moosh in indy.

43.5 inches.

That is the circumference of my waist this evening.

4 weeks from my due date with my second baby.

28 days.

A period.

I used to live my life in 28 day increments.

I am 28 years old. My birthday is on the 28th of April.

This year was my golden birthday.

Golden indeed.

I said it was going to be good and good it was.

There is even a chance it will end with me having my long awaited baby on the last day of my golden year.

(But I’d really rather that not happen, no offense, I really don’t want to share.)

I have been craving watermelon and Mexican food.

I have spent the last week nesting. And not just “kind of” nesting. But serious down to business there may be chapter about this being a problem type nesting in the back of some pregnancy book nesting. It happened with Addie too. Two weeks ago I was happy to be somewhere soft and horizontal and at 4 am Monday morning suddenly EVERYTHING needed to be done RIGHT NOW.

My very existence has been overtaken with parallel vacuum lines and perfectly dusted baseboards.

I had an astronomical to do list tapped out on my iPod on Monday morning. I checked off the final thing last night.

Pack a bag for the hospital.

Because I’m going to be having a baby. Any day now really.

I am so happy. So excited.

But there is still this lump. This phantom pain in the back of my heart.

While it seems as though everyone drank from the same fountain of fertility and found themselves pregnant, I know this isn’t true. I know because there are women left without their babies. Babies they are waiting for. Longing for. Desperate for. I know many of them are staying quiet, back in the shadows because their pain is all to real, and very much at the forefront of their mind.

They’re living their own 28 day trial right now, be it pregnancy tests, adoption papers, medical exams or results.

Every time Mozzi moves I drop what I’m doing and place my hand on my swollen belly. She’s in there and she’s mine.

My little miracle.

My daughter. (Well, okay, confession, I’m still convinced it’s a boy.)

28 days isn’t nearly enough time to appreciate how far I’ve come and how blessed I am.

But I guess that’s what eternity is for.

Taken at 28 weeks. When I was still kind of nimble and could get off the couch without mooing.

Dear doctors who have been/will be treating treating me,

Please stop being so surprised when you touch, measure, feel, weigh, look at or talk to me. Look, girls don’t take kindly to surprised comments let alone medical observations. I know that when I answer the door and my friend says “Whoa, bad day?” that I’ve looked better. I know that when Cody comes home and says “Oof, you’re not doing so well are you?” I most certainly resemble a warm shade of death. So when I lie down on your medical table with my giant belly exposed and you mutter something about “Whoa! Well…” with your eyebrows raised as you turn and scribble something down in my chart?

Keep your expressions to yourself buddy.

Unless you’re going to finish that sentence with “Whoa…well you’re the most lovely pregnant lady I’ve ever had the pleasure of treating” I don’t want to hear it. Same goes for those weird questions like, “Sooo, do big heads run in your family?” I can only assume that I’ve suddenly become that golden goose for that medical study you’ve been working on for so long.

And I swear, if I get in that delivery room with my glory spread for this baby to come into the world and someone dares to utter any level of “Whoa!” in my general direction. I’m going to fight you. Or aim my placenta at you. Whatever.

Sincerely,

Casey

6 weeks.

Or less.

Holy crap.

Being pregnant and/or having a new baby puts a giant (GIANT) “PLEASE! JUDGE ME OPENLY!” sign on your forehead. And the backside of your birthing hips. And across your enormous pregnancy boobs. There also seems to be a flashing neon sign that radiates from your entire existence.

Why do you have a crib bumper?

She’ll have bad teeth if you use a pacifier.

In my day we would have never worn maternity clothes like that.

If you even so much as dip your toe in that hot tub your going to boil your baby.

Why are you taking medicine?

Why are you eating that?

You’ll be breastfeeding won’t you?

Why aren’t you breastfeeding?

Your baby will be fat if you use formula.

Don’t hold that baby too much, you’ll spoil it.

Your baby looks hot.

Your baby is going to freeze.

Your baby is hungry.

Your baby is tired.

You look tired.

You know it wouldn’t hurt to brush your hair.

Did you know you have stains on your shirt?

You’re not supposed to carry babies in slings.

Babies who spend too much time in strollers cry more.

Did you know your baby has a grenade?

WHY DON’T YOU LOVE YOUR BABY?

I just learned today that not only am I going to be suffering from premature cleavage wrinkles, my baby is also going to be born green and with a third eye because I didn’t spend $70 on a blanket. That’s a lot to handle before 9 am.

I want so desperately for my boobs to work this time around. I was so emaciated by the time I delivered Addie my body was not going to be giving up any more calories to sustain anything or anyone else but myself. Addie was formula fed after three long weeks of nursing, bottle feeding, pumping, brewers yeast, supplemental nursers, an almost devastating brush with Reglan and a La Leche league member who caused me to throw a phone.

