Belly shots!

30 weeks! As you can see, I'm carrying everything out in front, and am consequently assless. Flat Ass Syndrome runs in my family, and I'm terrified that this is the beginning of it for me. Lunges, here I come (in 3 months or so). Please ignore my unbrushed hair (and unmade bed - I am a slob).

Maternity jeans: fashion or torture device? In this case, both. I learned awhile back that panel jeans just make me look like I have the world's saggiest crotch (hott!), so the stretchy waist works best, though I spend half my day hiking the waistband up. Thank god for Goodwill (and their awesome half price Saturday that just passed). Eight items of maternity clothing for a paltry 20 clams.

You also might notice that the belly ring remains. Every time I went to the OB, one of the doctors would say, "That thing is going to have to come out." Once I asked why, and the response was, "You can't wear that in to surgery!" Seemed reasonable until the penny dropped and I realized I had no intention of having surgery just to give birth (barring an emergency, of course). When I started meeting with doulas, one of them suggested switching to a midwife, and so I did. Vive le difference! Though it's not an option for anyone having a higher-risk pregnancy, midwifery is the best choice for me, and I hadn't thought of it previously because I didn't think I would be allowed drugs (I was wrong). Obstetricians would do well to take some cues from midwifery and treat pregnancy and labor as natural processes rather than medical conditions to be "treated," as if they were diseases. And let their patients keep their damn navel rings in if they want to. End rant.

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Heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped coach me through my mom thing. It's all good now (after a few more cranky emails and, yes, me apologizing), and we've even been chatting online a bit. Progress is being made.

Have bun, will waddle

As of this week, I'm seven months pregnant, a fact that kind of astounds me. There are days when this pregnancy feels endless, and days when I feel like even though I do want it to end, I'll miss it when it does. I don't usually feel like I've gotten that big (my in-laws seemed almost disappointed at my lack of hugeness when I saw them at Christmas), although I certainly feel rather large and ungainly.

Booby has been very supportive of my changing shape, cheering me on with positive comments every time I announce a weight gain (I've gained about seventeen pounds, give or take, so far). But I did catch him on the phone with one of his buddies, announcing, "Yeah, she's pretty much graduated to the waddling stage at this point."

It's a good thing he makes up for cracks like that by taking me to see chickens in the wild.

JC and the Boyz

I've been dragging my husband to mass of late, in an effort to get our names in the rollbooks of our friendly neighborhood Catholic Church so we don't hit a wall when it gets to be baby-baptizin' time (I'm already a registered parishioner, but I didn't actually step foot into the place until a few months back). Step 2 is tossing money into said church's coffers (in the form of a check from our joint account in the specially-mailed church envelopes, which also bear my name). Step 3 is for advanced players only: stick around until the priests get to the vestibule and then do some glad-handing (I only followed through on that one on Christmas Eve).

Today, the gospel told the story of the Wedding Feast of Caana, wherein Jesus turns water into wine at his mother's urging. For once, the sermon was actually about the gospel (as opposed to suggesting that we ignore science in favor of religion, one of the more memorable sermons of recent weeks. Why can't we credit both, Father? Sheesh.). The priest made a big point of letting us know that first of all, Jesus was OK with people having a good time, hence his water-into-wine trick. Because wine is fun (can't argue with that)! Then, he coyly suggested that the reason there was a wine shortage was because the Apostles drank too much (oh, the laughter!), but he quickly assured us that the Apostles were, indeed, invited to the celebration.

Afterward, as Booby and I sat down to breakfast at our favorite ex-pat Irish caff, we discussed the oddness of the priest's declarations. I mentioned that I'd never heard anyone so specifically point out that all the Apostles were invited to this wedding, and really, now, who invites a woman, her son, and his twelve buddies?

"Well, honey," Booby reasoned, "Clearly, the Apostles were Jesus's entourage. You don't get Vincent Chase to come to your party without inviting Turtle and Johnny Drama."