“Momma, I need to say something to you.”
She places her spoon down deliberately and raises her voice to imitate Don Pardo. Then slowly, ploddingly, as if she's a twelve year old boy reciting a poem in front of the whole classroom, or George Bush reading a speech in front of the press (oh wait, same thing) announces:
“Fruit. Loops. Aren’t. Just. Weird. They. Are. Good.
I guess there is improvement, because she used to just call Fruit Loops "Rainbow Cheerios." That was before these came out:
(I think Cheerios owes me some money)
I've been trying to wait it out until it was long enough to cut off and donate. Because, apparently there's a great desire among pediatric cancer patients to look like you're auditioning for a revival tour with Devo.
I've always had a thing for redheads -- from the time I was a teenager. I think it goes back to the senior I had a crush on and got to sit next to on a trip to the Sonora Desert Museum during my sophomore year. Because if you, too, were driving through the desert with your science teacher in a school-owned van toward Yuma, Arizona, the only thing you'd have to look at is the senior in the seat next to you and you'd probably develop some sort of weird transference that would last the rest of your life, I guarantee you. Or maybe that's just me. The funny thing is I don't even remember what that kid's name was, nor do I think I could find him in my high school year book if I really even tried.
But from that point on I always loved, and wanted to be, a redhead. I'm not a dye-your-hair-kind-of-person either (mainly because that would require my spending more than $20 and fifteen minutes inside a hair salon every two months and that would be unacceptable), but I have spent a lot of time over the years silently willing my hair to become red all on it's own. Not just red highlights, but the kind of red I was naively certain as a teenager that Deborah Kerr and Maureen O'Hara did not get from a bottle but had been born with - the kind with which God had played a cruel joke by neglecting to bless me. (I also seem to have spent a good deal of time as a child watching old movies, as those are the only two famous redheads I could come up with off the top of my head and I then felt it necessary to place a wiki link to them since I doubt any people outside of my mother will know who they are.)
I dyed my hair once in college. But since my hair by then was actually quite dark brown, it really only succeeded in making my hair look a little red in the right light. Friends and potential dates got tired of me dragging them outside the building into the sunset and waiting for an expression of "Wow, look at your red hair!", which never came. Once, a janitor at the place I worked asked me if I got my red hair from my mother or my father and it was the greatest compliment I'd ever received up to that point in time. I may have hugged him.
So, despite my life long desire for my hair to magically change color with no effort on my part at all, I have resigned myself to what my drivers' license says my hair color is: brown. Not even brunette, because that would somehow imply that it meant to be that color, but rather brown as in, "well, it's not blond, red or black... it's definitely not green... so the only thing left to call it is brown." I secretly hoped that somehow The Dormouse would be born with red hair, so I could vicariously live my life through her in the years to come, but there again, God opened up his mouth, let out a great "Ha!", and then gave her the same dishwatery blond hair I was born with.
Just the color the kids were hoping for
"Oh. That means 'don't put the car seat in the front seat'."
"Randy Quaid just measured my uterus."
"Should I be worried?"
"OK - maybe not Randy Quaid, but if Randy Quaid had a twin brother who was an OB-GYN... that'd be him. He also yelled at me."
"Am I gonna have to beat him down?"
"Randy Quaid sucks. I'm never watching his movies again."
Would you let this man check your cervix?? 
I have not really paid attention to this show, but The Dormouse saw it on PBS yesterday and has been singing its theme song non-stop. The actual lyrics go like this:
Though I'm sure my husband's version of the story would differ, I have tried very hard to keep the bitching and moaning to a dull roar around my house and for this reason, I have posted few entries about my physical woes and pregnancy observations on this weblog. I seldom discuss it with other women, because I'm generally sick of myself and when I talk to another adult, I want to be distracted, not go through a laundry list of my symptoms. I'm pretty much in pain about two-thirds of each day and I know myself well enough to realize that if I allow myself to start bitching to everyone I know, I won't be able to stop and then people will be like "C'mon already! If it was that bad, what'd you go and get knocked up for in the first place?"
Let the record show that my overwhelming attitude and feeling is that I am genuinely excited and grateful to be undergoing what by all accounts so far, looks like a normal pregnancy and I will, without reservation, continue suffering if it means that at the end of it all I will have a healthy child to bring home. YOU HEAR THAT KARMA?!? You can't touch me now! See me knocking on this wood, crossing my fingers and throwing salt over my left shoulder? OK - so maybe there's a healthy dose of superstition thrown in there too. I feel like if I complain too much now, especially knowing that all of these symptoms - even the constant static in my ears - will most likely go away the minute I give birth, I'll have something much worse to deal with tomorrow. Call me superstitious. Oh, and by the way, there's something of which you'd never hear my husband accuse me. If you ask him, I'm never, ever five things: superstitious, illogical, sentimental, selfless, or pay attention to commercials.
That being said, Monica requested "more stories about how pregnancy sucks and belly shots". And I am never one to disappoint. What's below is what I've taken from the half a dozen posts I've started over the last several weeks that I later did not publish because they were either too whiny or I was simply sick of thinking about the issue by the time I sat down to write so I never finished. I call them my 25 Great Ironies About Being Pregnant to Accompany This 25 Great Things About Being Pregnant List That Dr. Google Found (for short).
