People Change

Before I was a Mama I carried a purse and I honestly cannot remember what I filled it with because since becoming a Mama, I keep my wallet tucked in the diaper bag along with my chap stick and my keys.

Before I was a Mama I wore perfume, now I prefer to smell like my baby, like milk and his sweaty little body pressed against me when he falls asleep.

Before I was a Mama I would have my wedding ring cleaned once a month. I wanted this gorgeous gift from my husband to sparkle like the sun whenever I looked at it. My ring is caked with butt paste and sweet potatoes, but now I have an even more precious gift from my husband that I've been staring at for the last eight months.

Before I was a Mama I went to Vegas twice a year - now I go to baby play group twice a week.

Before I was a Mama I would have never left the house without mascara on, now I ask myself how many days its been since I showered when I'm pulling out of the driveway.

Before I was a Mama I got up and went to work everyday, now I work harder than I ever have in my life and some days I don't even leave the house.

Before I was a Mama I thought I needed 8 full hours of sleep to function, now I know 2.5 consecutive hours can feel like eternity.

Before I was a Mama, every night was date night with my husband and now microwaving smores and passing out on the couch counts as quality time spent together.

Before I was a Mama I could not wait to read my US Weekly magazine every Friday, now I read parenting books, and recipe books and I haven't picked up a magazine all year.

Before I was a Mama I would clean my house for days before anyone was allowed to visit, last week I let a new friend come inside even though I had breakfast dishes on the coffee table and unfolded laundry piled on the couch.

Before I was a Mama I would sometimes get frustrated because my boobs were too big to wear the cute polka dot bras at Victoria's Secret, now - I wear a bra with four clasps, flaps over the nipples and padding on the strap and its my favorite bra.

Before I was a Mama I ate my meals at the dinner table, now I eat them standing up while I'm doing something else. I ate a bagel in the bathroom this morning and finished chewing it while I was washing my hair in the shower.

Before I was a Mama I hated doing laundry, now I absolutely, positively HATE doing laundry.

Before I was a Mama I thought I knew what it felt like to love someone with your whole heart, now I know exactly what it feels like.

And I wouldn't change a single thing.

The Mama In Me: Postpartum Anxiety Part II

[ The Shell of A Mama: Postpartum Anxiety Part I]

Jeremy took this picture of Owen and I when Owen was four months old. I was uploading pictures off of the camera when I came across this one, I remember just staring at it for a long while. Jeremy always says to me, "You are this boy's world, and nothing will ever replace you in his eyes." I saw that in this picture for the first time. I may not be the best Mama in the world, but I truly believe that am the best Mama for Owen.

I have always been high strung, a classic type A personality. I set goals for myself, reach them and instead of patting myself on the back - I examine what I could have done better and set a new goal. Most of my anxiety about things is fear-based , specifically a fear of failure or not being good enough. Motherhood is the perfect petri dish to cultivate this sort of self loathing. All of this resulted in my crash-and-burn frame of mind and a little back patting was in order.

In therapy, we worked on building confidence in my abilities to parent Owen. After all, I was succeeding. He was gaining weight. He was happy and healthy... and perfect. I just needed to recognize it and trust in my abilities as a mother. Each week I set small goals for myself - goals that either I could think about accomplishing, make some step to accomplish in the near future or actually accomplish.

I wanted to drive again, but Owen's hatred of the car seat resulted in him screaming the second we put him in the car. This made navigating a new city, by an already fearful Mama very challenging. But after ten weeks on bed rest and two months cooped up in the house with a newborn, I wanted to go to Target.

My first goal was to pay attention while riding in the car with Jeremy driving.
My second goal was to drive with Jeremy as the navigator (we did this quite a few times).
My third goal was to drive with Jeremy in the car but silent - letting me figure it out for myself.
And my final goal was to go to Target alone with Owen.

And this is how I gradually got better.

