So I’ve come to believe I am the World’s Most Boring Blogger.

Ever.

During my never-ending IF treatments, I guess I always had some drama going on. Hundreds of doctors’ appointments, new treatments, different meds, a new plan, a new cycle starting, another two week wait…something.

Why does being pregnant, after all of these years, seem so much less interesting after all of that? I mean to other people. Not to me. I fear that it’s so boring for you all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled and happy beyond belief to be pregnant. And so, so grateful that so far, things are going well.

But I guess I worry that people reading will just be bored to tears with my updates. I’ve tried to spice it up a bit, what with my tales of acne from hell, hair growth that defies all explanation and the like. But truly, how often can you read about some pregnant lady’s bad skin and beard growth?

But for those two or three of you who are interested, here’s where I’m at:

12 weeks and 4 days today.

The morning sickness (which would pop up on and off all day but was never terrible) is getting better. (Thank God, the nation’s supply of Saltines might be safe after all.)

I am still eating pickles every day. My acupuncturist says the vinegar is good for my liver. I say they just taste so fricking good. Dill, whole pickles. When BeBop brings home a different brand or the wrong variety of dill pickle (not whole but sliced? WTF dude, who wants those??) the entire neighborhood can probably hear me yell, "Nononononononononono!" like a spoiled little brat.

(Speaking of spoiled little brats, I can’t say my mood is always cheery and bright. When BeBop asked me why my car was so dirty, I told him because of the trees I have to park under at work. "But why is that white stuff so sticky?" he asked. "I don’t KNOW! I’m not a fricking arborist!!" I yelled, just like a snotty tweener.)

I’m off the Prednisone and, as of last Sunday, the Metformin. I’ll stay on baby aspirin, Folgard, thyroid and the pre-natals for the duration. It feels great to not be taking a thousand different medications twice a day like a little old lady.

Weight gain? Oooof. I’ve been very careful, really! And still, I’m too embarrassed to write it down. I’m not eating for three, I’m not even really eating for two, but yet the pounds are piling on. Three different people so kindly noticed last week and said that I was looking ‘quite big’ for being three months along. Well fuck you very much. And good day. (I blame it on the goddamn pickles, which are just little sodium delivery systems disguised as delicious snack food. Surely THAT’S making me retain gallons of water, no?)

I haven’t had any round ligament pain yet, but GOOD LORD the foot cramps!  Holy hell those suckers are painful.  They usually strike at night, when I’m in a deep slumber. All of a sudden, I will awaken from said slumber and literally bolt straight in the air and out of bed in one movement, as if BeBop had placed a stick of dynamite in my corn hole and lit the fuse.  I mean, I seriously go from a prone position to walking around the room screaming in pain in about .00005 seconds, waking the husband, the dog and probably the entire neighborhood.  Good times, people.

I have to get my killer cell blood panel done again this week, and I’m praying to God and anyone else who will listen that it comes back clear, so I don’t have to do another infusion. Baby Jesus? Ganesh? Anyone?? Bueller…

I am starting to get the pre-screen jitters again. My NT scan is this Friday, and although I’ve been feeling good and very optimistic about things, in the days before my scans I notice my anxiety increases until I get the results back.

So we have talked about names. But I’m not ready to share them yet. Before we were married, we lived in San Francisco, in two different neighborhoods. One day, in that pre-marital, we’re sooo in love lalala stage, one of us said, "wouldn’t it be great if we had a boy and a girl one day, and we named them —- and —- (the streets we lived on at the time)."

"Yes, what a lovely idea," the other one said, "can you pass me the tequila?" This might also be the day one of us said, "what if we told people the kid’s name was —-, but that we call him Wolverine? That would be cool!" "Yes, that WOULD be cool," said the other one of us. "Can you be a peach and pass me the limes and salt?"

Anyway, fast forward almost ten years and here we are, about to have a boy and a girl. And I think we’re going to go with that plan, conceived (no pun intended) when we thought we’d get married in a beautiful wedding ceremony surrounded by family and friends, BeBop would work his way up the corporate ladder as a graphic designer and we’d get pregnant easily.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

And no, the names aren’t Haight and Ashbury. GAWD. Have you been to the Haight? It’s nothing but Meth addicts, people peeing on the street and head shops, so no, we won’t be naming the kids that.

And that is where I’m at today. I warned you…pretty boring. But in a good way, I hope.

Now I’m off early to go home and wax my face, in preparation for a big fete we have Saturday night for BeBop’s company. (It will probably take me between now and then to de-forest the face, I swear.) 

