Like a Tiny, Very Speedy Train

Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo...

I rented a Doppler machine. Yesterday, the King and I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time. That's right, I used the B word--call me crazy, but I'm beginning to think that in 29 weeks, we may be getting a roommate.

Perhaps It's Time I Found God

I am, according to the sticks I cannot stop peeing on and the sonogram I had a month ago, just about eleven weeks pregnant. Theoretically. (I've had virtually no symptoms other than horrifying lines on my boobs, so we'll just assume the pee sticks and the doc are correct.) Therefore, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what it will be like to have an actual small person here with me. And as a result, I have discovered the reason for fundamentalist religion. Not just fundie Christians, or Muslims, but any sort of hardcore, God-is-it-and-there-a'int-nothing-else spirituality.

It is so you can answer the three-year-old's favorite question: Why?

For example, here is a conversation I may one day have with the fetus, after it stops being a fetus:

Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Me: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Me: Err, um, well, a long, long time ago, there was water everywhere, and there were lots of fish in it. Then one day, one of the fish crawled up on this island. But he died. Then another fish, one that had rudimentary lungs through some fluke of evolution, crawled up and lived. Then he met a girlfriend, and they had baby fish that could breathe air. Then, a long time later, this guy named Charles Darwin counted a whole bunch of little birds on this other island, and wrote a book about them...

It would just take forever, and frankly, I didn't pay that much attention in Bio 101. Hence, the fundamentalism. This conversation is much, much easier for the religiously minded parent:

Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Fundie parent: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Fundie parent: Because God said so. Now stop bothering me.

See? So much easier. Perhaps I should go bust out my copy of the King James I got for my high school confirmation nine years ago and felt too guilty to ever throw away.

Not a Funny Day

I was planning a very witty post about my fabulous new house and the very, very empty third bedroom that we insisted the movers not put any boxes in, because it is going to be the, ahem, "tiny passenger's" room, assuming the tadpole is still hanging out and doing okay.

However, the bombing in London this morning pretty much killed my sense of humor off. Having lived in Washington, DC, seeing the Pentagon with its one shiny new side twice a day on my way to work and home, I know that none of those people's lives will ever be the same, even if they weren't actually on the subway when it happened. Every day when I went to work on the Metro, I wondered if this would be the day that someone tried to blow it up. I would mentally calculate whether I would survive if a bomb went off in the next car, instead of the one I was in. (Answer: probably yes, if they were using regular small bombs, although you would be injured.) Every day I would hold my breath for a tiny second as we pulled into Union Station, knowing that would probably be the most likely spot for an attack--lots of people, famous building next to the Capitol, big empty underground area. And every day I would peer around as I walked through the station, wondering if the guy with the backpack was really going camping, or the woman pushing the baby stroller actually had a baby, or a stroller full of C4 explosives. That feeling never went away, no matter how many times I went to work and home perfectly safely. And now it's never going to go away for thousands and thousands of people in London just like me.

All About the Genital Slicing

Yesterday I spent a really surprising amount of time talking about people's genitals being cut up. No, we weren't discussing female genital mutilation in Africa, although I do like to torment the King on occasion by ranting about women's rights, or lack thereof, in certain areas of the world. No, we were talking about the slicing and dicing of my genitals. And those of my potential offspring (or "little passenger," as one of my pregnancy books so creepily calls it).

It all started with a long and fairly boring first official prenatal visit. (We didn't get an ultrasound or a Doppler, so there's no fun news about whether the "little passenger" is actually, you know, still alive in there. But let's assume the best, okay?). The nurse practitioner asked if we had any questions, and I immediately began a political rant about the wanton use of enemas and episiotomies in the United States. You see, I am absolutely terrified of episiotomies. The idea of someone slicing open my vagina with a pair of scissors horrifies me far more than the idea of labor itself.

The nurse managed to head me off at the pass (and calm my impending hyperventilation) by saying they don't give episiotomies or enemas to everyone. Then she cleverly distracted me by saying they do have whirlpool tubs for laboring in. Ooh. Jacuzzi.

The idea of the jacuzzi having diverted me from the whole vagina-slicing horror long enough to get out of the doctor's office, I then immediately began questioning the King about his feelings about circumcision, should we have a boy. He said yes, definitely. I said that the United States is the only first-world country that still practices circumcision regularly, and he said I had told him that before, but he'd never heard any proof of it. Then I said I really just want the kid to feel comfortable when he's a teenager around other guys, although I'm not thrilled about the idea of snipping bits off his genitalia. Or of having to clean blood off his little newborn penis, either, because that's just weird.

