Scenes from an Ultrasound

Ultrasound Tech: “She is just NOT going to hold still and let me get a profile picture.”
That’s my girl!

Tech Again: “Woah…little thunder thighs on this one!”
That’s DEFINITELY my girl!

Blogosphere, Vivi Mae would like to wave hello. See her "fingeras" as the ultrasound tech labeled them?















20 week anatomy scan went very well. She has a small chorioplexus cyst in the right side of her brain, but we’re told that A) they’re very common and normally resolve by 28 weeks and B) we already know she doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome, so it’s really nothing to worry about at all. She flipped and waved and kicked and generally put on a show for her grandparents. Her Daddy and I got weepy, as usual. I’m about a week past the time in the pregnancy when I delivered Cecilia. I guess that makes me the most pregnant I’ve ever been. Cecilia was so small that I didn’t feel a lot of what I’m feeling now. It’s amazing how different this pregnancy has been. And hey- bonus! My cervix is nice and long and closed up tight. After the damage from Cecilia's delivery, that was a huge relief.


Mom & Dad were here for the weekend and I got an early birthday present. ALL HAIL THE SNOOGLI PREGNANCY PILLOW! If I could bend over comfortably, I would have kissed my Mom's feet for this one... I wonder if Husband would consider changing her name to Snoogli Mae?

In other non-baby-related news....
I hope Michael Vick winds up in a cell with a 400 lb. sociopath who was recently recruited by a PETA jailhouse program. That bastard deserves to have a set of jumper cables attached to his balls... and the other end attached to a Mack truck. If the NFL doesn't hit him with a lifetime ban, I will personally burn every piece of franchised logo-bearing clothing in a three-state radius. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

Anyone seen "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1? I do not understand this show. I do not understand this "Mystery" guy. Well, wait... that's not right. I do not understand why in the hell so many women seem ready to drop their panties for this guy. Uh... let's see... you're an obviously 30-something guy who wears more eyeliner than I do and you call yourself Mystery.....yeah, you just REEK of relationship potential. I don't even understand wanting to sleep with him- he looks weasely and unemployed. Not exactly the type I'd trust put any part of his in any part of mine. Maybe that's a sign I'm getting old. I just want to call him Harold and tell him to cut his hair and get a legitimate job. What's worse is how he's teaching these poor regular guys all his "techniques". They seemed like pretty good fellas to begin with. And do they really want the kind of women who respond to Mystery's crap? Vapid is as vapid does, I suppose. Yeah, I'm old.

Inflammatory Breast Cancer

A few weeks ago, I had no idea what IBC was, much less that it was about to affect a woman whose writing I have enjoyed for some time now. And then I heard. And then all I could think about was how Widget and Little Bear are fighting to keep their Mommy... and they don't even know it. Her blog is here:
http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/
But today I repost her July 23 entry on IBC. I repost in her honor- hoping that by participating in her campaign to raise awareness, I may prevent another Mom, another sister, another friend from going through this ordeal. And you can bet that thanks to this brave lady, I will not cavalierly chalk anything up to "normal" changes from pregnancy and breastfeeding.

From Toddler Planet, July 23, 2007
We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?
I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.
Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.
Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.
There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.
Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer

Mother, Whore, Warrior, Hero... Crazy Cat Lady

Text Message from Baby Sister 8:56 p.m.
*throwing hand to forehead* no on is ever going to love me! I’m going to die a crazy cat lady!

Text Message Reply from Me 8:58 p.m.
What? You’re what? 26? Isn’t that a little early in life to start buying litter in bulk?

Baby Sister is reeling from a bit of an ugly breakup. She will be fine and her text message was sent mostly in melodramatic jest. (Hence my smart-ass reply… I would never have done that if I thought she was serious.)

I called her not long after this and we embarked on a lengthy discussion about the archetypal Crazy Cat Lady. We decided we need to commission an anthropological study of the phenomena. How exactly did the ownership of excessive numbers of cats become tied to older, unmarried women with varying degrees of mental illness? Why cats? Why not mice or hamsters or something squirrely… like squirrels? When did it begin? Were there Biblical crazy cat women? Were those the widows in the streets the Old Testament spoke of? And how many cats does one need to qualify? 10? 20? More? I’m thinking of pitching this to the History channel as a documentary- “Lonely Lunacy: The Legacy of Crazy Cat Women”.