1. You're guaranteed to stop traffic whenever you cross the street.
Except you'll absentmindedly walk out into the middle of the street against the light because you have pregnancy brain and then you'll feel the need to run to show the car about to hit you that you know it was your fault and you're sorry. After running for two lanes, you will pay for it the next day.
2. People look at your stomach and can't help smiling, as if the mere thought of your being pregnant has actually made their day a little bit brighter.
Most people look at my stomach and have one of two reactions: male) shakes head sadly, mutters "too many M&Ms" to the person next to him or female) smiling is accompanied by "Pregnant in the summer, oh you poor thing!"
3. You can eat a whole pint of chocolate-chunk ice cream and not feel guilty. Every night.
Until several months later when everyone knows that breast-feeding burns calories and you haven't lost a pound yet.
4. You can -- no, you must! -- take naps. Lots of them.
But you will not be able to sleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time. All. Night. Long.
5. Getting to name another human being.
Getting to hear from relatives and friends just how bad the name you're thinking of is and how it's the absolutely worst name anyone ever thought about in the history of naming and your child will grow up unloved and unemployable because of the name you chose, and you might as well just name your kid Charles Adolf Hitler Manson, so live with that guilt.
6. Watching your husband turn into a father when he kisses your belly good night, reads to the baby in utero, or stays up until 3:00 a.m. putting the crib together -- just in case the baby decides to come eight weeks early.
Watching husband complain that he hasn't been able to feel the baby move yet, and then try for 3.2 seconds to put his hand on your stomach before giving up, exasperated, saying, "She never moves for me." Toddler has more patience.
7. Sex: For once in your life, you're neither worried about getting pregnant nor trying to get pregnant. You can have sex just for the pure fun of it.
"Can", but do not have the energy or pain tolerance for it.
8. Buying a bathing suit. It's not about hiding your flaws; it's about flaunting your belly.
You belly may want to be flaunted, but your giant thighs and upper arms' desire is to be hidden. Must put on pants by throwing them on floor and gingerly working one foot and then the other into leg holes so trying on any clothing is undesirable.
9. Those wild, intense, amazing pregnancy dreams in which every remote person from your past makes some sort of appearance. None of these dreams can even begin to be analyzed or understood.
Have you met me? Hi, I'm Alice. I'm crazy. See this entry.
10. The amazing anticipation. It's like all your previous birthdays and holidays rolled into one.
That goes on and on and on and on and on and on until... (anticipa.............tion is not all it's cracked up to be)
11. Imagining the possibilities.
The possibilities that something catastrophic will happen and my body will no longer be able to sustain this life, how the fact that homicide is the leading cause of death among pregnant women in the US will come into play, that I'll be in a car wreck and deliver at twenty-two weeks, that this baby will grow up to hate me and choose a life of crime just to spite me... ah the possibilities!
12. More personal space! And you have no qualms about claiming it.
Also fill up more personal space and have been accidentally groped or felt up by everyone from a missionary to a cable repair man. Number of people who now have direct access to look at and touch my bajingo has now increased ten-fold.
13. You eat healthier, drink more water, and carefully read ingredient labels. Suddenly, it matters more to you what you put in your body.
Tell that to my body that craves only Diet Coke and Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuits from McDonald's.
14. In the middle of a boring meeting at work or a meaningless argument, you feel your baby squirming inside you and the sensation takes you away. It's your own secret communication.
Every time this feeling happens, feel like I'm on a roller coaster ride and must suppress urge to throw my arms up and yell, "Weeee" during staff meetings.
15. Getting to hear the swish swish swish of your baby's heartbeat on the Doppler.
Worrying in between every doctor visit that you won't hear that swish swish swish kind of sucks, though.
16. Playing "Guess the part sticking out," usually at bedtime, when your baby starts moving furniture around or whatever it is he does in there.
Or more accurately, "Guess the part that's sticking in my cervix."
17. The extra attention you get from everyone -- your husband gives you more foot rubs, and your friends call to check in more often. Neighbors offer to help; coworkers volunteer to get lunch for you; little presents (a bottle of water, an afternoon snack) mysteriously show up on your desk.
Everything I touch ends up on floor; floor is suddenly three feet further away from reach. People are only interested in helping if it means they can carry something heavy. No one wants to wheel me in my rolling chair to the bathroom or pick up the eighteen pencils that are under my desk. Am still waiting for a foot rub, by the way.
18. The pregnancy beauty package: thick, silky hair; long, strong nails; beautiful skin; big boobs.
Exhibit A: strange clump of baby fine hair growing out of left side of forehead which cannot be combed, pulled back, curled or sprayed into submission
Exhibit B: need to shave legs twice as frequently, but cannot reach legs to do so
Exhibit C: twice as likely to need to brush teeth; cannot do so without gagging... or gums bleeding
Exhibit D: bra that looks like David misplaced his sling and instead used it to throw the rock that slayed Goliath.
