The US Government Hates My Family (and isn't too fond of yours, either)

(WARNING -- Pregnancy/baby will be mentioned. Not to mention politics and I'M CRANKY. Be warned).

Like millions of other expectant couples, H and I are trying to figure out WHAT we are going to do with Spunketta, once he arrives.

The problem is, *I* am the main breadwinner, the one with benefits and a steady income. So that knocks ME out of the equation. I must work, or the family will starve. (Okay. Maybe not STARVE, but I think it's good for children to have health insurance. Don't you?)

So H comes up with an alternative: his job is mainly freelance, he can work from home and take care of Spunketta. And Mama too, for that matter.

We get excited. There are all these THINGS that we want to do for Mama that we have never had a chance to. We want to hook her up with a neurologist, and see what the brain doc can do for her. We want to send her to a psychiatrist, to monitor her condition. We want to get her in "aquatic therapy," which we don't know if exists. (Mainly, Mama LOVES to be in a pool. And we've always wanted to figure out a way to get her down to the local Y on a regular basis). And that doesn't even count field trips! The Modern Museum of Art has one day a month set aside for dementia sufferers and their caregivers; the museum is closed to all others. Oh, the places we could go!

And as for Spunketta, we figure he can be right there, handing with Dad and Nona, enjoying it all. Bobbing along in the water, giggling at the paintings, napping at the doctors. It;s going to be perfect, the best life imaginable.

And then.

And then we find out that the United States government hates my family (and isn't too fond of yours, either). Heck, I'll even go one further: the United States government is trying to destroy families.

Let me explain...

I have money set aside at work to pay for childcare (or Mama care, for that matter). DCA, or Dependent Care Account. I let them know my plans, or FAR TOO LATE to change my election, I get a troubling e-mail. "We're not sure you can hire your husband to watch your child," it reads, "contact the IRS.")

So I do. And they say, no. "You cannot hire either the parent of the child or your spouse for childcare and get a tax deduction."

"But if he takes a pay cut to take care of the family..." I restate.

"That's admirable!" says the IRS fella. Admirable, schmadirable. What about the financial toll on the family?

"It's what families are supposed to do," tax guy preaches, "so we're not going to pay you for it."

"So I can hire anyone else to care for my child, and use my DCA funds and/or get a tax credit?"

"Yes."

"I can hire an illegal immigrant who sympathises with Al Qaeda and has pedophile tendencies to care for my child... but not my husband?"

"Well, yes, but you can't get a tax credit for hiring an illegal immigrant," the witty IRS fella ripostes.

Nice.

So H and I get disappointed. But he refuses to give up hope. After all, Mama gets a Home Care Attendant, and we can still hire him for that, right? (The V.isiting N.urse S.ervice, who lied to me about so much, who botched and bungled almost every aspect of Mama's care, assured me that it could happen).

WRONG.

"If you could get paid for taking care of your ill family members," explains my Geriatric Care Manager, "well, everyone would do it then, wouldn't they?"

Can you imagine? A country where you can not be penalized for taking care of your family? Where you can be rewarded for it? Can you see it?

*I* can't. I live in the United States of America. And they hate families here.

(I actually has a co-worker suggest that H and I get divorced, and then I try to apply for aid. Apparently, it's what she and the father of her children have done. They've been together for 5 years, but if they get married (as they want to), she loses all sorts of assistance with her rent and food. And they can't afford to live without it. So they lie to the government, because the government doesn't support family-building. Only family-fracturing).

So I will continue to work full-time. And H will continue work as much as he can (he's working two jobs for the entire month of March). And we will continue to hire strangers to care for Mama, and eventually for our child. Because even though there's a dozen or so reports that say that it's best to be cared for by your family (both elder and child), and even though every third politician will preach about the importance of family, well, the US government doesn't agree.

Social Service Workers and the Walker Wars

I've been dealing with folks who work in the Social Services a lot in the past few years, what with caring for Mama. I've found that the folks that you deal with usually fall into a couple of categories.

One is the really great people who are loving, giving, and truly trying to make the world a better place. Marie, for example, used to work at Mama's daycare and was always planning special trips and activities and all sorts of out-of-the box stuff. Because of her, Mama went to Christmas parties and visited the beach. (Mama loved it and misses her dearly. Well, the activities at least).

