someone take the photo albums away from me

I've been looking through a lot of old photos lately. I'm not sure why or what possessed me, but I went so far as to reactivate my Facebook account for a few hours to look through some more.

Let me be the first to say that looking at old photos of yourself while nine months pregnant is truly the worst thing you can do. I WAS SO SKINNY AND I HAD NO IDEA. NO IDEA! My legs were so lean! My hair so red and freckles so bright from the southern sun! Stretch marks were a foreign concept! My hair was long and voluptuous and I'm almost considering growing it out again (5 minutes from now I'll have changed my mind)(I've already changed my mind)(and I just changed it back)(help).

I found a bunch of pictures of James and me. Such babies we were! We looked 16 when we were dating, and here we are, five...wait no....SIX years later, living in the cold Midwest and about to have a tiny little baby. The hormones, how they rage. I'm going to walk you down memory lane with me. DEAL WITH IT. Please just do me a favor and look at these with me and then hold me while I cry. I don't know why I'm crying.

Have I told you that James had a lip ring when I met him? He was this quiet, brooding musician with a skateboard, shaggy hair, and a lip ring. Gosh, I loved it so much. He ditched the lip ring after college but the shaggy hair has made a return lately. He doesn't skateboard anymore, but he still plays his guitar and drums all the time. He's still quiet and brooding. Our first apartment was straight up ghetto, and I was afraid we would be stuck there forever and I would never get out of North Carolina. We used to spend weekends at the beach and now we spend them taking naps, and he installs the carseat while I make wash the newborn onesies, and the cat bats at the guitar strings. He now has a beard and I have a giant belly. I wouldn't trade it for anything. He's from the South, I'm from the West, and we're about to have ourselves a Midwestern baby. I love watching how things unfold. I love it. I just love it. 


notes from february 21st

This is the second weekend in a row that my fun plans have had to be cancelled. Weekend plans are typically against my religion, but I was very excited about these. Mother Nature wouldn't allow it and gave us back-to-back blizzards. Which is why I've been looking through pictures of previous trips to California in iPhoto (palm trees, beaches, warmth, In-n-Out Burger...hold me sweet Jesus). It reminds me that there's life after -20 degrees.

The good thing about cancelled plans is that we're snowed in (not really, but I like to pretend we are and use it as an excuse to make more waffles), which forces me to rest and get some things done. Everyone tells me to "sleep now! before the baby comes!" and "rest! sleep! you'll never get to again!" Aside from the alarmist nature of these comments, I would be all for that if I didn't have a full time job and didn't still need to do things like laundry and cooking and cleaning and nesting....oh, the nesting. Not to mention, sleep? Are you kidding me? I wake up 12 times a night because everything hurts, but mainly because the Richter scale hits a 5.3 every time I attempt to roll over in bed.

I have been managing to rest today, though. We've been watching Blue Bloods on Netflix lately, and I can't tell you how much we love this show. I adore Tom Selleck. He's such a comforting father-figure. I want him and his mustache to read me stories before bed. We watched an episode this afternoon, and one of the cops mentioned meatball subs. I have never in my life wanted a meatball sub or even a meatball, but in that moment I have never wanted anything more. Balls of meat have always grossed me out, but now? They are balls of heaven. James went out in the snow and brought me home my very first meatball sub, and it's now what I want for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. With a side of meatloaf.

I also splurged on some yogurt covered raisins at the grocery store last night. I went to grab a handful just now and the bag fell and dumped most of the raisins between the couch cushions. I need Tom Selleck to talk me through this difficult time. Also, our kitchen light stopped working Friday night, and the bulb is weird so only maintenance can replace it, and they can't come until Monday or Tuesday. I'll be cooking by candlelight this weekend like Laura Ingalls Wilder. If Laura Ingalls Wilder pulled her purple fuzzy socks up over her leggings, that is.

