


Okay, that’s all I got so far.

This might inspire a whole new career path for our child. And BS is a pretty cool rapper name.

Spin Sabotage

Someone in my spin class is trying to destroy me and my good spin reputation.

This person is allegedly turning in comment cards saying that I…

--have bad music
--have music that is too loud
--have too loud of a voice

Let’s pause.

All of this I can handle. You can’t please everybody on music…or volume. I’m not even mildly hurt by this.

But these next few comments are way off:

--I’m not motivating
--I’m BORING
--I’m not communicative

Okay, so most of you have not taken my spin classes but I assure you I am not any of the above three things. In fact, I pride myself on being the exact opposite of them. I’ll state my case:

--Motivation: I tell the class they “look great” are “working so hard” are “doing awesome” about every 30 seconds. I say “you can do it” on a regular basis and “Look! You’re almost to the top of the hill!” People come up after class and say I'm an "Energizer Bunny" and ask, "Were you a cheerleader?" That's how freakin’ motivating I am! And hello? What about my “you guys are on fire” line? What’s more motivating than that? Oh, and I also smile the whole time. Maybe this falls under how I’m not boring either. See next defense.

--Enthusiasm: I run around the room, jumping up and down, clapping for them when they’re doing sprints.

--Communication: I tell them exactly what’s coming up next, how much time we have left on each hill, and how many sprints we’re going to do and for how long. If anything, I think I over-communicate!

While I feel confident in my spin-instructing abilities and the rest of my class participants don’t seem to have any complaints, I am slightly offended by these accusations. Okay, offended enough to rant about it on my blog. But then again, this person continues to come to my class so I can’t be all that bad.

So I’ll keep smiling, keep clapping and keep on communicating. But I will NOT, under any circumstances, tell this person that they are on fire. That’ll show ‘em.

Playing the pregnancy card

A bump can get you a more comfortable seat, a better parking spot, an earlier boarding time on a plane...

...but, apparently, it can't get you out of jury duty.

Me, to the clerk, "I'm due in the three weeks, can I be excused?"

Clerk: "Do you have a note from your doctor?"

"No, I have this," pointing to my enormous belly.

"Have a seat."

But I'm not going to get discouraged. After all, trial by jury is what makes our country so great. And as they reminded us yesterday, it is an HONOR to get chosen for jury duty. Plus, my fellow jurors tell me they're planning on throwing me a baby shower!

Juror #43* or Elsa Simlacky

If you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because I'm doing my civic duty. I went to jury duty yesterday and while I haven't officially been picked, I have to go back again today.

It's pretty unpleasant but on the plus side, I can't complain about not knowing that many people in Atlanta anymore. I have lots of new friends: Juror #12, Juror #5, Juror #23, Juror #34, #47, Juror #60--all super cool. Juror #66 is a little coo-coo but we did ride the train home together. When it's all over I may get their numbers so we can hang out. I might even ask them their real names.

*Not my real juror number. Juror number has been changed to protect the juror. (I'm so down with legal speak now.)