A second is the folks who just look it as a job. Which is fine, as long as they are competent and (to some point) caring. Or at least take pride in their work. This is the type I've run into most often. There's nothing wrong with them, but don't try calling on 5:01PM and expect them to answer the phone. (Heck, don't try calling at 4:45PM and expect them to care).

A third is the type that I lovingly refer to as Burnt Out Husk of a Human. This is the one who's taken a job in Social Service to work out some personal issues of their own. They're usually smokers, and extremely angry. They went in this industry to feel loved and appreciated and since that almost never happens (or at least not to their satisfaction) they get really, REALLY bitter. My mother falls squarely into this category, so I go on AND ON about the type. Sadly, she's not the only one of this category I've known. Others include an administrator at Mama's old day care and a nurse at Mama's old doctor. Sad, pathetic angry women, all.

The fourth (and final) type is the "do-gooder." These are the ones who will lecture, who will make choices against the wishes of the patient and family, BECAUSE THEY KNOW BEST. Mama's old social worker was one of these; she lectured to me repeatedly that it was "selfish" of me to have a full-time job rather than dedicate myself 24/7 to my mother-in-law. Mama's current physical therapist is like this; it's immaterial to her that Mama's new walker isn't not only causing Mama pain to operate it, but also causing her to stumble and trip. The PT knows that this one is best and that's all she cares about.

This is what I've been dealing with lately; the Walker Wars, as H dubbed them. Trying to get the PT to switch Mama back from to a 4-wheeled walker from a 2-wheeled walker. (It may not sound like much, but it's WAY different for Mama). The PT feels Mama is too "impulsive" and that a 4-wheeled walker gives her "too much flexibility." So she's switched Mama to a 2-wheeled walker to slow Mama down and make it hard for her to around.

What the heck? Mama is NOT D.anica P.atrick, for crying out loud. Even with a 4-wheeled walker she was slow. With a 2-wheeled walker she's slower and FRUSTRATED, because she remembers being able to move better, faster.

Ugh.

Thanks for listening. I know have to go fight round 12 of the Walker Wars.

And how are you?

So I'm Going to Break a Rule

It's a rule of my own, never discussed and never revealed until know, when I break it. But here it is:

My rule was to never complain about the p.

The thought behind my rule was that, well, this is at its heart an IF blog, and it seems (to me) just so rude to complain about something that I wanted more than anything nce I've gotten it. In additiona to which, I know that there are more than a few who would gladly switch places with me, mama and all, if it meant being five months along.

So. I'm whiny, I'm rude, and I know it. And I beg your indulgence.

And I'm going to complain now.

I would appreciate all of you out there to please PLEASE please fervently pray that I make it to 39 weeks, at least. In what, I'm sure, God thought was a pretty neat trick, my due date is one week after my one year anniversary at my job. Yes, I know I have actually been at my place of employ for FOUR lovely years, but they only OFFICIALLY hired me eight months ago.

If I give birth one day before my anniversary, and/or I am somehow incapacitated so that I cannot work until my that day, I get nothing. I have to be present, working and still pregnant on my one-year anniversary to qualify for Parental Leave.

If I don't make it, I get nothing. NOTHING. Six to eight weeks of "liability leave" which pays $170 a week. Have I mentioned that I support my family? Have I mentioned how broke we are? If I don't qualify for Parental Leave, we're going to have to declare bankruptcy.

Niiiiiice.

I chatted with the HR rep in charge of Parental Leave to get this info. There is no wiggle room. To quote the rep, "Nobody says we have to do anything except give your job back to you."

Good times.

So. Repeat after me: 39 weeks. 39 weeks.

Thanks

How To Answer The "Why Don't You Just Adopt" Question

Or at least how I did.

Okay, let me explain.

Yes, I am currently the "p" word. Almost 22 weeks, or 5 months, or just about halfway done. (And still checking for a heartbeat every night. But I digress).

I am far enough along that we've started telling people. Friends first, then family, then other folks.

And a bit ago, after hearing my good news, a someone who knew I'd been trying for a while exclaimed in response, "It took you so long! Why didn't you just adopt?"

I was struck by the freaking irony of it. I mean, how many of us have heard that while we tried to get pregnant, and there I was, still hearing it.

And I said something that I thought was kind of clever.

"Well... I don't think that people are interchangeable."

The speaker in question had children of their own, and I asked would they be willing to "exchange" their children for someone else's. To give up their children. To give away their children. To deny their children life. This brought a jovial response ("when they act up, you bet I would!") but I stayed still and somber and simply said "I wouldn't."