We are going to a black tie screening of Pix.ar’s new movie, Rata.tou.ille.  And if I can cram my ever-expanding self into a formal dress and my little piggy feet into some strappy heels, and stay awake past 9:00 PM, I’m sure we’ll have a glorious time.

Number of boxes of Sally Hanson Waxing Strips I purchased the other day: 2

Number of boxes of Sally Hanson Waxing Strips I will undoubtedly need by this weekend:  another 3-4, at least, depending on how fast the fur keeps growing

Number of minutes my new nipples enter the room before the rest of me: Approximately 7, depending on how breezy it is

Number of times I’m too tired to cook dinner and BeBop suggests ordering Chinese:  a billion

Number of times I scream at BeBop after he makes aforementioned suggestion that "I CANNOT eat Chinese food every fricking night as it is fried, contains MSG and cannot possibly be healthy for the babies!!": a billion

Number of times I’ve grabbed Bosco’s face, squished his furry little cheeks, stared into his eyes and yelled, "You think I’m a good Mommy, RIGHT?!?":  11 or 12

Number of times I’ve regretted doing this while the front door is open after realizing the neighbors can probably hear me:  see above

Number of times I’ve asked BeBop to buy prunes for me when he goes to the store: 7

Number of times he’s been brave enough to ask why: 0

Number of times in the last week I’ve stared at my boobs in the mirror, entranced by the winding blue lines that make my chestal region look like a map of the San Francisco Bay Area: 5

Number of gallons of tears I shed during last week’s Gilmore Girls series finale:  countless

Number of belly shots I will be posting after seeing Faith’s beyond adorable 16-week photos:  AS IF

Number of disgusting zits I still have covering my forehead:  infinity

Number of dill pickles I have stuffed in my craw over the last few weeks:  fifty-seven frillion and counting  (and NO, I’m not kidding.  I am such a cliche)

Number of times BeBop, after hearing a news report that couples with new babies hardly ever have sex, uttered the following:  "Parents with new babies don’t have sex EITHER?!": 1

Number of times that remark, a thinly-veiled reference to our sex life over the last four-plus years, got on my last nerve and I felt like hitting him in the face with a claw hammer:  3 (because I kept reliving it in my mind!)

Number of weeks pregnant I will be this weekend:  12

So.  Tired.

hyugthyghgb

Ooops!  Sorry about that…that was my head slamming on the keyboard because me so tired after the long weekend in LA. I am still recovering.

I worked harder than a ten dollar whore.

(To be honest, my father-in-law has used that little gem in conversation before and I’ve never really understood it.  Wouldn’t a ten dollar hooker sort of slack off because what’s the point?)

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I am fricking exhausted after my getting-ready-for-baby long weekend at my sister’s.

(Incidentally, they did let me out of the Orange County airport, but only after I registered on the "I’m not from here and will be leaving soon" watch list. Because seriously, I am still looking hideous.  And that just doesn’t go over big in those parts.)

I worked my ass off for four straight days.  There was so much to do, and my poor sister was literally confined to the couch or a chair we set up in the baby’s room.  She would prop her feet up on the diaper genie box and we would go through piles and piles of clothes, burp clothes, towels, washcloths, blankets, bath stuff and other  assorted infant-related paraphernalia. 

MY GOD PEOPLE.  Do little babies need so much stuff?

I can’t even tell you they went overboard.  They had a few of these, a few of those, and a bunch of clothes, but nothing obscene. Of course I couldn’t help but think:  Jesus H. Christ, am I going to need twice as much crap??

I had to cook and then clean up after every meal, in addition to the sorting and the twelve loads of laundry I did, so my activity level was about fourteen frillion times higher than it is at home, where I drag my lazy ass to work, get some stuff done, eat, nap and then head home to lay on the couch for a few hours.

***   ***   ***   ***

Can I just add to the list of Hideous Pregnancy Developments (heretofore to be called the HPDs) the UNGODLY amount of hair growing on my face?!  CAN I?!?

Oh. My. Freaking. Lord.

I have to pluck my eyebrows almost every night, because the hair is growing at such a rapid pace it’s growing into my hairline, creating a frightening, almost Vampire-like appearance.

To make matters worse, my facial hair is also growing at an unbelievable rate.  And it’s black hair.  I was able to avoid this hirsuteness that is associated with PCOS in the past.  (Except, of course, for the nipple hairs that would literally grow overnight.  I swear to God, one day = no nipple hair.  The next day = nipple hairs so long I could braid them into a lanyard if I had wanted to. Although I’m not sure why I would want to because that sounds uncomfortable and also?  GROSS.)

