Mindless Self Indulgence

I realize it's been awhile.  So much time has lapsed that it seems I've entered a new trimester.  The third to be exact.  (By my count, it's the last) I haven't written because I've been busy, kind of.  Sure, there's the usual work and school nonsense.  But honestly?  I've been keeping myself busy doing, well, whatever I want....

Someone was kind enough to give me the advice to spend as much time as possible alone before the kiddo comes into the picture.  No one really had to twist my arm to do that, as I generally adore hanging out with myself (regardless of impending motherhood).  In less than three months I realize that 375% of my time will likely be spent being devoted to things that are not me.  Kind of a no brainer, I know.  I feel that this gives me complete license to be as completely and utterly self-indulgent as I want to be until the end of February rolls around.

In the midst of occupying myself with trying out new things in the kitchen, I've been attempting to catch up on my extracurricular reading (finishing "The Corrections," starting the new Chuck P,  dabbling in books about breastfeeding, dreaming of "Sex, Time, and Power"), taking long and silent walks in the woods, sleeping in, getting massages, shopping peacefully, and watching all the HGTV and PBS documentaries I possibly can.  All the while, nesting like mad, reading textbooks, and cranking out 20 page papers about the correlation between competent nonverbal communication and relational satisfaction and mindless discussion board postings about the perils of adolesence.

Did I mention that I am also growing a baby boy in this big ol' belly of mine?

Life has proven to be simultaneously mellow and crazy over the last few months, to say the least.  I feel fortunate that I've been able to spontaneously indulge in all the lovely activities mentioned above - but I have to admit: I'm more and more excited every day about the prospect of holding my curly-haired baby boy in my arms and surrendering to the selflessness of motherhood...

Welcome to Mom Club

The first rule of Mom Club is:  You always talk about Mom Club.

The second rule of Mom Club is:  You ALWAYS talk about Mom Club. 

The third rule of Mom Club is:  If someone yells "STOP," or starts looking uncomfortable, you have to stop talking about Mom Club.  (Including your horrific birth experience)

I sincerely hope this doesn't make me sound like a bad person - and forgive the double standard (because I know I talk about pregnancy...a lot) - but does it have to be the only subject we talk about anymore?  For instance, I think we had some pretty cool conversations pre-pregnancy...say, about music, pets, crafting, what treasure was found at the thrift store, and the latest gossip about town. 

So, if I change the subject next time you're telling me about your mucous plug - don't be offended.  I'm just trying to milk my last few months of pre-parenthood autonomy for all they're worth. 

The Fetus VS. Fantasy Football

Very few things make men more uncomfortable than details about the female reproductive system. 

Very few things annoy me more than the intricacies of fantasy football.

Considering the fact that Eric (bless his heart) is part of, not one, but TWO, fantasy football leagues; I am hereby making the executive decision to bring up a) breastfeeding, b) mucus plugs,  or c) poopy diapers any time I have to hear about how many points his wide receiver or T.O. scored him in any given week.

This is not to be vindictive - no - only a benign retaliation. 

So bring it on, football season.  By the time this little fetus is the size of a pigskin, I'm gonna have some serious ammo to dish out - here we come, Ochocinco!  I'm going on the offensive this fall.

So, a cantaloupe fits in there?

If you don't know - the word is bound to get out.  Eric and I have been commissioned by Mother Nature to create a human being who is bound to have amazing hair.  My uterus has already moved up several sizes of fruit, and is currently the size of a cantaloupe.  I find it uncanny that my innards are able to accommodate a melon of that size; especially since my stomach is no larger now than even the most massive beer belly I have ever sported.

Thankfully, one of the five million pregnancy e-mails I get each week updates me on the sizes of the little fetus and my uterus, respectively - conveniently corresponding each to a different size of nut or fruit each week.  I will keep you posted on whichever legume, melon, or sporting-goods accessory happens to compare the little babe as we go along - but promise not to be offended if you're not as completely enthralled with the process as i am.

This is my first foray into blogging, and coincidentally, the only extracurricular writing I've done since I broke up with my last boyfriend.  See, the only times I normally feel compelled to write are in times of crisis or academia.  Perhaps this pregnancy thing falls partially into the "crisis" portion of thing (certainly not for any outright negative reasons) because when I'm not puking, sleeping, or working, I can be found nesting my brains out and generally going crazy with baby mania.  This blog is meant to be my outlet from all the baby-mania and to keep me from nesting.

There is surely bound to be baby talk, but I swear I have other things to talk about beyond the perils of trying on maternity jeans and my secret judgement of parenting styles.  Bear with me here, okay?