This, oddly, brought out more ribbing ("Just you wait! You'll get to that point!") but I maintained eye contact and calmly shrugged. No. No. You might, but not me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I want to adopt. And I'd like to be a foster parent. I've wanted to do this since before I've wanted a child of my own, since before I was married or even knew my husband, and even though now I'm pregnant, I still want to do it. (It's not even an option right now, as we don't have space in our apartment to pass home inspection). But it's something that H and I have agreed on, and as soon as its feasible, I know it will happen.

And I would have been, could have been just as happy and content adopting and fostering and what not. (So could H). But we wanted one of our own. And I never would have stopped wanting for a child of my own. And no disrespect to my future adopted kids... Children aren't interchangeable. People aren't interchangeable. Just because I've got an 'organic" doesn't make me not want to adopt, just because I want to adopt doesn't mean I don't want one that has my genetic material.

I want them both. Uniquely, specifically both. No exchanges, no substitutions. Both.

They're not interchangeable.

And Then I Went on Vacation

Sixteen hours in a very small, very PACKED car with H and Mama.

Good times.

We went to visit my family down south, to share the "good news" and show them my big fat belly. But H didn't want us to fly because (a) he's convinced it causes miscarriages (b) it's expensive (c) Mama LOVES to flirt with the security men ("I have a gun and YOU need to find it! Tee Hee!")

So we went.

And we told.

It was weird.

First, we told me Dad. We had to tell him over the phone, before we left. He was seriously pushing for us to fly down, offering to pay for tickets (yeah, right). So H broke down and said "We can't fly, Nica's pregnant."

I immediately punched my husband PLAYFULLY in the arm and grabbed the phone. And (tried) to talk to my father. Who did NOT want to talk to me.

But I'm pushy (have you noticied?) and I pressed. I told my father stuff he didn't ask, and didn't indicate he was interested in. Like how far along I was, how I was doing, the baby's gender. I did NOT tell him about the various horror stories associated with this pregnancy (how Scrappy didn't make it, etc.).

And if my father was interested in hearing about his first grandchild, (or in any way excited) you could have fooled me.

We told my brother a day or two later. Even though we live in the same city (a few miles away from each other, even), my brother and I don't see each other that often. It's not my choice, but that's a post for another day.

Anyway, we told him/he guessed and it was the same as with my father. My brother could have cared less (and in general, just seemed weird). I pressed again, telling details. And he nodded, and waited to speak until H dived in and rescued him by talking work and football.

So a few days later I was bouncing along in a car and a few days after that H was telling the rest of the family. My one cousin screamed and cried (as I knew she would; she is a screamer and a crier). The rest of the family was happy and supportive. My grandfather kept fading in and out on the fact that I was pregnant, but was enthusiastic and supportive when he remembered it.

My father, present, was still reticent. A zombie. Which, come to think of it, he was most my life.

And a few days later we came back. All of us (me, Mama and H) still battling colds and coughs.

And here we are.

Ah've Beehn Sekh

Okay, I will now QUIT with the cutesy spelling. As that title (attempts) to say, I've been sick. Just a bad cold, but a BAD cold. And a bad cold where I cannot take anything, because, well. YOU KNOW.

So I spent the last four days under blankets and a heating pad attempting to "sweat it out." H kept trying to get me to gargle with c.ider vinega.r and honey. It made me vomit, but H decided that I just must be gargling "wrong" (how can one gargle incorrectly?) and made me try again and again.

Finally we settled on my two gargle favorites -- salt or baking soda. (Good times).

The oddest part of it all was that when Mama would wander by, attracted by the sound of my hacking up a lung or whatnot, she would occasionally ask me, "Nica, are you sick?"

"No, Mama." She'd always be content with that, and toddle off.

(See, I can't tell Mama I'm sick, because then she decides SHE'S sick. And that's worse than c.ider vinegar gargle ANY day of the week)

Step into My Office

Mama came up to me today as I was starting my morning (reading blogs and eating cereal).

"Nica," she says, "I should be your psychoanalyst."

If I've not mentioned before, English is NOT Mama's native language. (She's from Argentina). So this comes out not only from a crazy person, but with an adorable accent.

I asked her to repeat, because I am sure I misunderstood.

Nope.

"You should tell me all your problems. I think that I can help." At this point, she starts giggling. So I am not completely sure how to take this.

She walks away, still giggling.

I still don't know where it came from...

Scan Went Fine

You may all proceed to call me a whiny baby.