We never came to an agreement about circumcision. Any opinions? Personally, I decided it would be easiest just to hope for a girl.

My Husband, the Car Lover

Yesterday I was brushing my teeth when I discovered something very alarming in the mirror--a dark line running from my belly button down to my cooter. What the hell? Remember what we used to call a "happy trail" when we were giggling at our teenage boyfriends? Except that this isn't a line of little hairs, it's an actual LINE ON MY SKIN! I had heard about it (linea negra, they call it), but it doesn't usually appear until the fourth or fifth month. Lucky me to get it in the 9th week.

I immediately shrieked, "King! Come look at this freaky scary thing on my stomach! Tell me you don't see it! Tell me I'm imagining things!"

My sweet husband peered at my stomach for a minute, then pointed, laughed hysterically, and said:

"Look, baby! You've got a racing stripe!"

Help Me, Help Me!

Okay, this is my first plea for pregnancy-related advice. Sorry, I'm afraid this does not bode well for my blog remaining even a tiny bit funny or interesting after the arrival of the Tadpole (who is officially a fetus today!). But I don't know anyone with kids, so I need some help.

1. What's the best stretch mark cream? Do any of them really work?

2. I plan to breastfeed, but the King wants to feed the baby too, so I'm thinking I could pump and let him bottlefeed occasionally. Will this totally freak out the Tadpole so that he or she will hate me and never want to breastfeed again? I've heard of some bottles that say their nipples prevent confusion--do they work, and which are the best?

What to Expect When You're Paranoid: Three Conversations

Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!

DH: What? Are you sick?

Me: No, I'm perfectly fine. All my pregnancy symptoms have suddenly disappeared. I'm having a miscarriage, I know it.

DH: Uh, are you bleeding?

Me: No, but the book says there's something called a "missed miscarriage," and you don't bleed at all if that happens.

DH: What are the symptoms?

Me: Having all your pregnancy symptoms disappear. We have to go to the hospital, the book says so!

[Two hours later, the obstetrician inserts the DildoCam.]

OB: There it is! A healthy fetus. Looks like you're about seven weeks and three days along. You can even see it's heart beating!

Me and DH: [crying]

OB: You're perfectly fine. Don't worry about a thing.

********

Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!

DH: What?

Me: I've got vaginal discharge! I'm leaking amniotic fluid! The books says to go to the hospital if you have any leaking at all!

DH: Honey, you just got out of the shower. You're dripping water everywhere, that's all it is. Go dry your hair.

Me: Oh. Yeah.

*******

Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!

DH: [sighing] What now?

Me: I just picked up this enormous frozen turkey, and it totally hurt my shoulder! The book says shoulder pain means an ectopic pregnancy! We have to go now--The book says!

DH: I am throwing that motherfucking book away.

Yeah, We Were Shocked Too

Still are, in fact. Thank you so much for your kind congratulations on my previous post. It's been five days and I am, apparently, still pregnant. Unfortunately, thanks to the high-quality medical care the military provides, I have absolutely no freaking idea how pregnant I am, although I suspect about five weeks. They did a blood test yesterday to confirm that yes, I'm knocked up, but they don't do quantitative betas, the one where you get the number that you then watch fanatically to make sure it's doubling every day. And I can't get in to see a doctor for two weeks. How am I supposed to know what chapter I'm allowed to read up to in What to Expect if I don't know how far along I am, goddamnit??

And yes, I got a copy of What to Expect. The King bought it for me. We saw it in the store, and I told him I had wanted to buy a copy for the last two years, but it was just too painful when we weren't actually expecting, so he got it for me. And I cried in line at the checkout.

And in the car after getting the lame blood test yesterday. And three times while watching tv. And once this morning in bed. Either I've definitely got that weepiness symptom, or I'm just still overwhelmed by the thought that I've actually got gobs (I hope) of HCG floating around my system.

And speaking of symptoms, yesterday my boobs were killing me and I felt totally sick in the morning, plus I took two naps in the afternoon. It was great. Unfortunately, I feel perfectly normal and fine today, so I assume that means the pregnancy's ending. Of course, I have no way to know for sure whether it's developing properly, because the Navy won't do an ultrasound until 12 weeks! Apparently they think the kindest and most sensitive way to find out that there's no fetal pole or gestational sac is not in the quiet tones of your gentle OBGYN as he or she points to the tv screen, but rather by waking up in a pool of blood and agonizing cramps.