I worked on 'positive self talk' (I know it sounds kooky) every time I would fret about SIDS. I would tell myself my fears were irrational and Owen was fine. Jeremy bought me a video monitor and gradually my trips back to check on a sleeping Owen were fewer and fewer.

I never took a feeding for granted, and still don't. I use nursing and pumping as my quiet time to go to a place where I am the best possible Mama for Owen. I watch and cherish my baby. I let my mind be free and focus on relaxation and breathing. I play this song over and over again in my mind. I started being less neurotic about saving milk and my goal of 20 oz per day dwindled to 14, then 10, 8 and now still - 6. I have an embarrassing amount of milk in my freezer, of which O has only ever needed 12 ounces. My boy is going to be serving breast milk popsicles for his sixth birthday party - but it was all part of the process.

I wanted to take Owen to the public library for baby story time from 11:30a-12p, but I always had an excuse. I didn't shower, he was hungry, it was nap time, maybe next week - maybe next week. Finally, one day I was done spinning the excuses around in my head. Owen was tired and even a little bit hungry - I funbled with the Moby, the diaper bag, the house keys and left the house at 11:35am. I was late. I was walking into a group LATE with a tired, hungry three month old. WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I DOING? I walked the three blocks to the library the entire way repeating to myself, "You suck at this. God, you're a shitty Mom."  It was packed, there were probably 30 moms and babies sitting in a circle. I sat close the door so not to disturb anyone and watched Owen's eyes light up for the 15 minutes of baby storytime. After it was over, the girl next to me leaned over and asked if I was new. I said we had just relocated for my husbands residency. She said, "Oh yeah? What specialty? My husband is an ENT."  the girl next to her said, "Mine too, dermatology. Welcome."

Then something crazy happened. The woman to my right said,
"Is that wrap hard to tie? I always wanted to try one but it looked way too complicated for me. Did you walk here?"

Owen got hungry so I took him out of the wrap, put on my nursing cover and nursed him right there amongst women I had just met. Another woman, a GI fellow, looked at me and said,

"Wow, you are good at that! I still can't figure out how to use that damn cover. I'm always fumbling around with it worrying that my side flab is going to hang out -- I don't even care if someone sees my boob - its my gut that I want to cover!"

Before we left they told me they had a playgroup on Tuesday mornings and asked if Owen and I wanted to come. I wanted to come, more than they will ever know. I wanted to come.

I walked home, those same three blocks that I walked less than a hour before - this time - celebrating. I did it. I made it to the library, albeit 15 minutes late. And someone said I'm good at something! I wear my baby and I nurse him in public! He likes to go to storytime! The next week I was only 10 minutes late, and 5  the week after that. I've never been on time for anything in my life - so I give myself a little credit with that.

I go to playgroup with Owen on Tuesdays.
We go to Le Leche League meetings once a month.
We walk to the library storytime.
I am joining a young Jewish mothers group this week.

I slowly started to gain confidence and I began to walk with my head held higher. Being around other moms showed me that I wasn't the only one who worried about ruining my child before his first birthday. I wasn't the only one who was self conscious about my changed body and new role. I read every parenting book I can get my hands on. I take it for what it is, trust my instincts and look for strategies that will work for our family.

I remember that walk home like it was yesterday - the day that I started to see in myself the Mama I wanted to be. Last month, after almost three months with Pam she told me that if I was comfortable with it, she didn't think I needed scheduled visits anymore. She told me that the woman sitting before her was miles ahead of the broken Mama who entered her office back in May and that if I had any bumps in the road I could always call. Jeremy started residency and his 80 hr+ work week leaves me caring for Owen alone most of the time. For all intensive purposes, I am a single Mama. I probably would have gotten there eventually, but not in time and not at the level I'm at today. Its definitely hard and I have days where my 'positive self talk' voice just isn't loud enough to drown out the teething cries, laundry and dwindling bank account. But those days are few and thankfully, my husband is here to pick me up when I need it most.

So, me? I'm better now. I set little goals for myself and I celebrate my successes. I cherish every moment with my family and, I breath.

I have a therapist on retainer.