They want me to come back in a month and get a new scan because

(1) "We do that sometimes"

(2) "You're as old as the hills."

So I will get to worry YET AGAIN.

But at least, today, for them moment... I am not so scared.

Anatomy Scan Tomorrow

The big anatomy scan is tomorrow. For normal folks, this would be the big Boy or Girl moment. For us, or at least me, it's the big Hope Everything Looks Okay moment.

Sing it with me now: I am so scared.

H is, of course, convinced that everything is okay. But he giggles that I am so worried, which he says is perfectly normal.

Mostly he's confident because we heard Spunketta's heartbeat last night. He got me a fetal doppler stethascope for Christmas, and when he or I are feeling especially anxious,we whip it out and go in search of the heartbeat.

Yesterday, Spunketta was up to her usual tricks. It took more than twenty minutes to find her heart. I searched for five, then handed the wand over to H. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

About the time I could barely hold back tears, H found it. Spunketta is SO grounded.

In other cheerful news, Mama has decided that my having a baby is not a good idea. She gave me a long talk about it this morning. I should just adopt, she says. It's better.

Um. But Mama, I am *already* pregnant.

She blinked a moment and shrugged. "Doesn't matter. You'll need to adopt, anyway."

Living with crazy people is not for the weak.

2008

Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Our Christmas was small, but sweet. I shrewdly waited for the last-minute shopping sales and was rewarded with being able to gift everyone nicely and stay within my paltry budget.

New Year's is Mama's FAVORITE holiday. It's a tradition in her family to (try) to eat 12 grapes in the first minute after midnight, saying each month as you insert a new grape. It's not really that hard, but it helps to be prepared. And have seedless grapes. (This was the first year I was successful).

We've made arrangements to drive down and see my father (and that side of the family) in a few weeks. Because H is paranoid about my flying (and because we're broke) we're ging to be driving. We're going to be driving for 16 hours. Between Mama and me, we're going to have to pee every twenty minutes. (We may never get there).

I'm a little stymied about what to post these days. Everything I think about putting up basically boils down to I'M SO SCARED. Which I think is a bit boring. And kind of whiny. Such as, "I got what I wanted, YIKES!" I do want this. I am grateful. But this is new. This is different THis is something that I've failed at before. And I am scared.

XMas with the LMNs

Christmas is important in our house. Which means it's important to me and its important to Mama. (H can take it or leave it.)

Before I came on the scene, Christmas (and giving presents) was so important to Mama that she would command H to do out, buy himself a present, and then give it to her. She would then wrap it (she loved to fold) and give it to him on Christmas. He was rarely suprised, but would always act so. (H is a good son).

Now that I'm here... Well, there is serious suprises, but Mama stil does all the wrapping. I've learned to put Mama's shopping off as long as possible, because Mama will not rememeber what she bought. Or that she bought. Or that it's Christmas. But I digress.

This weekend, we went Christmas shopping (as in, Mama shopped for H). The last time we stepped into a mall was Black Friday; we are just GLUTTONS for punishment, I tell you. H insisted that we go to a mall far into the 'burbs, thinking that it would be bigger, better stocked and less filled with people. (He was right).

Mama and I picked a series of clothing out for H. Mama's taste for H is... let's go with adventurous. I steered her away from a green-and-white striped sweater, and a few things that were pink. I also steered her away from underwear, which is all she ever EVER wants to buy for him when we go shoping for him.

I have no idea what has stuck in her head that she feels compelled to buy him boxer short after boxer short, but H currently has approximately 30 pair, so his butt is covered, thank you very much. (And if you're thinking, "DARN that's a lot of panties," let's just say it took me a while before I learned to STEER the Mama away from buying undies...)

The day after our intrepid mall trip, we went to the supermarket. This is a bit of a treat for Mama; usually, we go alone (and leave her with the Home Care Attendant). Mama, for whatever reason, loves our local grocery store. She will change her clothes and put on makeup (and in fact, insist upon it) if we tell her she is going.

So Sunday, we prepared to go. And H, being a wee bit overprotective, prepares to come along and drive.

"NO!" says Mama sharply, when I talk to H about accompanying us in front of her. "He should not come."

This was a suprise. "Why not?" I ask. Mama looks a bit lost as she searches for a response.

"He spends too much money!" Well, not exactly the truth, but H was content to stay home and watch football.

