Time share

Am I the only one who thinks this is funny?

Happy Birthday, Brock!

Brock, shown below at approximately 9 months of age, turned one yesterday. His birthday party is this weekend. His big sister calls him Broccoli--she learned that from her father--but it sounds more like Bockwee.



Happy birthday, handsome. We're going to have a big party on Sunday.

My little man is ten inches long!

I could say that if I knew that Ebry were a boy, but I don’t. I felt like saying it anyway.

The issue that’s bothering me the most this week is food:

1. On Wednesday, my childbirth prep teacher told us that we needed to be getting 100 grams of protein per day if we had any hope of not getting preeclampsia. She cited some spotty research by a doctor who doesn’t believe in control groups, and that was that. If you’ve ever talked food with me before, you know that I believe that U.S. Americans are obsessed with protein. I think this extends into expectations about nutrition during pregnancy.

2. On Friday, my midwife insisted that if I didn’t eat four servings of dairy per day, I needed a calcium supplement. I mentioned my love and constant consumption of greens; she told me to try yogurt. I asked about milk protein leeching calcium from the bones; she told me that was minute. I countered with the very true fact that countries with the highest milk consumption also have the highest rates of osteoporosis; she had never heard of such a thing and looked at me like I grew an extra head.

3. Over the weekend, I was reading from the very informative and holistic Complete Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth by Sheila Kitzinger. She suggests that women measure their upper thighs weekly in order to ensure that they’re not gaining superfluous fat that might be difficult to lose after childbirth (page 98 of the fourth edition, published in 2004).

Here’s the deal: You all can bite me. My diet of whole, mostly organic foods is healthy and is nourishing my fetus quite well. My upper thighs are going to be pudgier when I’m done gestating Ebry than when I started, and that’s okay. We call those “maternal fat stores,” and they’re actually necessary for childbirth.

Spoiling

I know I'm a Harry Potter freak. Yes, my cats are named Quidditch and Muggle.

This site is stressing me out something awful. I don't know what to do with this information.

An abdomen

Brooke and I are both feeling Ebry kick now, and we're learning more about Ebry's personality. So far, extra buttery croissants are popular.

Birth options

We had Hannah (now 2.5) and Brock (almost 1) at Dad's cabin this weekend. While I was combing my hair after my shower, my tank top lifted up enough to show part of my belly. She pointed at my belly and asked, "What's that?"

"I'm growing you a cousin," I told her.

"Cousin?"

"Yeah, a cousin."

"Elmo!"

Monday, I told Paul and Hope about this when we dropped off the kids. I got as far as Hannah asking what "that" was as she pointed at my belly, and from her perch on the couch, she looked up from her coloring book and said, "Cousin!" We all laughed and told her how smart she is. "Elmo!" she said again.

I don't know what her expectations are about what a cousin is, but I hope she's not anticipating that I'll birth a red furry monster who doesn't speak in complete sentences. I have high hopes that my child will speak in complete sentences within three or four years of its birth.

Nesting, le deux

Last night, I went to Target to buy bins. Bins! We absolutely had to have bins right then. I got five sage green 18 gallon bins; each was $4. I bought one of those cubby hole shoe holders for the closet. I bought two 13-packs of hangers (why 13 in a pack? does it have something to do with bias against superstitious people?) and a Dora the Explorer rubbery placemat. The placemat will go to the cabin with us this weekend as a way to bribe Hannah to eat at the table so her brother can have the high chair.

And then I purged. I purged drawers. I purged the linen closet. I purged our bedroom closet. Anything that I wasn't going to wear between now and April and that Brooke wasn't going to wear was moved into a bin. The maternity clothes donations I received from friends and coworkers (including friend/blogfriend Wife B. of the DaddyZine household) went into their own section of the drawer, and the nursing clothes (thanks, Wife B!) into a bin to save for Ebry's arrival. Even with the new and temporary additions to my wardrobe, we saved a lot of space. We're taking three 13-gallon kitchen-sized trash bags full of miscellaneous bedding up to Dad's cabin this weekend.

Once we get the floor of the closet tidied up (don't ask), I'll take a weekend day and gut the closet and redo it. After the closet has been redone, all of my problems will be over.

Except that we need a new dishwasher, and that involves a carpenter, an electrician, some friends, and a pie. And a new dishwasher.

Also, I have photographic evidence of my pregnancy that involves a bikini. I'll post it if anyone is interested in viewing my abdomen.