At 20-odd weeks pregnant, pretty sure that I wasn’t going to miscarry anymore, I finally bit the bullet and signed up at all of the formula companies websites. Having had a breastfed one and a bottle-fed one, I figured it was safest to err on the side of caution. Plus! Bonus coupons!

A couple of weeks after Amelia was born, Similac began to descend upon our house. I got a couple of freebee cans in the mail (hooray!) and was signed up for their new program crap they mail me. Obviously, I read it VERY closely. But, along with some $5 off coupons (bonus!) were some printed sheets of colorful circles. The sort of shit that babies are supposed to see and love. I’d not bought into that craze, so I didn’t know one way or another.

Figuring, what the hell, I threw them up on the wall by her changing table. As long as my cheap ass didn’t have to shell out for them, why the hell not?

Well, those circles are Amelia’s best friend on the planet. She coos to them, beams her million-dollar smile at them, carries on regular conversations with them, and would probably lay there, kicking and squacking happily if I didn’t have to do such things as 1) care for her brothers or 2) occasionally pee.

Well played, Similac, well played indeed.

But I can’t help but wonder, what the hell is it that she sees when she looks at them? Nancy Regan? The remains of Elvis? A treasure map to a pot of gold coins at the end of a rainbow? Children in general mystify me completely, but babies even more so. What I wouldn’t give for a moment inside their head.

Then I might know what they’re thinking when they do things smear their walls with toothpaste so that they can wake up in the middle of the night and lick them. Or what makes Amelia giggle when she sleeps. Or even why Auggie has adopted some of the wee Beanie Babies Amelia was given in the PICU as his very own babies.

Wait, Auggie is my dog and he often eats poo for sport. I don’t care why he does what he does. Just so long as he doesn’t bathe any of us with his Tongue of Doom.

I read somewhere on one of the blogs I frequent (okay, sorry I can’t give credit. I am both high and sleep deprived) that when babies smile in their sleep when they’re playing with the angels. Considering how many I know who have lost so much, I like that idea best.

Girlfriend is thinking about her circles.

I know, I know, the angle of this is all wrong because you cannot see the rapture in her eyes. Here’s where I confess to you, Internet, that I am short. Not abnormally so, but I’m not a gangly one (hehe. Say that out loud. It sounds like “ganglion.” hehe) (What? I’m easily amused!). Sadly. If I were taller, I’d have been able to take a better shot.

Perhaps I’ll buy some lifts for my shoes. How hot would THAT be?

I’m afraid we’re all stuck in a holding pattern, we of Casa de la Sausage, and I’m similarly afraid that it may lead us to kill one another. It’s like the whole house–including animals–senses that Something Really Big (and likely annoying) is about to happen and everyone has decided to exhibit their absolute worst behavior.

Ben, at age 7, is so full of The Dramatic that I may one day soon strangle him with his sassy lip. You think your toddler asking you “Why?” is annoying? Wait until it becomes a challenging “WHY” whenever you ask the fruit of your loins to do something like “turn off the television.” The “WHY” I now get isn’t a question, it’s a challenge, a la “WHY should I?” Charming.

Also charming is a note I received this morning from him. It states “I’m leving [sic]. I’m not kidding. Seriously.” This was upon realizing that we had locked the computer–after daring to limit his video game/boob tube time–this morning. Assholes.

And Alex, my Momma’s Boy Extraordinaire is almost two. How do I know this without knowing his birthday happens to be popping up at the end of March? Testing. Every single thing he does is to test how far he CAN do it. Like throwing all of his toys down the laundry chute after being told to cease and desist. While Ben went through this at about 3, Alex seems to be entering the Two’s Of Doom.

The cats, who despite being mostly adopted as adults, have gone from being Super Crazy Friendly to 11. Meaning, if you’re even thinking about sitting, standing still or are otherwise in the vicinity of perhaps being able to provide love, you’re pretty much wearing said cat(s). Since they don’t all get along, you can imagine how fun a cat fight is when you’re wearing them all. I love my cats and I’m thrilled that they’re all so earnest to be loved, but damn, sometimes a 20 pound cat smooshing against your body gets a little…cramped.

The dogs–no, we didn’t get rid of Auggie even though I’ve threatened it more times than I can count–are similarly aware that Something Is About To Happen. Which, in dog speak means that they insist upon following me around pretty much 24 by 7. Like last night, for example, when I tried to submerge my hippo-like body into the bath tub (a word to the wise: bathing gets complicated at 36+ weeks), they both sat at the bathroom door, which happened to be open a crack, in order to neurotically watch me.