But anyway…this facial hair business is crazy. I was at a stoplight the other day and had the unfortunate experience of looking in the mirror.  The close proximity of my chin to the mirror, combined with the bright sunlight, created such a horrific vision I almost hit the gas pedal and crashed into the person stopped in front of me.  The numbers of long, black hairs that apparently have eluded me in the bathroom mirror were staggering.

(Can you imagine the scene if I rear-ended someone and had to explain the reason?  But Officer, LOOK at these WHISKERS I have growing on my chin!  And I swear I pluck every night before I go to bed!  I look like a billy goat, only with BLACK hair.  The vision was just too scary and I lost control of my faculties. It was hair-raising, if you will…Okay, okay, ma’am.  Now that I get a good look at your visage I do see what you’re talking about.  I’ll let you off with a warning.  And some advice:  get yourself one of those high-powered, magnetic mirrors they sell at Bed, Bath & Beyond for old ladies who can’t see well. It will become your new best friend. And have a nice day.) 

I would suspect BeBop of putting Rogaine in my nighttime moisturizer, but why would he be contributing to the troll-like appearance of his wife? That would be beyond cruel, wouldn’t it?

Vanessa has been blogging about hair growth on her body, fearing she might look like a Yeti by the time her twins are born.

But I’d MUCH rather have a full-length hair sweater than look like THIS, which is where I’m heading at breakneck speed:

 

Last week I slipped and fell in the local Whole Foods.

You might be thinking, SWEET!  I hear a lawwwwwwsuit!  Watson can stop working and stay home with the kids…

But alas, no.

To say I freaked out would be an understatement.  I landed in a very awkward position on the floor (after slipping, I think, on some butter or salad dressing or something) with one leg out in front and the other one sort of bent backwards at the knee.  I was so shocked I just sat there for a minute, with my basket next to me on the floor.

And then I started crying. BAWLING.

Finally, one of the employees helped me up and kept asking if I was okay, if I wanted her to get a manager.  But all I could do was cry and wonder if such an ungraceful fall could hurt the you-know-whos.

(OOOOHH!  I’m seeing a Hanson-style pop band in a few years…called the You Know Whos.  The world will need a re-mix of MmmmmmBop by then and Momma’s definitely gonna need a new pair of shoes.  And some help paying for college, so get a move on babies!!)

Where was I?  Oh yeah…the humiliating ass-landing.

Can I just tell you that I am the LEAST flexible human being on earth?  Well, I am.  Ever since I was seven and basically flunked out of gymnastics because although I could do the rolling around on the mat part, I could barely master a basic somersault and just FOGEDDABOUT the parallel bars or God forbid the splits which were the bane of my existence and apparently, still are.

Anyhoo, I ran sobbing by the salad bar and the cheese department and the deli to the restroom, making a huge spectacle out of myself.  Most people in Whole Foods are very mellow, man…just chillin’, buying the all-organic food and shit.  Waiting to get home and smoke a bowl or light some Patchouli or save the world by decreasing their carbon footprint or whatever.  Very few of those people are crying uncontrollably.

After splashing some cold water on my face and getting myself together, slightly, I finished my shopping and ran to my car to call the doctor who said to come in. When I got there, I saw a new physician who basically told me to chill out, it was so early a fall like that couldn’t harm the little passengers.

I called my sister who said, "Well, THAT’S what you get for shopping in those health food stores!"  She was referencing my fall last year at the local Mollie Stone’s that was caused by an unidentifiable but very slippery substance that also left me flat on my ass on the floor, in a splits-like position.

WHAT?

I told you even on a GOOD day I am terribly inflexible and so totally not graceful it’s embarrassing.

***    ***    ***    ***

So The Mother is back in the Sedona Life Pod for a few days.  When I told her I was going down to LA this weekend to stay with my sister she said, "What are you going to DO down there??  You know, your sister can’t do very much…"

Ummmm, YES.  Isn’t that the FRICKING point?  She seemed so totally bored by the prospect of doing laundry and going to Babies R Us and getting the room organized.  Oy.  I am hoping those of you who promised me this non-nurturing gene would at the very least skip a generation are right!!

***    ***    ***    ***

So can I just say I am looking terrible these days?

Where is that mythical, pregnant lady glow crap? Really, I look like shit.  My hair is drab and stringy and my roots dark, I have bags and coal-like circles under my eyes. (As if bags weren’t enough!)  And my skin?  Oh good Lord.  I am breaking out like a teenager.  Like a teenager who eats french fries and rubs Crisco on her face each night before bed.