Addie is not fat, she has no food allergies, no seasonal allergies, no asthma, she has had two ear infections in her entire life and aside from the weird little barfing thing she has? She rarely gets sick. She can count to 100 three different ways, can read better than I could at 8, has the fine motor skills of a surgeon and the coordination of a Manchester United goalie. (More or less, she gets a little clumsy during growth spurts, let’s be honest.)

This is a kid who was not only formula fed but was sustained through pregnancy on Gatorade, macaroni and cheese and IV’s. AND! She had a crib bumper.

I’ve done the best I could so far with that little kid and she’s turned out swell.

I think we’re all trying to do the best we can with these little lives that have been entrusted to us.

I have to have faith that my instinct with this next one is better than Nosy Nancy’s observations of what I’m supposedly doing wrong.

Besides, Nancy probably doesn’t even realize how awesome babies look with grenades.

Five years is a long time to wait for a baby.

A really long time.

When you compare five years to 40 weeks…pregnancy flies by.

When you’re trying to have a baby for any amount of time, let alone years, you already live your life in weeks.

Week one: Period.

Week two: Ovulation and copulation.

Week three: Waaaaaiiiitttiiinnngggg.

Week four: Stick peeing.

Back to week one with more Ben and Jerry’s than the month before.

***********

There is a room set up with a crib, a rocking chair and a changing table.

There are tiny freshly washed clothes in a new dresser.

There are hundreds of diapers and wipes tucked away in a closet.

There are tiny little baby treasures from all over the country just waiting.

There is a curly haired imp who is already blaming her little sister for things.

There is a man who is going to be a father to two daughters.

And a girl who still can’t believe this is really happening to her.

In the past 24 hours I have managed to keep down Jello and toast. WHEE!

My belly is very near herniating thanks to a little something called diastasis recti. (The wikiCaseypedia version? This crap hurts something fierce.)

There’s the poop.

And then there’s the sleepy. (Which has actually been vastly improved upon switching from a generic version of my antidepressant to the name brand.)

See also: antenatal depression and anxiety.

So this morning while wallowing in my misery and attempting not to moo or make various beached whale noises I declared that I pretty much stink at being pregnant even though I love it.

So I started to think about all the stuff that’s going right…

I don’t pee when I barf, or cough or sneeze. I consider this a victory.

I look pregnant. I have one friend who is so tall and has such a long torso that she never even looked pregnant at 40 weeks, just kind of…puffy.

I also don’t get swollen. (Or haven’t yet.) I can still see my ankle bones, although shaving them has become re-darn-diculous.

Heartburn? Eh, it happens on occasion, nothing that a couple of Tums won’t fix.

No stretch marks. (Again, yet.)

No gestational diabetes.

No other major medical maladies to speak of, well aside from the chronic barfing, but I’m pretty much pro by now.

And the biggest one? I’ve made it to 31 weeks. I am 31 weeks pregnant after trying for over five years to get here. I’m more than halfway! I’m more than 3/4 of the way! And wonderful people have been taking care of me all along. From my friends here locally, to the friends and family all over who have played along in the Mozzi celebration that Emily organized…I am good, I am thankful, I am blessed.

Albeit a little queasy.

Pass the Jello.

xoxo to you all.

41″ circumference.

159 lbs.

70 days to go.

All is well.

I am walking a very fine line between “getting through” and “becoming the worst OB patient my doctor has ever seen.” The list of fears, questionable maladies and panic have resulted in a list that is going to blind said doctor come Thursday. To make matters worse it will be my gestational diabetes test as well so not only will I be super! inquisitive! I’ll be hopped up on the sugar drink.

I just woke up from a dream where Mozzi’s foot was poking out right around my ribs, I counted 8 (!) perfect tiny little toes and then my friend dug her foot out, the same way you dig you way through new pantyhose, and we all kissed and tickled it. However when it came time to put the little foot back in it wouldn’t stay. My only choice was to pull Mozzi out and head to the hospital where my water then broke and I birthed all that…other crap. Some doctor found me a crappy bed until Sue Sylvester’s shark tank started flooding because all of her landscaping had given out. Honestly, who puts a shark tank on the second level of their home?  Anyway, the nice lady that fed Sue’s hammerhead shark ended up getting eaten and we all had to abandon the area.

Last week Cody made me go to a quilt show, then he slammed my fingers in the window of a Jeep. I woke up sobbing.

Last night something happened on the streets of New York and I woke up sobbing again.

I have a highly pasteurized tube of sour cream in my fridge that expires April 28, 2011. Normally that would mean “MY BIRTHDAY! IT IS SO CLOSE!” this year it means “A tube of sour cream may outlast the days of me being pregnant.”

This is really happening. I’m getting my baby. (And all the weird stuff that goes along with making one apparently.) I am going to have a baby to hold. To sniff. To love. My very own baby that I don’t have to give back. A baby that is going to be born into love clean carpet, good smelling sheets and non expired dairy products. A baby that has brought our family closer together with so much hope, love, support, gratitude and peace.

77 days to go.

(card available at Robin’s etsy store along with other fine PG-13 rated goods.)