The cats had split up at this point and one was in the bathroom with me, watching me try and shave my girly bits (didn’t work so well) and assumably laughing at my pathetic plight, while the other two sat behind the dogs, occasionally growling and hissing at each other or the dogs.

And forget having the slightest modicum of privacy while Taking Care of Business In The Bathroom. I have an entourage, including, but not limited to my children, my husband and all of the animals that do not live in cages. It’s no wonder my modesty evaporated years ago. Nothing says “I Love You” like dropping some dookes while talking about dinner-time plans.

Dave is fairing no better himself. Because he’s going to be taking time off when Amelia comes (please baby girl, come soon. I’ll buy you WHATEVER you want if you do), he cannot start any real projects at work, and since we’re all Just Waiting here, he’s having a terrible time really getting motivated to do much besides eat Kettle Corn and rub his belly. JUST LIKE ME!

Couvade, you’re a wily bastard.

And I’m, well, a mess, of course. I’m not sure who isn’t by this point in a pregnancy. I’m shaped remarkably like a daddy long legs right now, so my crotch is giving me the distinct impression that it’s actually trying to split itself in two pieces while my ribs are moaning and groaning by the fact that there’s a creature inside there trying to separate the two halves of their cage.

The act of putting on shoes or pants requires a forklift and an intricate set of blueprints, while I am suddenly beginning to swell up just like a puffer fish, and I’m pretty sure that if this goes on much longer, I might actually be mistaken for the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

And worst of all is that I’m bored and anxious and pretty damn feeble so I’m kind of stuck moaning and groaning and lying around hoping that each contraction will signal the start of labor. Which isn’t going to happen, of course, as my kids need to be dragged out kicking and screaming.

*sighs*

Help, Internet! This is Aunt Becky typing out a frantic SOS. Oh, and I’m learning from other blogs that it’s National De-lurking Day (or something) so go forth and de-lurk! How am I supposed to fill the days between now and the end of January?

First a bit of housekeeping: If you’ve left me a comment and it hasn’t gone through, please don’t worry, don’t fret! I have installed a handy new (and highly aggressive) new filter, to sift through the 600+ spam messages I get daily. I can search by name, so if it’s blocked you, send me an email and I’ll fix it.

For the first time since those nasty, worrisome first trimester appointments, where I waited to confirm whether or not I was having yet another miscarriage, I dragged The Daver to an OB appointment. Honestly, it was more for the camaraderie than the Support Of My Husband. Because these appointments? Fucking boring.

Yes, Internet, o Internet, it’s true: I’ve finally reached the point in my pregnancy wherein I have to go to the OB each and every week. And while I’m blissfully thrilled that I am a) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite and b) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite who appears to be HEALTHY, going weekly to the OB has gotten a bit dull. But that doesn’t stop me from finding and embracing the asinine.

Like this nugget ‘o’ weirdness.

I noticed today, after two entire pregnancies with this particular OB practice, that the disposable wax-covered Dixie Cup where I am to place my urine (side note: how are hugely pregnant women supposed to put their pee in said cup WITHOUT pissing on their hand? If you can do this, please don’t tell me. I might die FOR SHAME that I am THE ONLY pregnant woman on the planet who regularly pees on herself), has a label on it.

On that label is not only my full name, patient ID number, two things I’d expect to see there, but my address and phone number. I mean, in case it’s lost or something and they want to return the pee to it’s creator? Because I assure you that although I might bear a striking resemblance to Howard Hughes I do not want it back.

I related this story to The Daver, who was bored to near tears waiting for my appointment, and in that time I was able to kill about 10 minutes of waiting time, while my doctor presumably more interesting things with his other patients.

Because despite my accident-proneness these days (did I tell you that I fell the other day? Yeah, totally did. On my knee. Which I did NOT tell you, likely because I am ashamed at each and every new injury that I get. There’s only so many times you can talk about various ailments before you turn seemingly into a crotchety old woman complaining about her hemorrhoids and indigestion), I apparently qualify as a Boring Pregnant Woman. Beautiful words to hear, right?

Until you wait half an hour for a 30 second appointment wherein you ask the doctor if “it’s time to have the baby, yet?” And he laughed merrily at me, reminding me that I had several more weeks of this to go.