As I said, Mama loooooooooves the market. She loves to explore and to dawdle and to touch and sniff and chat. H is very task-oriented; when he goes shopping, he has no time for her extra curricular activities. I am, of course, far more indulgent. (Mama should get one of those shirts that reads "IF H says no, ask NICA"). Not that I will let her buy three three bags of O.reo.s that MYSTERIOUSLY made their way into our shopping cart. ("I don't know how they got there! I didn't put them in! Must be robbers." Uh huh). But we'll usually have a conversation about things, where H will just say no.

Anyway. I can't think of a catchy wrap up, so I'll just say enjoy your holiday. And may Santa bring you everything you desire, and anything you need.

Good Morning

The people upstairs were yelling, thumping (moving furniture?), playing music and laughing (?) this morning. So much so that they woke me at 4:30AM in the morning.


Good morning.


They continued until shortly after 6:00AM, which is usually when my alarm goes off and I start rousing the household.


I'm a wee bit tired.


I got Mama up this morning, as usual. She showers first, then me. I usually wait until she starts to dress to start my ablutions, and when I'm very lucky, H is awake and keeps her chatting (and focused) throughout the process.

Today I was not lucky.

Mama wandered in to the bathroom while I was showering.

"NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICA!"

"Yes, Mama?" I reply, sticking my head through the curtain.

She looks at me, having lost her thought (this is common). "I didn't know you were here." She looks a bit closer. "You're naked!"

Um, well, one usually is while showering...

She looked lost a moment longer. Then gestured to the toilet. "Do you mind if I keep you company?" She sat and chatted through the curtain until I finished.

Calling encouragements and HELPFUL suggestions along the way. ("Don't forget to clean you culo! It gets stinky!")

I miss privacy...

My OB Gave Me Cookies

My OB gave me cookies.

No reason. Someone had sent a tin of cookies to her for the holiday season, and in my OB's incredibly perky R.ache.l R.a.y-like manner, she said, "Hey! you want some COOKIES?"

So don't tell H, but I ate one.

Oh, and the exam went well.

It took the nurse FOREVER to find a heartbeat (H theorized Scrappy was providing cover) but find a heartbeat we did. And everything was pronounced fine and well and in good shape.

H immediately, being a mature man of 41 years on the planet, jumped up and down and danced and yelled in a VERY loud voice "TOLD YOU SO! TOLD YOU SO! TOLD YOU SO!"

The doctor and the nurse were both in the room for this performance and VERY impressed with my husband's, let's say, joie de vivre. Yikes.

***TMI ALERT!***
I did have (and do have) a constant discharge. It is neither bloody nor smelly, but I mentioned it to my OB. She took a sample and ran it over to the lab to check out while I waited. While I waited. (and I only waited 20 minutes). Have I mentioned that I LOVE my OB?
**TMI OVER***

H was surprised that no one sonogram-ed us. He's still spoiled by the RE, I think. He tried very hard, and in his most charming way, to have someone, somehow let us get a peek in there. No go.

We have to wait three weeks -- and in three weeks it's the big ANATOMY SCAN. This is where they'll do a check for heart, development, I don't even know what else. (They explained, I just... well, I was in overload).

As for Mama (because what post would be complete without a Mama update), she will now tell ANYONE who asks (and several who don't) that she has placed her ear on my belly and heard kicking. It's a big fat lie, but I roll with it. But -- here's the eerie fun part -- the part of my belly she swears she's heard kicking (just under my ribs, around my heart) is a place where I have a chronic numb-tingle-pain sensation. Which the doctor says is caused my movement. Like kicking.

Coincidence?

Update

I have to pat Mama down in the morning now. Pat down, as in frisk, as in check for weapons.

Yeah. Mama's packing heat again.

See, she's taking apples to school. And she doesn't like to eat apples with a peel, so she takes a knife to peel the apple. A big, huge, sharp knife. (She favors our boning knife).

As I've mentioned before, Mama's daycare does not like when she brings in weapons. NOT AT ALL. The administrator called us, panicked, last night. Luckily, unlike last time, the knife was discovered while Mama was sitting quietly peeling her apple.

So. Now we search her in the morning. An incredibly tricky measure, to do so without offending her. Or tickling her.

In other news, I have a doctor's appointment today. I am, of course, terrified. My terrific OB thought that I was in good enough shape to go four weeks between appointments. If I had my druthers, I'd probably have daily check ups. But.

