Remember how a couple weeks ago I was all “This pregnancy is so easy! Most days I barely remember I’m even pregnant! I can’t wait to me MORE pregnant!”

Yeah, that was stupid. I am DEFINITELY pregnant. I could star in my own made for TV movie called Mega-Pregnant Woman Versus Giant Bottle of Tums and I wouldn’t even need a stunt double.

My feet hurt. I’m exhausted, even with a daily nap. I am irritated by totally irrational things and want to scream at random strangers. My clothes don’t fit. I can’t bend over in the middle. Everything from crackers to fruit to water gives me heartburn. I’m being regularly kicked in the bladder and I pee a little every time I laugh, jump or sneeze. I never sleep through the night. I’m always hot. My boobs are huge and sore (and here’s a new one: I have breast tissue that extends back into my armpit so even my underarms are painful). I keep getting giant crater sized pimples I’m afraid Baby Evan might get sucked into and disappear forever. And to top it all off, I STILL have morning sickness in the mornings – I get out of bed, I throw up for about 10 minutes, then I start my day. Every. Day.

As of my appointment this morning I am up 19 pounds and got a Talking To about adding more exercise to my routine, which is ridiculous because a) I chase a toddler all day b) I’m still going to Stroller Strides at least 3 times a week and c) I CHASE A TODDLER ALL DAY. Yes I know I’ll have to lose all this weight again, thanks for the breaking news. I know I’ve had this discussion on the internet before but I wish there was a way to just not even mention weight or weight gain in pregnancy at all until it became an actual health issue. My blood pressure is good, the baby is good, shut the eff up. I have the sudden urge to yell “LEAVE THE PREGNANT WOMEN ALOOOOOOOONE!!!!111!!!!!11!” but I’m too tired to actually yell at anything.

I think the only thing more exhausting than thinking about 19 more weeks of this is imagining life with a toddler AND a newborn.

I’m gonna go lie down.

It turns out I didn’t need to be worried at all about leaving Baby Evan for a weekend, since not only did he survive without me, I don’t think he even noticed I was gone. As far as he was concerned, I was just at knitting group or the grocery store or upstairs napping for a minute and would probably be right back. It helps that 16 months is too early to have much concept of time. It also helped that he didn’t fall on his head or break any bones or knock out a tooth or accidentally cut off his arm with the hedge trimmers or something else that might require mama hugs.

As I said when I was still debating the trip, I wasn’t worried at all about E’s ability to handle the baby on his own – he’s a great father. Actually, I don’t think that’s a good enough title – a “Great Father” sounds like someone from a 50’s TV sitcom who provides a paycheck and health insurance, plays catch with his kids, and then maybe beats them occasionally, but only with switches thinner than his thumb. And of course when he does, he says “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”

E might do all that (besides the beating thing, obviously)(at least I hope that is obvious)(by which I mean he doesn’t beat us, not that he uses big sticks) but he’s really just a great PARENT. When he’s not at work, he parents equally as much as I do. He does bedtime and bath time on his own every single night. He changes diapers, even the cloth ones I talked him into, and voluntarily uses them when I’m not here to remind him. He can feed and dress and comfort Baby Evan as needed. He can take the kid to the grocery store or the hardware store or the electronics store and not be baffled by car seat straps and diaper bags and shopping carts and strollers. There is no bumbling or fumbling or oh-silly-man-pretending-to-be-a-mom pitying glances from strangers. And as Baby Evan turns more and more into Little Person You Can Actually Interact With Evan, E gets better and better at parenting.

(As I write this, my boys are actually missing. I think they went to Hartford to buy roller blades but the last time I saw them, E picked the baby up from the ultrasound appointment and just left. I came home to a silent, wonderfully empty house.)

That being said…you know what E is NOT good at?  Being pregnant. I mean, my being pregnant. He’d probably be terrible at being pregnant too, but unfortunately science isn’t able to provide that joyous experience to men so we’ll never know. I expect it would go something like this:

Wah, I feel nauseous! Wah, my feet hurt! Wah, I’m hungry! No I don’t want THAT to eat, I want something else. I don’t know what. But I need it NOW! Wah, I have Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction* and it hurts to do everything so I’m going to just lie here on the couch for the next 5 months! Wah wah wah!

No offense to E. I think ALL dudes would suck at pregnancy.

I just think it would be nice if E even NOTICED my delicate condition. When I flop down on the couch and say “Oh man my feet hurt” he says “Why?” When it’s 9 pm and I say “I’m going to bed” he says “Why?”  When I say “Honey, it’s too hot to cook and I don’t feel like having chicken tonight anyways” he says “Why?” When I say “Man, I’m really in the mood for a Frosty, any chance you want to go get me one?” He says “Why?” or more accurately, “No frickin’ way. Your legs aren’t broken.”  He’s never read a pregnancy book, not even the special chapter in the Girlfriend’s Guide I bookmarked for him and left totally inconspicuously on his pillow. And then in the bathroom. And then on top of his computer. And then literally hit him over the head with. As far as I know, everything he’s learned about pregnancy at all has been from reading my blog.** He doesn’t make a point to take off work for my (admittedly boring) OB visits, but he also doesn’t make a point of attending ANY of my appointments, including the one yesterday where there was a teeny tiny chance the tech would say something scary and turn the monitor away and I would end up alone in an office while the doctor said horrible things like “abnormal” and “physical defect”.***

Maybe I expect too much. Maybe I’ve internalized those commercials where some dude gets up at 3 am and drives all over town to find just the right flavor of chocolate fudgey mint chip ice cream for his pregnant wife. Maybe that – GASP! – doesn’t happen in real life. And I KNOW taking time off of work isn’t exactly easy when the U.S. Government literally owns your ass. Plus I need him to save those off days for things like getting my teeth cleaned and, oh I don’t know, GIVING BIRTH. I’m not expecting constant foot rubs or being waited on hand and foot or a surprise maid service to come in and scrub my floors.