Which is probably a good thing, because I have fuck-nothing done for this wee one’s arrival. No clothes are washed in my fancy new washer, no car seat is installed in my car, no nothing. Eh, we can wing it, right?

Right.

And here, o Internet, is my question for you: what is your policy on blog trolls? Do you get them? Do you delete the comments rather than publish them? Does a troll have the right to have his or her voice heard if it’s nothing but inflammatory remarks that they make? Inquiring minds want to know!

Earlier today, with my eldest in tow, my husband and I trooped off through the freezing rain (have I mentioned that I’m still not certain that we haven’t moved to a nicer climate? Because I TOTALLY DON’T KNOW WHY NOT) to get our 3D ultrasound. And I’ll admit it to you, dear Internet, I was nervous. I’m not really certain WHY I was nervous, but I was. I guess it’s probably in part because my OB’s office wouldn’t authorize this frivolous un-medically necessary and because I’ve been sick as a dog this week, waking every couple of hours only to go right back to sleep.

(insert joke about regression into newborn state being an obvious indicator of how my not-so-brilliant mind works)

Either way, I was full of The Nervous.

What if she was now a he, like that Lou Reed song? Would I put my son in a dress in order to make use of all the pretty ickle dresses I’ve been hoarding? Would he hate me if I did that? Would I even care?

Turns out, it was all for naught. My daughter, in all of her spread-eagled glory, showed us that definitively yes, we were having a girl. And not only a girl who is completely immodest, but a girl who looks just like her father and her middle brother.

Dave certainly cannot deny parentage of his children, that is for sure.

It…smiles!

Yes, sir, that’s my baby. Chubby edible delicious cheekies and all.

And, as a completely off topic veer, I’d like to thank my good friend Emily from Wheels on The Bus for nominating me for a blog award.

Two of them, in fact. Neither of which I will actually win, because, I’m just not a winner and because the competition is brutal, but if you’re so inclined to vote for your Aunt Becky, click on the bubblely thing on my side-bar.

And if you do, I will totally kiss you. With tongue, even.

Thanks, Em. I’m so flattered, I could pee myself. Oh, wait, I just did.

I’m not from a very sentimental family. We don’t tend to cherish hand embroidered pillows with platitudes like “If You Weren’t My Mother, You’d Be My Friend,” nor do any of us refer to our weddings as “The Happiest Day Of My Life.” Hell, I had the most traditional wedding of any of us, AND I’m the only one who actually boasts an engagement ring.

The other two women in my family proposed to their (now) husbands (my brother and my father), if that gives you any indication of how traditional and/or schwoopsy-poo we all aren’t.

It should then go without saying that with my two previous pregnancies, I did nothing that would be even remotely considered sentimental to commemorate them, assuming that the stretch marks and loose vaj-jay-jay paid enough tribute to my children. Dave and I jokingly discussed commemoration in the form of those soft-focus maternity pictures, where he and I would look serenely down onto my (heavily airbrushed) belly, assumably imagining the future of our second child together.

And before either of us choked on our own vomit, we agreed that the only way that this would happen is if we were both wearing KISS masks. Because THAT would be something worth commemorating. And also? HILARIOUS.

I’ve seen ads for these things called Belly Casts, and although I haven’t seen one in person, I’m shocked by this. Maybe I’m the only one who grows to Oompa-Loompa proportions, in a way that I can only consider shameful, or maybe I’m the only one insecure enough about it to not want to immortalize the immense shape of things. I’m not sure.

I’m even less sure of what I would do with one in the event that I cast one in my sleep (or semi-conscious waking state, as the case may be). Hang it on my wall? Use it as a serving tray for festive holiday dips? Occasionally pull it out and remind my children, using my most guilt-ridden voice, that THIS is what they did TO ME?

Not gonna happen.

But, Amelia (if all goes well) will be our last child before Yee Old Uterus closes up shop permanently (or gets a fancy piece of expensive, hormone-covered metal stuffed up there), and I do want to try something I’ve only ever seen other bloggers do.

A 3D ultrasound.

Yes, my friends in the computer who keep me sane during long, long days, I am getting one of those new-fangled ultrasounds that will invariably make my daughter look as though she might be part alien. Which, if you’ve seen the shape of her father’s head, may not be entirely far off.

