Wednesday, September 25, 2013


Things can get weird right before you have a baby. I suppose it's nesting, but unfortunately for me, none of it involves cleaning, so I hesitate to label it as such. I had really convinced myself that nesting and obsessively cleaning were synonymous.  So now I'm not sure what to think.  I have collected the following empirical evidence...

Two weeks ago, I started having these unusual and unpredictable 30 second episodes of mania.  You know those moments when you're overcome with joy, energy, and a general feeling of extraordinary jubilation? Lovely, but because they only lasted around 30 seconds, by the time I got out of bed or up from the couch the feeling had passed. Thus whatever trail of energy remaining was spent readjusting my altar of pillows before I sat back down to finish reading the Inheritance Series by Christopher Paolini, which is my vain attempt to keep myself from compulsively rereading the same breastfeeding book for the tenth time.  The Inheritance books make Lord of the Rings seem devoid of detailed descriptions of scenery and endless walking.  It has never taken me so long to get through a series.  This could also be because I'd read 20 pages and then fall asleep for three hours.   

Rousing myself from an Inheritance induced nap on Sunday afternoon, I headed to the baby shower some ladies at our church were throwing for me.  It was absolutely darling and I was blessed and spoiled beyond measure.  But I realized afterwards that there was still a lot of stuff I need to pick up before Baby B comes home.  Not the fun, cute stuff, but the stuff no one wants to buy...breast pads, hand sanitizer, lanolin, nursing bras, anti-bacterial numbing spray, and extra-long-super-absorbent-elephant-sized maxi pads. You know, the kind that run from your waist up to the back of your neck? You can also use them as snow boards, I hear.

With my due date growing closer, I got to thinking about those folks who cook once and eat for a month.  I found a great website and decided to take the $8 plunge.  Last Friday, Mr. B and I spent $275 on food for 25+ freezer meals to have on hand when no one is around to cook but  me.  Mr. B is not only a talented singer and piano player, but he can also read, turn on the oven and operate a microwave, which makes him highly qualified for this type of cooking.  (He's the complete package, I know.) Tuesday, on top of being up for 18 hours, I spent over 10 hours on my feet chopping, cooking, grabbing things out of the too-high cabinets with tongs, and rewashing the same pan 11 times.  Needless to say, I wound up with cankles of epic proportions and five meals left to fix.  Thank goodness my most wonderful friend, the Rogue Dietician, made a late night run to Dillons and picked up Epsom salts for me and my new sausage-like appendages.  I'm more of a shower girl, so the Epsom therapy bath was weird, especially at midnight. I'm hoping that I was delirious from sleepiness, but objects in the bath water seem to appear much, much larger when sitting than when standing.  I think I'll just stick with showers from now on and keep my eyes straight ahead.             

Then yesterday, my belly button started getting super sensitive.  Even the most gentle touch from my shirt hurt.  By the end of the night, I couldn't laugh, sneeze, or blow my nose without excruciating pain. Never have I imagined calling a doctor and uttering the following: "My belly button hurts. Can I speak to a nurse, please?" Diastasis recti. Turns out my abdominal muscles are separated about 5 inches.  I must attempt to splint my stomach muscles together with one hand while I blow my nose with the other. How's that for a mental picture?

And strangest of all, last night I dreamed that I gave birth to a one year old.  Dream Baby B wouldn't nurse, so I had to pump (so much for reading that nursing book five times). I was wearing on of those bustiers so you can double pump hands-free and very high-waisted pants. If William Shatner had shown up, it might have been a Star Trek episode or quite possibly the Seinfeld Bra episode a la Sue Ellen Mischke.  My milk came out chocolate. Baby B wouldn't take bottle either, so I stabbed a straw through a breast milk storage bag and she drank it like a Capri Sun.  Apparently, necessity is the mother of invention...even in our dreams. 

In all honesty, we are getting pretty excited here in the B household.  Little B even packed her bag last night, just in case she'd need to head to a friend's in the middle of the night.  The nursery is ready, the car seat is installed, and baskets of diapers and wipes are set up in each room. After six years of waiting and that rotten secondary infertility diagnosis, we're ready for our little miracle to make her appearance.  And of course, we can't wait to share our new little addition with the world either!