19. Getting to skip to the front of the line in public rest rooms.
Needing to ask to do that on average twenty-seven times per day.
20. Shopping for a person you haven't met yet: tiny clothes, all-new furniture, and adorable room decorations.
Paying $30 for a dress made from material equivalent to a $2 remnant piece.
21. Dreaming about the first time someone calls you "Mommy" and the first time you hear someone call your husband "Daddy."
Strangely inappropriate and creepy, though, when people at work start every email with “Hi Mom.”
22. Baby showers! They remind you how special your friends and family think you are.
Unless you don’t enjoy playing games like Stages of Labor Concentration and eating melted candy bars out of diapers.
23. A continuous sense of accomplishment. You can answer "What did you do today?" with cool things like "I made ears" or simply "I'm making a person. What did you do?"
And yet, inexplicably, “I finished publishing that book from my hospital delivery room” didn't lead to the raise I wanted when it came time for my annual review.
24. Spending immeasurable amounts of time trying to remember all those nursery rhymes, children's songs, and lullabies.
And then later singing the same one, over and over and over. I think most people aren't aware that the portion of my brain formerly set aside for the olfactory sense has been re-appropriated and is now simply filled with song lyrics.
25. Knowing that all the bad stuff -- the heartburn, swollen ankles, backaches, and the rest -- doesn't last forever. And that in the end, it's all worth it.
Can't see ankles anyway.
And now the requested "belly shot". Ugh.
Enjoy, because that will probably be the last one for a long time.
25 weeks
Last weekend, I was asked to accompany some singers for a friend's daughter's quinceañera. For those of you not similarly engrossed in Latin culture, the only way to describe a quince is thusly: a birthday party on steroids. Quince is the Spanish word for fifteen. The closest thing to a quinceañera in American culture is possibly a Sweet 16 party - but only if you watch that annoying reality show with the rich kids on MTV. Maybe it's even closer to being on a par with a Bat Mitzvah without quite the the religious significance. It's basically a coming out party disguised as a wedding reception for a girl who's fifteen and not getting married.
"Momma, I'm going to tell you a joke." 
"I don't know what circle breads are." 
The Dormouse, singing along to the tune of the Sesame Street Theme with the television: "Ruuuun awaaay, Bing-ga-dah, Ruuuun awaaay."President: "Let's go around the room. Please tell us who you are and one interesting thing that's happened to you recently or is going to happen to you in the next few months."I am wrapping up some loose ends this week from last weekend's meeting at work. We do this twice a year - people from all over the country come in and spend a weekend talking, bitching and theoretically solving the problems of the profession, only to lay all the real work in the laps of the people who work in the office and go home again afterwards absolved of any real accountability because they've said their piece and now all they have to do is sit back and watch it happen.
Me: "My name is Alice and I can't think of a single interesting thing that's going to happen to me in the next few months."
Attendee who doesn't understand sarcasm: "You're expecting a baby - that's pretty interesting."
Me: "Oh that? Yawn."
But because this pregnancy is destroying my brain, or because I am simply an evil person, when the President said, "Congratulations on your ten years!", I said, aloud, "Thanks.... seems like twenty." veg·an (vē'gən, věj'ən)
n. A vegetarian who eats plant products only, especially one who uses
no products derived from animals, as fur or leather.
I decided to try out a new grocery delivery service this week. Not sure why, my regular guys have always served me just fine; I guess I just need variety in my life. Actually, I do remember why... I hadn't ordered from my regular place for a while because their delivery time options haven't gelled particularly well with my schedule in the past few months.
Announcing my pregnancy to people at church last Sunday: 
"What did you do in school today?" 
As I was flipping through television channels last night in a desperate attempt to put my feet up and possibly see my ankles once again, I happened to catch this show on the Travel Channel and couldn't believe my eyes:
This competition, however, brings a whole new twist to the ummmmmm... what is the word here?... Art?... Sport?... Event?... Maybe I'll just go with Competition.This popular event is back and brings a new level of competition to Travel Channel. Paired off into teams of two, 16 of the world's best sand sculptors descend on picturesque Pacific Beach in San Diego, California, for the chance to win their share of $15,000 in prize money. But there's one big twist -- Explosions!
Over the course of this intense two-day competition, five of the eight sculptures will be randomly selected for complete destruction by a Hollywood pyrotechnics crew. The unlucky blast victims then have the remaining time to create another world-class sculpture in order to contend for the title of Sand Blaster Champion.
Basically, eight teams have two days to create a sculpture from the giant block of sand provided them. But every so often throughout the competition a horn sounds, everyone runs for cover and one masterpiece explodes due to pre-planted pyrotechnics paraphernalia hidden away in the original block of sand. The unlucky owners of the pile-o-exploded-sand must then start again from scratch.
They also pontificate on the "emotion" of the piece and whether the conceptual idea was simply "too edgy for the judges". As if someone judging a sand sculpting contest isn't already teetering precariously on the brink of normalcy.And it really didn't have to stop... it just kept on going. And so castles made of sand slip into the sea, Eventually.(Name that tune.)
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