But, I digress. This is not an entry about how my husband may or may not be descended directly from aliens, it’s about my entirely selfish desire to see my daughter before I meet her come January. Because the ladies in my family (namely me) have a uniquely interesting affliction post-birth. We’re ugly. Really, really ugly.

Now, you might argue, most babies, especially those that come rocketing down the old Love Hole, aren’t exactly gorgeous at birth. Unless one happens to find garden gnomes or teeny-tiny old men to be perfectly lovely specimens, which I do not. Ben was a forceps child, and while I will spare you for this moment, the lovely side-effects that a forceps delivery entails, that method of being plucked out quickly meant that he was a beautiful newborn.

(before you think I’m bragging about the beauty of a child who was born wearing what appeared to be a toupee, let me assure you that he was beautiful for about a week. After which, he got acne and lost the bottom half of his hair. And got incredibly fat)

With Alex, the doctor was kind enough to let me labor down, so that when it came time for pushing, I pushed a total of maybe 2 or 3 times before he was born. Let us not speak of what that says about the general size of my delicate girly-bits, okay? But a side effect of that was that he was born looking….kind of funny. Sort of like a tiny, balding version of The Daver, with a head that we often joked could be used to chop ice or bang dents out of cars.

(Now he is a much larger, hairy version of The Daver)

However, when *I* was born, back in 1980, a much different story was told. Specifically, after I was expelled from my own mother, she said (and I am not kidding), “Well, now THAT is a face only a mother could love.” Apparently, then she told everyone in earshot that I was a hideous baby for the remainder of her hospital stay.

Gee. Thanks, Mom. It’s a friggin’ miracle that I have as large an ego as I do.

So, Saturday I will gather up the elder sausages and trek forth into the land of 3D ultrasounds prepare myself for the (possible) Grendel-like baby I will be birthing soon enough. Have no fear: I will love her just as much if she’s weird looking and squiggly than if she’s not.

She is MY daughter after all, so she’ll be fabulous.

———–

All righty, my friends who live in the Internet whom I love more than I ever should, it’s GIVE AUNT BECKY ADVICE TIME. I’m makin’ my list, checkin’ it twice (who am I kidding, I’m totally NOT making a SINGLE LIST because I hate them) and I need your input:

What baby goods do I absolutely require this time around? What did I miss out on? What should I make damn sure I’m stocked up on? Because this Soft Focus Brain isn’t lending itself to logical thoughts, so I’m using your brain instead. Thanks for that.

Help a sister out?

So, I realized, as I’m staring week 30 down, that I probably should shake my ass and get the baby things prepared BEFORE my daughter arrives. In that vein, I’m turning to my trusty Internet Posse to ask your opinion:

Which carseat should I buy?

The criteria is as follows:

Not a Graco SafeSeat. I have one, and it’s too heavy to carry (it’s like 11 lbs WITHOUT the baby in it). Plus, it barely fits in my truck.

Preferably less than $150

Needs to be a “bucket” infant car seat, as I can’t imagine carrying Alex AND Amelia around together.

Anyone have an opinion?

After writing this post in my head the night before (what? You’re not as obsessed with blogging while off the computer as I am?), I realized that there was a wealth of things pregnancy, baby and childhood related I wish that people had told me before I wasted my time/effort/money on doing otherwise.

Then again, if someone HAD told me, I probably wouldn’t have listened. Because I’m stubborn AND crazy.

I now present to you a new list, for all you list-a-holics out there, and I encourage any and everyone to add to it as they see fit. And any new parents-to-be can disregard this as I would have.

Aunt Becky’s Guide To Buying Baby Crap:

1) The minute you go and register at one of the bigger baby stores, you will inexplicably start registering for stuff you will never use.

2) In fact, at least 80% of baby gear that you purchase or oogle in the store will be unused by you once the baby is hear and AFTER you have gotten rid of the receipt.

3) You can never have too many onsies or footed jammies.

4) Trying to put a baby who cannot walk yet into an outfit involving jeans and a t-shirt, is like trying to hold onto one of those slippery water-filled tubes that you give kids. Or perhaps it’s just a phenomenon with fat kids, like mine were.

5) It may also look exquisitely stupid if your child is built like Mr. Potato Head, like mine both were. But you won’t realize it at the time. Only after you look at pictures will you truly see what he or she looked like. And be ashamed of yourself.

6) Most of the gimicky things you see at the baby stores are useless BUT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA. Or they require more brain power than someone who isn’t sleeping more than 2 hours at a stretch can provide.