I have one zit directly in the middle of my nose.  IN THE EXACT MIDDLE of the tip of my nose.  If I had hired a team of NASA scientists to calculate in fractions of millimeters the exact middle of my nose, they could not have gotten it any closer to the middle…I don’t know why anyone would actually hire a team of scientists to measure such a thing, that would be weird.  But I’m just saying it’s literally like a red beacon in the EXACT MIDDLE of my nose.

And my saliva production has increased a thousand-fold. What the hell is that about?  I’m always afraid I’ll look like a recent stroke victim with drool running down my chin (my pimply chin!) and I won’t notice.

Add to this vision of loveliness the unsightly weight gain. Which doesn’t at all look like pregnancy weight, it looks like a tubby tummy that comes from eating way too much and exercising way too little.

It’s like going back in time really, to junior high school.  The bad hair, bad skin and the chubbiness.  I look like a very old, tired thirteen-year-old, if you can picture that.  (But don’t if you’re about to eat anytime soon!)

(Throw in faking cramps to get out of gym class, and you basically have a good idea of what the 7th and 8th grades were like for me.)

But I don’t mean all of that in a complain-ey type of way, I really don’t.  Under the zit-covered skin, the stringy hair, the bags and the circles, the extra weight and the drool, there beats the heart of a very, very grateful girl. A hideous, but very happy, girl.

I should be a total hit in Los Angeles, where we all know looks don’t mean a thing. God. Now that I think about it, they might not even let me out of the airport. I might have to pack a paper bag or something…

So, 9w1d today.

How the HELL did that happen?

We had our second ultrasound today with my regular OB.  And although I really like him, he’s no Dr. Z.

No calm waiting room with dim lighting and good magazines.  No computer set up with Internet connection.  No nurses hovering over you — in a good way — asking how you’re feeling. No little packs of M&Ms with Dr. Z’s Chinese character symbol logo on the label. (And for the record, after paying more than $20,000 I just about ate my entire weight in M&Ms each time I was there, just trying to recoup some of the medical costs.)

Sigh.

After waiting for almost an hour and-a-half (during which time I literally almost had a nervous breakdown.  And I am not exaggerating, as I’ve been known to do…I get so freaking nervous just before the scans.) the doctor finally came in, we exchanged a few pleasantries and then WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM in went the wand.

"There’s one…" he said. 

Time came to a screeching halt. 

My pulse raced, but most of my other bodily functions stopped except for the hideously-excruciating gas pains I could feel making the trek from stomach to lower intestines (thanks flax seeds, and great timing!) which threatened to create a verrry embarrassing situation for all involved.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, "and there’s the second one. Everything looks really good." And out came the wand, and that was that.

Except for his, "I hope we don’t find three!" joke, which?  WTF people?  Is that standard, twin-related humor in these circles? Do these doctors attend an annual conference of some sort and one of the plenary sessions over soggy eggs and stale toast is a talk about being funny?

Like:  Session 1, 8:00 am in the Grand Ballroom:  Inducing Humor in the Ultrasound Room.

Or,

Session 4, 3:30 in the Great Oak Room: When Your Pregnant Patients are Constipated, How to Scare the Shit out of Them Using Humor.

A – NNOYING.

Anyhoo, I was SO relieved to see that there are, in fact, still two in there!

I am feeling, overall, pretty good.  Extreme fatigue, some nausea and some headaches but nothing too terrible.

What’s actually driving me insane: 

BeBop, who reads from a book for expectant fathers (and WHO was the ass hat who bought him such a book?  Yes.  IT WAS ME.)  and will share little tidbits like, "by the fourth month you’ll be experiencing full-on gingivitis. Sore, bleeding gums, the whole nine yards…"

"Would you like me to shove that book NINE YARDS up your ASS??" is usually my angry response and that shuts him up for a day or two.

And also?  These GODDAMN pregnancy books!  Is there any book out there that won’t scare the living shit out of me each and every time I pick it up?

Actually, that subject deserves a post unto itself, what with the dire warnings (don’t eat honey! Don’t take hot showers! AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WOMAN, don’t take hot showers while sucking on one of those honey-filled plastic bears!!! Your baby will be DOOMED.) and the grim predictions about being pregnant with multiples, not to mention the inane questions that are used to illustrate specific points, such as "I drank one sip of a white white spritzer a month before getting pregnant, COULD THAT KILL MY BABY???"

GAWD.

Can you tell I’m wearing my extra-tight cranky pants today?