There's nothing that I can point to that makes me scared -- no terrible pain or horrible discharge that gives me fear. But I am plagued by the thought that I am not this lucky, I am not this blessed, I am not going to get what I want, and any minute now the bubble will burst.

So. We'll see how the day goes.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

So I got into a bit of a thing with a friend of mine last week.

She was wondering WHY I just wasn't "rolling with it." WHY since now I am p., I am still terrified.

Not only has she been p., she was one of those who got so without trying. So while, being a friend, she learned the terms and the acronyms and the procedures, she's not quite there.

So. So she said a few things that were a little thoughtless (she thought them funny) and I got upset (I was deadly serious) and we sniffed and tiffed for a while and finally, last night, had it out.

"It's like I have post traumatic stress disorder," I said, "although I know that sounds insane."

She paused for a moment. "No," she replied. "That makes sense to me."

It's, perhaps, too big a term for what I'm going through. But. It sure as heck FEELS right. I even looked it up on W.iki.pedi.a. And it seemed to fit.

"P.osttraumati.c S.tres.s D.isorde.r (P.TS.D) is an anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to a terrifying event or ordeal in which grave physical harm occurred or was threatened," reads W.iki.pedi.a.

Too big, but just right, all at the same time.

"So when will it be over? When will I relax? When will I stop worrying?"

She thought about it a moment.

"Shortly before you die..."

(yikes).

Telling Mama: The Update

So we told Mama (or Nona, as she will eventually be called.) And she took the news extremely well.

And she is still happy and excited and over the moon at the prospect of a new member of the family.

BUT.

Mama no longer has a sense of time passing. If she takes a nap in the day, or if she just hasn't thought about something in a while, or if she just wants something to happen... she'll speed up time.

So we told Mama about a week or two we were pregnant, right?

"Is he kicking? Is he kicking? I want to feel him kick!" says Mama. Okay, I'm due in 6.5 months... kicking starts when? Closer to the end, right? So nooooooooo there is no kicking.

"I WANT TO FEEL HIM KICK." Logic is lost on her.

Another frequent conversation is that she's like the baby for Christmas. By Christmas. So he can enjoy the tree and decorations et al.

"Um, Mama, I'm not having the baby until June..."

"HURRY UP! I want my baby by Christmas."

"Mama, you'll have t talk to GOD because I don't know how to HURRY this UP..."

Every time, I break it down and explain. And she nods as if she understands, and I think she may for a bit. But I always ALWAYS get the question again.



Also, Mama has started to refer to my baby as HER baby.

"Mama, this baby is mine.."

"I know. But you give him to me, yes?"

"NO!"

And she laughs. "You will give him to me when he needs a new diaper."

This is going to be an adventure.

My Husband Was Right

A few days (weeks?) back, I mentioned the my husband had no confidence in my OB. She only sees patients once a week, her front desk staff make it impossible to get ahold of her, and she's in practice all by her lonesome. So in case of emergency... you're screwed.

So H talked me into seeing a High Risk OB that my RE recommended. I love this office. I love my doctor. My husband was right.

I don't know about you, but I've had bad experiences with OB/GYNs. BAD BAD BAD. When I met my old doctor, the fact that she was nice and chatty and supportive was great. Freaking awesome.

But as nice as she was, my new doctor know more. Which is so cool. Let me show you...

Nica: I'm having all this weird pain and tenderness (starts to gesture)
Old Doctor: Yeah, that's normal. Don't worry about it (makes dismissive wave gesture with hand)

Versus...

New Doctor: (Starting the conversation) Have you had any weird pain or tenderness?
Nica: Um... yeah.
New Doctor: Where? (watches as I gesture) Okay if you have it here, or if you have it here, that's normal and nothing to worry about. If you have it from here to here, that could be a contraction and i want you to call me immediately. Okay? We have someone from the practice available 24/7.
Nica: Okay.
New Doctor: Now. Are you still experiencing morning sickness, vomiting, anything like that?
Nica: Um... no.
New Doctor: Yeah, that's normal. But I bet it's freaking you out, right?

Okay, I'm going to stop there. But you get the picture. H and i feel as though we were in good hands, that we truly had... I don't want to say a "partner" in the pregnancy, but... like the pregnancy equivalent of a wedding planner. Or a Personal tour guide. Or something. You know?

So YES my husband was right. But don't tell him that I said so, because he's already got a big enough head about this.