7) A good rule of thumb is that if it requires many pieces to use OR many REFILLABLE pieces to use, it’s not worth it. Unless you have a miracle child who sleeps through the night, remembering to go online (because you can never get it in the store), recall WHAT the refill piece is called, correctly identify and purchase said item BEFORE you run out, isn’t gonna happen.

8) Having used both the Diaper Dekor and the Diaper Genie, I can tell you that neither is as simple as using a trash can with a lid. Both of mine began to smell WITHOUT a single diaper in it when I finally gave them up.

9) Even is you decide to cloth diaper, it’s probably wise to buy a pack of disposable diapers to have on hand JUST IN CASE. If you don’t use ’em, you can easily donate them to a shelter.

10) (this one kills me to write) Decorating the nursery isn’t as useful as you think it would be, because you rarely spend QUALITY time in there until the child is older. And when the child is older, he (or she) may decide that they’d like a CARS themed room, not a Winnie The Poo room. I’d never tell you NOT to do it, I’d just not spend the baby’s college fund on it.

11) Those flipping adorable crib sets of bumpers, sheets, a crib skirt and a moblie that cost approximately the down payment on a house (I oogled one before I realized it was a thousand dollars. Which is more than I spend on my OWN bedding. I then became scared that I might have broken the stuff and would have to buy it) are a lot of fun to look at and set up. But, sadly, you cannot use bumpers in a crib. Well, I suppose you CAN, but it increases the risks of SIDS. So not worth it.

12) Swings are either the work of a delicate wonderful angel or a minion of the devil depending on which baby you ask.

13) Even if you’re totally planning to breast feed, buy a stack of bottles and pacifiers ahead of time. JUST IN CASE. Before you sick the LLL on me, let me remind you that just because YOU’RE certain you wouldn’t need it, your BABY may have other ideas. I tried desperately to nurse Ben, who, later, was determined to be autistic WITH MASSIVE SENSORY ISSUES. You can imagine how much HE wanted to latch on (read: never).

14) It wouldn’t hurt to buy some formula too. Just a can or so, JUST IN CASE. Worst case scenario? Give it all to a shelter and roll your eyes at how very wrong I was. I will happily be wrong here and admit it.

(trust me, you don’t want to find out a 4 AM that you have to send someone else out to buy formula. It’s an over-the-top job for someone who has no idea what he or she is looking for.)

15) Never, NEVER buy a used car seat from someone that you don’t know. If a car seat is in an accident, it’s structure can be badly damaged and may not protect YOUR baby in the event of a crash. And that is not something I’d ever fuck around with.

16) You can never have enough blankets or washcloths.

17) Stuffed animals are horrible dust-catchers. I don’t mean that they’re HORRIBLE, just that they seem to attract dust. Which sucks if you have a kid who is allergic to stuff and things because you’ll have to dump ’em. Again, you’re not supposed to put them in the crib with the baby. SIDS and the like.

18) Don’t spazz about being 100% totally prepared by the time you go into labor. Picking up crap you forgot can be something EASILY tasked to the family flocking your house post-delivery.

All right, what did I miss, people? I know I didn’t tag it all.

While I’m not quite there yet, I’m getting dangerously close to third trimester territory. Hell, for all I know I could be in it already. Pregnancy math confounds even Calc 2 passin’ me, and depending on where I go for information, I can get any number of answers. So rather than sweat it, I’m just gonna roll with it (baby), and sometime within the next couple weeks say that I’m “in my third trimester” to the rando’s that ask.

Shockingly, no one has asked me if I’m pregnant with twins yet. Or made any other disparaging remarks. I suppose their stares say it all, right?

NEARING my third trimester now, I’ve been nesting like crazy, but without actually being able to do anything about it. Instead, I think about all the things I’d really LIKE to do to nest properly and sigh because for one reason or another, I cannot.

Take for example the nursery. Also known as Alex’s bedroom. Alex of the “horrible sleeper” variety. Here’s where bedroom math gets complicated (and also where I ask you again, What Would The Internet Do?):

Our upstairs has three bedrooms:

A huge master bedroom. Obviously ours. And ridiculously oversized, to the point where I seriously wonder what the shit the architect was thinking. I could easily fit an entire living rooms set in the empty space in that room. Which annoys me because…

The Nursery. It’s approximately the size and shape of a closet. It does fit the crib, a glider rocker and an armoire, but it’s seriously the armpit bedroom of the house. It works well as a nursery because as any seasoned parent knows, babies don’t spend a lot of time in their preciously decorated nursery. It’s also where Alex sleeps currently.