In other news, the She and Him Pandora station is top notch. It makes me want to grab some ballet flats and a cardigan and prance through a field while my beachy waves and polka dot skirt flounce in the breeze. I'm so into the whole thing I might even paint my nails pink. I'm thinking of burning a lemon candle next time I listen to it so I can fully transport myself to spring. If only I could get my paws on some tulips. I'm craving tulips! Speaking of spring, it's Lent. I've never participated in Lent before, but I'd like to think pregnancy is technically a 9 month Lent. I nearly wrestled a girl to the floor at work the other day when she mentioned she had gouda dip at her desk. I envy anyone who doesn't have to track their caffeine intake. I daydream about lunch meat, even though I find it as gross as I used to find meatballs. I'm so close to the end, though, so I'll stop complaining. There better be a latte, a turkey & cheddar sandwich, and spicy tuna rolls at my bedside within seconds of giving birth. And maybe a strong drink. I'll need it.

I think I want to take up embroidery. I know. How youthful of me! All the knitting I've been doing has been fulfilling me so much that I want to dive headfirst into the realms of yarn and thread. I'm looking for more knitting projects, and I found fabric that is just asking me to embroider something on it for baby girl. I have no doubt it will look like a drunk monkey embroidered it with his toes, but I'm looking forward to it. Maybe more lightbulbs will burn out so I can embroider by candlelight, but I'm not sure 2015 can handle that much 1880. Someone's iPhone might implode or something.

I was just about to tell you about the hugest shock of my life, but I just spilled ice cold water down my shirt, and I think that trumps what happened Friday. At least it did for about 30 seconds. Anyway, so Friday. I was walking through the office to hand a file to someone. It was a rare day we had to dress up, so I was wearing my one dress that still fits, but it hangs so that I look 13 months pregnant with twins. This isn't an exaggeration. I was walking with my head down (to avoid human interaction, you know), when I heard someone say "Michelle? Is that you?" I looked up to see a girl from HIGH SCHOOL. High school! Standing a few feet in front of me, apparently employed at the same place I am, over an hour from where we grew up. The odds! She was always so sweet in school, so it was nice to see her, but a high school reunion was the last thing I was expecting on a Friday afternoon at work. She looked amazing and I was an unmentionable amount of pounds heavier, swollen, and limping from sciatica.

It's just too bad the lightbulbs above us hadn't burned out, too.


stream of consciousness, vol. 6

I'm currently watching a documentary on the Titanic while devouring a bowl of vanilla ice cream. For some reason, ice cream sounds good to me when the temperatures are below zero. I would've also accepted chocolate chip waffles, but I'm in no mood to actually make them right now. I did eat spinach and carrots today, so you can just shove those thoughts you're probably having. It is Mardi Gras, after all. Which I'll admit I discovered at approximately 4:13 this afternoon.

Back to the Titanic. I've been fascinated with it since I was a kid. In elementary school, I had a huge book on the Titanic and practically had all the facts and layout of the ship memorized. I watched as many documentaries as I could get my paws on, and I wrote a huge research paper on it in 10th grade. I have no idea what my obsession is, but I can't help it. I also had a thing for volcanoes as a kid, and my most recent obsession from 2009 to present is World War II. Don't even get me started on how much I dig a good tornado documentary. What does it mean if I love tragic and destructive events and forces? Don't answer that.

In other uninteresting news, it's so cold here. Just so, so cold. I love winter and I love the way it makes us all hunker down, but winter is just hard this year. My boots and jeans are covered in salt, and I hate the way I have to wear 12 layers of clothes to keep from freezing and then immediately need to strip naked whenever I walk into a store, because everyone cranks the heater up to August in Florida degrees. But at the same time, it's such good weather in which to stay home and get things done, which is exactly what I've been doing. I've been setting up the nursery, sorting through fluffy newborn onesies, covering my lap with skeins of yarn, and baking blueberry muffins. I wouldn't be as productive if it were summer. Of that I am sure.

I'm dreading summer so much this year. Dreading it. Not only do I hate summer the way most people hate winter, I think I have PTSD. Whenever I think of summer, I think morning sickness. Even looking back to pictures of early summer before the pregnancy plague hit makes me feel sick. All I remember are the humid evenings when the air conditioner could hardly keep up and I was stuck in bed, sweating and puking. For months. Every wave of heat would make me feel even sicker. I know I won't be sick like that this summer, but I can't separate my memories of summer from the sensation of debilitating nausea in the same way I can't drive past a Wendy's without thinking of those early, miserable weeks when the only thing I could stomach was their fries and the occasional chicken nugget. I even chewed a piece of peppermint gum this morning from a pack James bought me over the summer, and I had to spit it out. What used to help my nausea now nauseates me. Are you sick of hearing about that yet? I'm sick of remembering it. And sick of still experiencing it.