I am a work in progress.

I wake up in the morning with a desire to do my best and go to bed each night with a promise to do better tomorrow. Just like every other Mama I know.

A Shell Of A Mama: Postpartum Anxiety Part I

I've never written about this before, and not because I'm ashamed. There isn't room in my life for shame. It was more because the wounds were still fresh and I needed time. I needed words.

Owen's birth brought about some of the craziest emotions I've ever had in my entire life. Happy ones, sad ones, normal ones and desperate ones. After a pretty uneventful first two trimesters - bed rest really took a toll on me emotionally. Then after O was born, we struggled with breastfeeding. At his two month visit when we found out that he hadn't gained weight, Jeremy and I were broken to the core. The entire day is a blur for me, all I remember is the pediatrician shaking her head at the weight and then - as if I am a ghost in the room - I watch myself sobbing uncontrollably, tears falling on my tiny boy who is screaming at the breast. That visit threw me down a hole of self blame. This precious gift that I worked so hard to bring into this world - was HUNGRY.

At the time NOTHING was as it should be. We closed on our house the day my water broke. We couldn't find an apartment in Pittsburgh. We were (are) in the middle of a law suit for the bed bugs in our house last fall. Jeremy needed credits to graduate medical school. My employer was yanking my maternity leave (and pay). Someone stole $2,000 in cash from a sublet we tried to get - and we had to file a lawsuit against them as well. I was struggling with pain from some postpartum complications and my body was weak and still recovering from bed rest. And to top it all off, I hadn't finished all of our thank you notes yet (THANK YOU NOTES!?)

We were living amongst boxes.
We were worrying about money.
We were moving to a city where we had no friends or family.
My baby was hungry.
It was too much.

Looking back - all that was probably too much for almost anyone.

I cried, a lot. Ever day I cried. I cried because I couldn't pump enough milk. I cried because Owen wouldn't latch. I cried because we were leaving a home we loved. I cried because I felt I had no business being a mother. Other people saw us struggling. We asked for more help that we ever have in our entire lives in that three month time span. It was like Jeremy and I were shells of ourselves just going through the motions of our hectic life. Everything we knew was being changed, all at once. EVERYTHING. Our friends, where we lived, our jobs, our marriage, our finances. EVERYTHING. And we were responsible for this new little person who didn't happen to arrive with an instruction booklet.

And then there was the judging. People were judging us, as if we were auditioning to be Owen's parents. Watching us struggle, watching me fail. Some people did it quietly with odd glances and "helpful" comments "Maybe he doesn't want his arms strapped down like that (swaddling) - You should sing to him - Babies like to be rocked - Wow, he really takes to the bottle" while others laid it out there without a shred of finesse or tact. That criticism burned like salt in my open wounds. I didn't need to be told that I was being a terrible mother when I was already telling myself that very thing every minute of every day.

At first it was like the elephant in the room. We were chalking it up to baby blues and stress. We decided that we would move and settle in and reevaluate. The breastfeeding, the sadness, everything.

The first week that we lived in Pittsburgh, a lactation consultant came to our house to help me with Owen's latch. She showed us what a breastfeeding relationship should look like and told us to throw our bottles and timed feedings out the window. And we did. And he latched.

That same week I bought something off of craigslist, from a mother with two children - her husband was a doctor. I don't know if I looked broken or helpless or what but when I came to pick up the item - she invited me to her mom's group and insisted that I meet her there. And I did. Jeremy dropped Owen and I off in a church basement full of mothers. One of them came up to me and took Owen (he was crying) and bounced him in her arms while another woman handed me a brownie and a tissue. Another mother gave me the name of a great therapist. And I called her.