Ben’s room. It’s a decent sized bedroom, probably SHOULD be a little bigger (if I could only redesign the floor plan of my upstairs…).

Our “4th” bedroom is in the basement, and located in what I call the Teenager’s Lair. While I suppose we could move Ben down there now, it seems weird to have him so far away from us.

Which brings us to the Bedroom Math.

I don’t particularly care to put Amelia in our bedroom except for perhaps the first couple of months. Why? Because I hate sneaking around a sleeping baby, and Alex’s (lack of) proper baby sleeping has made me incredibly gun shy of disturbing the molecules in the air around a sleeping child.

We’re planning on moving Alex into Ben’s room as soon as we get another crib, because they sleep for roughly the same amount of time at night. There are several issues with this:

*Ben is unbelievably scatter-brained. I can tell him to “please be quiet” when he goes upstairs, and he IS quiet for about 25 seconds, before he starts singing loudly, banging around, and generally making my blood pressure rise.

*Alex and Ben do not go to bed at exactly the same time every night, which means that unless I can make sure Ben is asleep BEFORE I put Alex (a.k.a. Mr. Crappy Sleeper) to bed, I’m dealing with Ben banging around like the heard of thundering elephants only a 7 year old boy can mimic and waking Alex up.

*Ditto for the morning.

Sadly, Alex being the not-amazing sleeper he is, can’t share the nursery with his sister, which would be the best alternative, because of the sleeping issue. New babies get up a lot and I don’t need my not-so-new baby up and about WITH his sister. Because I will totally nurse a baby, but I draw the line at nursing my (nearly) two year old, who has been weaned since he was a year.

I’m not quite sure if there’s any better arrangement to be had, but I’d love to hear what The Internet has to suggest. Or perhaps you have a suggestion as to how I can virtually nest, so as to alleviate some of this unharnessed energy (while I am supposed to be letting my foot heal and REST, dammit.). Or maybe you’d like to come to my house and help me nest! I’d pay you in Halloween candy and beer and the pleasure of my (chubby) company!

When I was pregnant with Ben, all I wanted (and thought) about was how much I really wanted to have a baby girl. I was beyond floored that my child was a boy, when I saw his twig and dangle-berries floating merrily in his sea of amniotic fluid. And I’d be lying if I told you that it was an easier mindset to frame.

See, when you have a baby with a man you hate, the last thing you want is a son that may turn out just like him. I wanted the son, sure, but did I really want one JUST LIKE HIS FATHER? I guess it’s kinda hard to explain unless you’ve been through it.

When the ultrasound tech asked me if I wanted to know what I was having when I was pregnant with Alex, I can honestly tell you that I was Zen with either result. Over the 5 years between them, I’d gotten over cleaning the privates (very, very different and weird), gotten over the ugly clothes, and started to embrace all things boy. But I was indifferent with the result of our humpin’. Providing the baby was healthy, I was okay with either gender.

And when we got pregnant this time, after my two-in-a-row miscarriages, I spent the first many weeks pretending that I was not, in fact, pregnant. Mainly so that I could safely function for the rest of my family, rather than be consumed with worry.

While I was thrilled when the US tech pronounced this baby healthy three weeks before Thursday, since we had to go BACK for the heart and brain views, I still worried. I mean, it’s not like a child can live without those, right? And when she said that I MIGHT (but don’t do any shopping–she warned) be having a girl, I suddenly realized that this, THIS was what I had wanted.

I’m sure that I’d wanted it all along, the daughter to my other two sons, but I don’t know that I ever admitted it to myself. What good was hoping for something so out of my control that it’s laughable? I know that there are ways to do this, but I was pretty happy taking my chances.

It wasn’t until she told me that I might be having a girl (or at least a penile-y challenged boy) that I realized just how MUCH I’d wanted it. I wanted it so much that I’d see little girls during that three week wait and hope furiously that I wouldn’t be the creepy older woman secretly mourning not having produced a daughter.

So when immediately after putting the goop and the transducer on my belly, she said, “Looks like you ARE having a daughter” I might have cried a little. Perhaps more than a little. Being someone that rarely cries in the absence of physical pain, this shocked me.