No, seriously, I'm trying really hard not to think about things like that, although I know the King and I are both worried about it. But we're trying to enjoy it, too, especially since this is our first pregnancy--we're trying really hard to be that annoying couple who tells everyone after two days and starts buying tiny clothes at four weeks because they just don't know any better. I'm not quite there, though--I told him I can't say the B-word yet (as in, "I'm having a...!"), so he affectionately named our little ball of cells "The Tadpole." It was so sweet, I cried. Again.

In Which I Embody Every Fertility Cliche Ever Spoken

"Take a vacation!"

"Go to Hawaii, that's what we did!"

"Just relax--all that charting and stuff just makes it take longer."
________________

I got two lines today. Two lines.

Don't You Hate That?

Don't you hate it when you move into a new rental house, and you go around and turn everything on to make sure it works, like the washing maching and the dishwasher, and it all does, and then your new landlady comes over to do a walkthrough inspection, and she fiddles with the washing machine and the dishwasher too, and then after she leaves, the washing machine won't start?

And then you call her and leave a really nasty message on her answering machine that says, "Hey, this is Queenie, and you fiddled around with my washer today, and now it doesn't work. And it worked earlier, so you totally broke it, and you need to come over right away and fix whatever it was that you screwed up."

And then you hang up, and then you see the cord hanging out of the back of the washing machine that you accidentally pulled out with the laundry room door five minutes before and forgot to plug back in? Don't you hate that?

World's Worst Blogger

I know, I haven't posted in like nineteen weeks, and therefore I don't deserve to have anyone come and read this post, but since Julia is going on vacation and won't be updating for a while, I'm hoping I can steal some of her uber-fabulous readers and convince them to come over here. I haven't been posting because I've now moved twice in one month and will be moving again in three weeks. Also, because I suspected I might be pregnant, which was taking up a great deal of my brain.

Stop laughing. I know, it's ridiculous. And no, I'm not pregnant. I am, like Akeeyu, in the middle of the longest, most boring cycle in history. I took Clomid about ninety-three days ago, and nothing has happened since. No ovulation, no blood, nada. I have, however, had two weeks of swollen, sore boobs, alternating bouts of feeling sick and stuffing my face, constipation, and fatigue. Whoo hoo! Pregnant, right? Not so much. Apparently I'm just fully fucked up.

The whole moving-three-times-in-two-months thing has been a major pain too. We flew here to Hawaii in May and moved into a nice hotel that the Navy kindly paid for. For ten days. However, they didn't have a house for us to live in, so we actually had to stay in the hotel for a month, paying for most of it ourselves. We finally got housing last week, and moved into it on Friday. (Pearl City, for those of you in this area.) However, in the meantime, we found our dream home. Or as close as you're going to get to it in Hawaii, where one-room shacks are selling for $400,000. We are now in the midst of selling our souls to the devil to get a half-a-million-dollar loan so we can buy said dream house, which only needs about $20,000 worth of work to make it livable. Trust me, for Hawaii, that's a great deal. It's just a little scary, and it means that assuming the devil accepts our souls in exchange for the house, we'll be moving yet again in a few weeks.

In the meantime, everything we own is in storage. The Navy kindly loaned us what they call "Aloha furniture." Aloha furniture is truly lovely wicker and plastic furniture with a florescent floral pattern that the Navy stores in huge, scary warehouses until someone like us needs to use it for a couple of weeks. Apparently they call it Aloha furniture because every morning you get to say "Aloha!" to the cockroaches that crawl out of it during the night.

Other than the endless moving, cockroach issue, and not having Internet access for ages, however, Hawaii is pretty awesome. It's actually hard to think of anything funny and sarcastic to say about it. The weather is just stunning; I'm learning to wear flip-flips. And there are rainbows here. And not just once in a while--I'm talking every day I go out for a walk and there will be a rainbow arching over the mist-shrouded peaks toward the center of the island, with the ocean waves gently lapping behind me.

Okay, that last bit was a lie. The King and I haven't spent any time at the beach yet. We stuck our feet in at North Shore for about five minutes a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't actually swum in the ocean here yet. I know, who goes to Hawaii and doesn't go to the beach? Don't worry, we'll get there eventually.