But it would be nice, every once in a while, if someone would just go get me a Frosty.

*I have it. I had SPD last time too, but not this early, so I have no idea just how bad it’s going to get. I also didn’t know what it was called, although shockingly knowing what it’s called in NO WAY makes it hurt less.

**Which might be part of the problem – he often forgets that reading something on my site and then talking about it with guys at work is NOT THE SAME as having a conversation with me. The same way my blog-less friends often forget to call and chat because, duh, they already KNOW how I’m doing.

***The doctor actually said “I don’t know why you’re here” and “I’m sure your office saw something they questioned, but I don’t see anything worth following up.” And to be fair, before E took the baby away the tech did say “It all looks good, nothing serious, the doctor just wants to take a look.”

A baby woke me up at 1 am last night, but it wasn’t the one who has a name and a face and a crib. It was a baby who is still just a fuzzy outline on a black and white print out, a heartbeat over the monitor, a life so new it can’t survive without me. It was my girl, my daughter, barely even half way here but already making herself known. I can finally feel the kicks and twists and jabs the ultrasound tech could see so clearly on her screen, the Kung Fu moves every pregnant woman anxiously longs for even as we make Alien references and complain about the punches to the bladder. They’re the closest thing to a voice our babies get, saying “I’m here! I’m living! Wait for me!”

They call this time The Quickening, a term I’ve always loved, which refers to the quickening of the baby’s movements from the slow, floaty flutters of a peanut sized fetus to flippy-floppy real-baby-sized twitches.  But for me it also refers to the quickening of time, the realization I am 20 weeks into a 40 week adventure, with 140 days (give or take) to go before I am a mother. A mother again. A mother some more. A mother of two.

The reality of that hasn’t even begun to sink in. I haven’t pulled the boxes of tiny gowns and onesies out to sort through and wash. I haven’t dog-eared the pages of my Ikea catalog with must haves for a new nursery. I don’t have a plan or a name or a calendar full of baby-prep classes. I just have a wish in my heart for her to be healthy and happy and whole, to come into our lives smiling and dancing, like I know she’s doing now in the warm comfort of my womb.

The truth is, none of the preparations matter. Having a crib doesn’t bring you a baby. Buying stuff doesn’t make you a mother. It’s a lesson every first time parent learns a few months too late, after the registry and the shower and the four hundred baby items crowding up your rooms. The fact that a parent cannot love a child with things is one of the fairest truths in this world – a millionaire has no advantage over me, nor do I rank over someone who lives in a mud hut and sleeps on the floor. All that matters is love and caring and patience and understanding, the kind of trial-by-fire lessons you only learn at 2 am when you’re totally failing and ready to give up and admit to anyone who asks that you must be the worst mother in the history of the world so would they please help you return this baby?

Oh, I have learned those lessons.

So for every week I forget to take a bump picture, for every day I don’t paint a nursery, for every kick I don’t take a moment to savor, I am sorry Baby Girl. But don’t be sad. I’ve kept all that love – the love-as-stuff, the love-as-money, the love-as-things – in my heart, where it grows right along with you, a little more every day.

Baby, I’m here. I’m waiting. I love you.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a…..

GIRL!

My bank account is already weeping.

Besides THAT awesomeness, I am happy to report the baby looks perfect. For some reason, as focused as I’ve been on the gender, I’ve been secretly freaking out about the rest of the scan to the point where I’ve been waking up regularly at 2 am to obsess about it. Maybe it’s because this pregnancy feels so different from the first one I have a hard time believing it can be “normal.” Maybe it’s because after two years in the mommy-blogging world I have a better understanding of what a questionable or poor or tragic result means. Reading about it in What To Expect just doesn’t terrify me the way seeing it spelled out in black and white and gray and red and every rainbow color of emotion on the internet does. But the tech took a zillion measurements and was very thorough and said several times everything looked perfect and normal and good.

So for the record, the “high heartbeat means it’s a girl” old wives tale proved 100% true for me. Which makes it scientifically proven. IT’S SCIENCE, PEOPLE.

p.s. Oh God now I DO have to pick a name. I think we’ll probably narrow it down to a couple and make the announcement after she’s (SHE!!!!) born. So don’t be mad when I won’t tell you what it is until then – I DON’T KNOW.

p.p.s. Once this sinks in, expect a huge freak out over everything from whether or not I need to give Baby Girl her (HER!!!!!) own nursery to how exactly one changes little girl diapers.

p.p.p.s. I think E might cry. Please tell him girls are awesome and that they DON’T always grow up and break your heart. Although I think half his disappointment is not getting to use the awesome boy name we picked out. This time.

See round 1 here – I’ve officially crossed off Clementine but nothing else is definite.

Gemma Louise
Caroline Louisa
Piper Mae
Piper Corinne
Corinne Mae
Louisa Mae
Ruby Mae
Lizette (I just saw this somewhere and think it is SO CUTE)

I was shocked to learn E thinks Piper is adorable and awesome. He says no to Gemma and probably Ruby though. I just haven’t asked, since he usually says no to everything and it’s crushing my soul. I am soulless.

ARGH. WHY IS IT SO HARD TO DECIDE? And why can’t I stop reading baby name suggestions on the internet? This would be so much easier if I only had two dozen names to choose from instead of two BILLION.

I’m totally just naming her Baby Girl Davis. If it’s a girl. Which it’s not. So it doesn’t matter.

JUST LEAVE ME ALOOOOOOONE.

(Ultrasound tomorrow at 1:30 pm. I promise my hysterics will officially be over then.)