Several long minutes later, having pronounced my daughter the picture of help, the Sausages were allowed back to see their sister.

Ben had been secretly pining for a sister, too, so this was incredibly welcome news. He was so tickled that the formerly cold US tech offered him not only his own picture, but a frame to put it in (Thank you, Similac!).

Even Alex stopped his normal wiggly antics to sit in silence in Dave’s arms while he was shown His Baby. Then, once Dave lovingly put the picture of Ben’s new baby into the frame, Alex promptly stole it and wandered around the waiting room to show the roomful of patients “his baby.”

Looks like The Sausages are all pretty excited about the new addition. Which I’ll savor for as long as THAT lasts.

And I haven’t stopped shopping long enough to eat, which is really saying something. Any ideas where I can get some decent girl clothes that don’t have “princess” written on them? Or look like they’re designed for miniature strippers?

There is nothing in the world like the unsolicited advice one receives the moment that the second line turns pink. While I am aware that I did not singularly invent pregnancy, nor am I carrying the Christ-child, I *have* been pregnant before, and have managed to raise a successful kindergartner (shit, we’re old), people still tend to forget and remind me about having a baby.

Specifically, why it sucks so much, which is the attitude I dislike most. Sure, you’re not apt to scare *me* about it, but what about the REAL newbies? They don’t need to hear about a 354 hour labor or 4th degree tears! Don’t scare ’em until they’ve experienced it firsthand! Alas, I digress.

As kindly as I can, I try to answer their well-meaning questions and gently extract myself from the situation before having to talk about 1) vaginal discharge or 2) breast discharge. Yes, complete strangers do ask about such personal matters. Should they get too personal for me (especially if I am in the presence the XY contingent of my family), I simply begin to ask if their husbands still want to have sex with them, and if so, what is their favorite position? Shuts ’em the hell up right quick.

Most recently, and if I remember the most common question that I get is regarding the baby’s sex. More specifically, when I explain that I do not know what I am having yet, they ask what I *want* to have. My answer is succinct enough, all right, but never seems to appease them entirely.

My answer is this: honestly? I don’t *care* what I have.

Not.one.bit.so.long.as.the.baby.is.healthy. And my reasons for finding out the sex? Simple. Not to BOND with the baby or some shit, but to be able to SHOP for the baby.

(I can hear the Pregnancy/Parenting Police among us collectively gasp in disgust. Don’t worry, your children are OBVIOUSLY better than mine. Feel better now?)

I have decided to put together a little list of the pros and cons of having either sex to prove to you that I am not secretly holding a candle for pink or blue.

Cuter clothes? Girls, hands down. Boy clothes are terrible, and take much work to scour racks looking for something worthwhile. To be fair, I do own a fuckton of boys clothes (and nothing else) which would be very economical, but even THEY don’t compare to the cuteness that is girl clothes.

Cuter toys? Boys. Really, I hated dolls when *I* was a kid, and I don’t want Disney Princess or Bratz shit in my house.

Diapering? Girls. I have gotten whizzed on my face many freaking times it’s not even funny. PLUS, cleaning liquid shit from the twig and giggle berries takes for freaking ever. Balls= crease laden.

Temperament? Boys. Girls are fucking dramatic and whiny, boys tend to solve their problems with fists rather than having to ‘talk about it.’ Sheesh, do I *look* like I can handle that shit? I don’t like to *talk about things,* I like to use my fists o’ fury.

Relationship later in life? TIE. Girls are assholes when they’re teenagers (just ask me. I know. I was one), but become your friends when they’re older. Boys are not assholes (to their mothers) as teens, but are lost to you once they get married.

Genitals? Girls, again. Why? Because I share the same parts. I can teach you to clean your labia. It’s a nice swipe. Cleaning The Penis is hard. As is teaching The Penis to stand up and pee without whizzing all over your freshly laundered towels while you shriek for your penis-laden husband to come and help, which he does not do and does not understand why a Penis is needed to help a Penis pee in the toilet. (sense a pattern here? I do.)

Dating? Boys, but by a hair. While I almost made it a tie, as with a Girl I will have to worry about my poor husband weeping silently while polishing his shotgun, I remembered one key fact. My son will not come home pregnant. Nor *should* he get too weepy and brooding when he is dumped.

Blah, blah, blah, beauty in either sex, squirt squirt.

I can’t wait to find out so I can get my shop-on!