The only thing about Hawaii that isn't what I expected is the traffic. Everyone said, "The traffic is a nightmare, you'll sit for ages, it's horrendous." Ha! Happily, that turned out to be untrue. The people who told us that clearly have not had the pleasure of fighting traffic on both the Washington Beltway and the 101/405 Interchange in Los Angeles IN ONE WEEK. Now that's traffic.

So, to sum up, I promise to try to be a better blogger from here on out, and maybe even post a picture or two of our little island paradise.

Fun with Hawaiian Insurance

So, now that we're happily ensconced in a hotel here in Hawaii (we have no actual place to live as yet, but hopefully soon), I went to change my car registration from Virginia to Hawaii. Lo and behold, you need a safety inspection first. So I went to the safety inspection place and waited for thirty minutes in line, only to be told that my Virginia insurance isn't valid here; you must have Hawaiian insurance.

So off I went this morning to the State Farm office in my (apparently uninsured) car. The nice lady in the very big mu-mu (yes, some people actually wear those here) typed up all the necessary forms. While she was typing, we had the following conversation:

Insurance lady: [peering at a form] Does you or your husband have the birthdate of July 29, 1977 [not the actual date]?

Me: Oh, that's my birthday.

Lady: Oh, we're the same sign!

Me: [blank look. What sign?] Um, okay.

Lady: [leaning in and whispering conspiratorialy] We Leos really like to be the boss, don't we?

Me: Oh, um, yeah. I guess.

Lady: So, your husband's birthday is April 27?

Me: Yes.

Lady: Wow, that is so uncanny! My husband and I were just like that--he was an Aries and I was a Leo. Just like you guys!

Me: Oh, that's nice.

Lady: Of course, we're divorced now.

WT, Part 4: Alabama and Mississippi

They say that life moves more slowly in places like Alabama and Mississippi. I have discovered that this is because EVERY SINGLE ROAD IN THOSE STATES IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION. I am not kidding. We drove for five hundred miles on a four-lane highway that had been narrowed to two, so our nine-hour trip took twelve hours instead. We amused ourselves most of the way through Alabama by saying, "Greenbow, Alabama," and "Jenny: The most beautiful name in the whole world," in a Forrest Gump accent over and over again.

Mississippi is the same as Alabama, only with even worse roads. Also, the water is brown, and I don't mean the water in Old Man River. We stopped at a Hardees and the water was absolutely terrifying. I'm fairly sure that washing my hands in the bathroom actually made them dirtier.

WT, Part 3: Louisiana

Louisiana has more cows than one might expect. You'll be driving through a swamp, surrounded by brackish water sprouting trees thickly hung with Spanish moss and chock full of snakes and alligators, and all of a sudden, there will be a herd of cows, happily trodding through the water, getting cool in the shade and munching on pussywillows. It was quite odd.

We spent three days in New Orleans. They were wonderful days, and I was very happy to get to visit, and I was equally happy to get to leave. New Orleans is just too much of all the good stuff--too much good food, too much alcohol, too much river-and-weeping-willows-and-soft-jazz-playing-on-the-street. It was a little overwhelming. I did buy a very cool tee-shirt that says "Born Again Wiccan" on it, although I haven't been brave enough to wear it yet. I was seriously tempted to wear it in front of the King's family in Georgia, but I was afraid some of them would lynch me, particularly his cousin, who is a snake-handling, fundamentalist preacher as well as a world-champion, Olympic-level bow hunter. He can hit a deer at 500 yards, so he can sure as hell hit me.

If you happen to be going to New Orleans, I have only one recommendation--Mena's Palace. Of all the great food in that city, it's the best. It's a tiny hole in the wall, cash only please, next to a fabulous used bookstore in the Quarter. Get the shrimp po'boy. Trust me.

Why the Publishing Industry Is in Such Sorry Shape

I just got an e-mail from my agent to all her clients. She's got a buyer from a publishing company who is looking for five new authors who want to write a series of three books each, for print and audiobook publication. It's a big company with the potential for really decent sales.

The catch is, the buyer wants, and I quote, deeply serious literary work, "like Tom Clancy."

That's right, Tom Clancy. If the publishing industry now considers Tom Clancy's books to be serious literature, I might as well just stab myself in the eye with my pen and be done with it right now.