We’ve already unraveled one piece of the puzzle. The crazy cat woman is a cross-cultural persona. Apparently Russia’s got ‘em too. (Warning: the video in that link will scare the shit out of you in a very Hitchcock kind of way.)

But my sister will not be one of them. I won’t let that happen. I figure once she gets more than 10 or so, she won’t notice if I smuggle out a couple each visit.

Of musicals, heat waves, and Scott Baio...

As previously documented, Husband’s migraine prevention drugs have the charming side-effect of making him have really ….uh…. groovy dreams. He seems to have a propensity for musicals. Yes, musicals. I don’t know why, as he is a) not a huge musicals fan in his waking life and b) decidedly heterosexual.
But musicals it is. And last night he reported to me that Lola Vader apparently had her very own Rogers-and-Hammerstein-esque extravaganza. It involved:

a row of high-kicking Lola Vader’s in pink helmets and capes
an elaborate, lengthy rendition of his Lola Vader song
and… wait for it…
SCOTT BAIO.

Now don’t go all conspiracy-theorist on me… just because a man has a dream in which Scott Baio figures prominently doesn’t mean he’s using me and this baby to do some hetero-posing. (Right??) No, really, it’s true. We had been watching Scott Baio is 45 and Single before we went to bed. And besides, Scott Baio was completely clothed in the dream. Or so I’m assuming…

I lay in bed the other night writing (in my head) a thought-provoking commentary on the ban of freebies from formula companies in NYC hospitals. And then things went positively ape-shit at work. So as soon as I have time to breathe, I’ll write that one out.

Speaking of breathing…easier to do when you’re not pregnant in A HUNDRED AND FIVE DEGREE HEAT! Yes, it was 105 here yesterday. I went home early. The dogs and I stripped down to our skivvies and laid around in the AC. And then I went out and got a quart of birthday cake flavor ice cream from Marble Slab. I did put clothes on first, but not before I called ahead to clarify that it was really necessary. Apparently that “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy doesn’t have an exemption clause for pregnant persons in hellish heat waves. Fascists.

I have to go. This child is demanding food yet again. But first, let's document the great food inventory at 9:45 a.m.

1 bowl oatmeal, 1 cup cranberry juice, 1 serving diced pears, 1 Kashi granola bar.

Yes, that's breakfast and TWO SNACKS before 10 a.m. I am AWESOME!

Cue the Imperial March & hand me a maracca....

Husband is a very funny guy- I think I’ve mentioned that before. He’s also one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet and you’d be hard pressed to get him to ever say anything intentionally hurtful or cruel. It’s just not his style, but irreverently humorous IS his style.

So you’ll understand why I was amused and not aggravated when he began responding to my requests for him to [insert random task here] with “Yes, Lord Vader.”

After a few months of this, I stopped him one day and said “Um… that’s LOURDES Vader, thank you very much… but you can call me Lola.”

So there you have it, I am Lola Vader. And now he’s making up songs like “Her name was Lo-la, she had a Death Star…”

I just hope I can get my light saber through airport security on my way to the Copa Cabana.

GIT IN MAH BELLY!

It’s official. I’m hungry. And I’m not talking about polite ladies lunch “oh, my, yes… a finger sandwich would be lovely, but only half, please…” I’m talking about truck driver hungry. I’m talking linebacker in the off season hungry. I’m talking coworkers walking by and going “you’re eating AGAIN?” hungry. I eat and an hour later, my stomach is growling. Loudly.
PREGNANT HUNGRY- it ain’t for the faint of heart, folks.
Need proof?
Ladies and gentlemen, I present Exhibit A: What I’ve Eaten Today.
1 bowl of oatmeal
1 cup of cranberry pomegranate juice
1- 8 oz can of pineapple chunks (in juice, mind you!)
1 Kashi TLC peanut butter granola bar
1 single-serving container of steamed broccoli
1 Amy’s organic black bean burrito (so good!)
½ a snack bag of Cheetos
2 Hershey’s special dark miniatures

Oh, and the best part?
It’s 12:30.
Yeah- only HALFWAY THROUGH THE DAY.

Tremble in fear, mortals…