:)

T-Giving Fun Fact: What Your Turkey and I Have in Common

I heard this on the news, and dug around to confirm:

"The domesticated turkey's broad-breasted varieties are typically produced by artificial insemination to avoid injury of the hens by the much larger toms and because the physical changes resulting in broad (double) breasts have also rendered most males incapable of natural mating."

(Courtesy of N.P.R. and W.ikipedi.a)

Heh.

The Baby House

Saturday night, we told Nona. (Thursday was the too-late dinner, Friday we went shopping, but after Saturday's dinner was just right).

Becasue I had much (too much) to think about it, I decided that H should tell his mother. Quietly, intimately. Maybe with me not even in the room? (Out of house? In a different neighborhood? Not that I'm nervous, mind you...) After all, he was an only child, and they had lived together/been each other's family for three and a half decades before I waltzed in.

H considered it, said he'd tell her, but that I had to be there.

So Saturday, he handed over a copy of the sonogram that I'd photocopied.

"Do you know what this is?" H asked.

"It's a picture."

"Do you know what of?" he continued. She squinted a bit.

"A cat?"

"No...." H pointed to a bump on the picture. "That's the nose."

"A mouse?"

"Um... maybe you should get your glasses?"

"I don't need my glasses! Just tell me what the picture's of!"

"It's a baby. It's my baby, Nica's and mine. We're going to have a baby."

From there she grew quiet, promising to babysit, to change diapers, to sit on the floor and play with the baby ("assuming that the floor is clean enough to sit on" she tossed in).

Finally she said, "I don't know who answered my prayer, but finally my prayers have been answered."

Which I thought was sweet and typical Mama. (Um. Nona). I'm pregnant, but it's due to her prayers.

She wanted to know who the godparents would be, and didn't like our choices. Godparents, in her opinion, should be the wealthiest, most powerful people we know. She asked us to reconsider.

Then came the curveball:

"If the baby is a girl, she will be Maria Luisa. If the baby is a boy, he will be Jose Luis."

The godparent question was anticipated. Having to fight with my mother-in-law about what we were naming the baby was not. H and I just looked at each other, shocked and amused.

"If it's a girl, we want to name her after you," I interjected. She shook her head.

"I have not had a lucky life; I would not want the child to share my name and my unlucky life."

Well.

The next morning, when I was waking her up for her shower, I showed her my belly. (I'm showing, but have to see my naked tum-tum to tell. With clothing, I just look fat.) I asked her if she remembered what H said, showing her my belly.

"It's the Baby House!" she screamed, delighted. She looked at me. "Do you know what he is doing right now?" She threw herself into a fetal position, diving back into bed and throwing her hands over her eyes. "He is like this, right now!"

Completely insane, completely Mama, completely charming and totally unexpected.

T-Holiday round up

We ended telling Nona on Saturday. Thursday, we didn't eat until 9:30 at night, so when we finished we were too tired to tell her.

The reason we ate so late was that H cooked Thanksgiving. To be honest, he usually gets home before I do and everyday dinner cooking usually falls to him. But Thanksgiving -- well, that's all me.

Still, he saw them cook a turkey on A.merica's T.est K.itchen and decided that it would be "easy" to do the meal. And I knew that my job needed someone to babysit it on the holiday, so I took him up on the offer. (I even printed out recipes and a shopping list).

So H decides to sleep in on Thanksgiving. Because that's what you do. (I routinely am up at 5:00 or 6:00, but that's my way). And when he woke up, he watched the parade for a while, played a video game or two, checked out the football game. (I may watch TV from the small screen in the kitchen, but only the big screen in the living room would work for him).

So around 2:00PM, H decides that he's going to go to the GROCERY STORE. Because he hasn't gone yet. (In his defense, I didn't get the list finished until Tuesday.) And H was SURPRISED that some of the items on his list weren't there.

About 5:00PM, I get home. And find that the turkey is JUST ABOUT READY to go into the oven. Apparently, there was some trouble with the "easy" Thanksgiving dinner.

Finally, we eat. (H gave us a false alarm, as he had not remembered that the turkey needed to "rest" for a half hour.) "Can I have mashed potatoes?" I ask. "Nope, didn't make them," replied H. "Not enough time."

"Um, cranberry dressing?" Nope. Also a big negative on pies of any sort. We did have the dressing, which was okay but weird (and very unattractive-looking). And some butternut puree that was supposed to be a soup.

But the turkey was wonderful, and I didn't have to cook and clean up (only clean up), so I liked it!

Perhaps next year, we'll do it together...