WT, Part 2: South Carolina

South Carolina: The State of Nothing Except Billboards for Things in Other States

Seriously, there's just not a lot there. We drove for like six freaking hours through South Carolina, and only saw four people. And seventeen million trees. We arrived at the King's father's house for an overnight visit. The King's dad took off when he was about six months old and never came back. They've only seen each other a handful of times in his entire life, and the King's dad remarried three times after divorcing his mom. Despite that, and despite the sheer excruciating boringness that is South Carolina, we had a good time. The King's dad was extremely welcoming and friendly, and I ate shrimp that had been pulled from the Charleston River only hours before, and the King and I stood on the banks of the river just as the sun went down, watching the shrimp boats sail in, and kissed. It was like a scene out of the Prince of Tides, only without the rape and violent physical abuse and stuff. Oh, and I ate my first boiled peanut.*

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* It was better than you'd think, really.

WT: Part 1a, More North Carolina

I left a few vital things out of my previous post on North Carolina. The first is that we stopped for dinner at a steakhouse that looked popular, in some tiny town in the middle of nowhere. The food was actually quite good, but my first clue that I definitely wasn't in familiar territory was that the King ordered the house special, which was meat with a side of meat. I'm not kidding--beef ribs and steak. My second clue was the somewhat offputting fact that there was a dead squirrel ON OUR TABLE. The entire restaurant was decorated in dead, stuffed animals. Yum.

Also, I discovered why the King and I are soulmates: When we order bacon cheese fries, I let him have all the bacony ones, and he lets me have all the cheesy ones.

Finally, there is a very special restaurant in North Carolina called the Risque Cafe. I haven't actually eaten there, but I'm sure it's something very unique. You see, it's a combination porn shop and eatery. That's right, stop in for a club sandwich and a side of fries, get a naked lady on your lap. It's just off I-95, so if you're ever down that way, do stop in and let me know if it's as terrifying inside as it appears to be from the outside, and if the naked ladies actually serve the food, or if that's against some sort of North Carolinian health code.

Internet Irony 2, Or, Why I Am an Idiot

Um, yeah, so now that I put up that last post, the one with the dirty, dirty word in it (in capital letters, no less!), this stupid hotel computer won't let me view my own blog. Yep, you'd think I would have thought of that earlier.

Internet Irony

In between attempting to post about my trip (next up: South Carolina!), I visited Grrl's blog, which I've been missing terribly. I read her latest post, no problem, and then went to comment on it. BEEP! The hotel computer I'm using threw up a big red box that said "PAGE BLOCKED!! This page contains material that may be harmful to children! The forbidden word is "FUCKED!"

So, um, I can't read Grrl's comments because there's a bad word in them, but you're perfectly happy to show me what that word is? So, like, if my hypothetical kid* were trying to get to a dirty page, she'd be blocked, but you'd be happy to tell her that the page includes "hot chocolate scat enema stories?"** Righto.

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* Ha! Hypothetical kid. Like that's ever going to happen. Ha ha.

** No doubt I'm going to get some very cool keyword hits off that last paragraph. For all of you that got here looking for enema stories, believe me, I like them as much as the next girl, but I just don't have anything for you.

Whirlwind Tour: Part 1

North Carolina: The Home of Cigarettes. Okay, technically that's not actually the state motto, but it might as well be. The picturesque forest that runs along I-95 through North Carolina is covered with cigarette factories, and everyone in the entire state either works there or uses the product. I think they kick you out of the state if you don't.

We saw a billboard that said, "North Carolina: We Support the Military More Than Any Other State." I immediately thought, "North Carolina: We Like to Kill People Too!" Perhaps that was uncharitable of me.

We drove through North Carolina quickly, stopping only once, to see the Girl Who Is Prettier Than Me. When I was in junior high and high school, I had two best friends, Caroline and Anne. Caroline was the pretty one, Anne was the daredevil, and I was the smart one. Every guy we ever met would have killed to get with Caroline, and she could have given a rat's ass about any of them--she just wasn't that interested. But for all that, she got knocked up when we were seventeen, and I lost track of her during college. I admit I was secretly a little happy when she got pregnant--she might be gorgeous, but at least I got to go to college.

So anyway, I hadn't seen her for ten years, and then about a month ago, Anne told me she had moved to North Carolina. I wrote her, and we arranged to get together for lunch. It was good to see her, but I was rather bitter by the end. You see, not only is she still the Girl Who's Prettier Than Me, but she is happily married and has not only one, but two beautiful daughters. Looks like I really did waste my fertile years getting an education. Damn it, and damn that pretty girl.