I think I've been sufficiently dramatic enough for one post. What I'm trying to say is that it's cold, I've been making waffles, and I've been hunkering down. And I mostly love it, though it will be nice to not have to thaw out my legs every morning once I get to work.

Last night I dreamed that I had the baby and when I went to nurse her, she turned into a cat, clawed me, and ran away. What does that even mean? Please don't tell me. About once every week or two I dream about giving birth to a cat. At least the baby came out a human this time. I jolted awake, completely traumatized, just in time for my actual cat to jump back on the bed and meow in my face. I still can't look at her in the eye. Sometimes I think I'm ready to have the baby, and then I have a dream like that and it's the last thing I ever want to do. Also when a lady tells me she thinks I'm going to give birth a few weeks early. That will make me curl up in bed and cry as soon as I get home, but that's beside the point and just further proof that I'm going crazy.

It was nice chatting with you, but nesting calls and I have some things to go slap on the walls in the baby's room. I can't wait to show you pictures. That room is turning into my favorite room of all rooms.

But the room would be better if there were donuts in it.

I'm really hungry today. I bet you haven't noticed.


I made you some more valentines!

last year' s valentines

My pathetic graphic design skills and I would like to wish you the happiest of Valentine's Day. Go make yourself some chocolate chip waffles.


in other news, I'm still daydreaming about bacon cheeseburgers

I have nothing else to write about these days other than baby and pregnancy things. That's just how it is! Unless you want to hear about my thoughts on the most recent episode of Friends I watched (I require both a chick and a duck as pets) or how I accidentally overdosed on ricotta cheese (I can no longer make eye contact with it). So there we are. Things, they've changed. 

I always used to wonder what it felt like to be pregnant. It looked massively uncomfortable to me, but I couldn't wrap my head around what it would actually feel like. If you've ever wondered too, let me help: surgically implant a bowling ball in your abdomen, making sure it's nestled right on top of your bladder but has easy access to your rib cage. Next, light your sciatic nerve on fire. If you don't ever get heartburn, go ahead and pour acid down your throat every 5 minutes or so. It's so fun!

The past several days have given me the first few inklings of GET THIS THING OUT OF ME. Except don't get this thing out of me just yet, because I'm not ready. But please do, because top-heavy has an entirely new meaning.

My face resembles a blow fish and my hindquarters are the size of Ikea. 

My ankles occasionally have the audacity to turn into cankles. 

We won't mention the trials and tribulations of my digestive system. 

My fingers are sausages. 

I still crave the smell of rubber and all car smells, and I'm now finding a deep, satisfying, and profound joy in chewing crushed ice cubes. 

My hair grows a foot a week and I have to trim my nails every 48 hours. My chickens have large talons. 

Having to bend over to pick something up is grounds for crying. If I drop something, it's dead to me. 

My purse is heavy not because I'm carrying books, but because I have an industrial sized container of Tums in there. 

My body generates so much heat lately that it could heat the entire Empire State Building during a polar vortex. 

You can tell me I'm huge all day long and I won't care, but point out my waddle to me and I'll cry in the bathroom.

If it requires more than 30 seconds of standing, I'm not doing it.

I often feel like a newborn in that all I want/am able to do is eat, sleep, cry, repeat. Thankfully I can at least change my own diaper. Not that I wear one, but it would be helpful right now. 

My cup runneth over with new food aversions every day. 

On the other hand, my nose can hunt down Chipotle barbacoa within a 30 mile radius. 

Depth perception is an issue. Cooking over the stove has become dangerous. Doing the dishes is just another form of taking a shower. 

But this is still the best and most awesome thing ever. 

And this has been another episode of Life at 34 Weeks Pregnant: brought to you by raspberry chocolate chip gelato and dry heaving.