I went to a therapist in high school and told myself they were all quacks and I would never go again. But when I was faced with losing my husband to medicine and losing myself to the fear of failure - I chose therapy. Her office was down the street from our new apartment so Jeremy and Owen would walk me there and pick me up an hour later. Her name was Pam and I told her that I was the shittiest mother on the planet. I told her how I unknowingly starved my baby. I told her I was scared to drive my car and hadn't done so since moving. I told her that I stayed awake to pump whenver Owen slept and how I was hording upwards of 20 ounces of milk a day to assure that my baby would never again be hungry. I told her how I checked on Owen every five minutes because I was convinced he would die in his sleep. And I sobbed. I sob when I talk about it, I sob when I think about it and I sob as I type this because everything surrounding those first 11 weeks still makes a pit in the back of my throat far too big to ever swallow or forget.

I swear I saw tears in her eyes when I explained how effortlessly and completely I loved my son and the lengths I had gone to just to feed him. I told her I had a wonderful marriage and beautiful baby that I felt I didn't deserve and one day God was going to knock on my door and ask for it all back. I asked her if I had postpartum depression. She looked at me thoughtfully and told me she didn't think I was depressed. I was far too motivated for depression, and better fit a diagnosis of postpartum anxiety. She explained that women respond very well to medication - an option I dismissed immediately. So we made a plan to fix me. We made a plan to find the strong confident Mama I so desperately wanted to be. A plan to silence all of the negative thoughts that entered my mind. We made a plan that, over the next three months, saved me from myself.

I suffered from postpartum anxiety and after 11 weeks I sought help. And by doing that, I am a better Mama.

FULL. TERM. BABE.

Today our little one is considered full term - I kept him in for these ten precious weeks and now he should be big and healthy enough to thrive on the outside.

This milestone seemed infinitely impossible, and now that we're here I am overcome with emotion.

Re-read last sentence: OVERCOME WITH EMOTION.

Apparently being this pregnant also makes you susceptible to sobbing crazy-pants breakdowns - like the one I had in the car yesterday for seemingly no reason.

Or was there a reason...

We were forced out of our house for a showing by a very early and very RUDE realtor, my underwear were too tight and I noticed a scratch on my car.

CUE COMPLETE MELT DOWN.

(In my opinion) I've done pretty well with keeping my emotions in check during this pregnancy. Yea, there was some crying in the shower during my lonely first trimester and I may or may not have lost it one day in the food court over my GI-NORMOUS breasts. But compared to the weeping, crying puddle that describes many people during pregnancy - I would consider myself only moderately crazy. I frequently re-focus on the positives and keep myself together.

I really to do try to fart sunshine and rainbows most of the time. I'm infinitely thankful for my life, my husband, my unborn son and all of the possibilities that await us in the future. But every once in a while, one of those stinky ones squeaks out that inevitably permeates all of the air around me. AND YESTERDAY STUNK.

I think the convergence of things going on in my life at this immediate time could have something to do with it.

I'm having a baby (A BABY!)...VERY SOON.

I'm leaving Ohio for the first time in my life (IN THE NEXT TWO MONTHS)

I'm moving away from my family (IN THE NEXT TWO MONTHS)

I need to find a new job (IN THE NEXT TWO MONTHS)

My husband is about to start a very intense residency training program (read: merciless 80 hour work week)

We're trying to sell our beautiful house, which with the two offers we've had so far we might as well have a sign in the yard that says: FREE HOUSE, NO OFFER WILL OFFEND US.

I found out last week that I was not accepted to the PhD program that I applied to, and while it was in Boston and I would have had to decline it anyway, this was a huge blow to my career ego.

the kicker of all this sugar coated fun is that we have exactly NEGATIVE ZERO DOLLARS in the bank and a insurmountable amount of debt (see previous statements of baby/move/no job).

Jeremy says that there is some sort of literature that rates stressful things in life and after death of a child/spouse IS JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING ELSE ON THIS LIST.

So I think feeling overwhelmed right now is somewhat justifiable. I'm not looking for sympathy or charity - just a safe place to vent without looking selfish, inadequate or mentally unstable. I guess the real kicker, at least for me, is that I find myself feeling so incredibly guilty when my clear vision of the blissful arrival of my son gets a little foggy if I let these other things sneak up on me.

and to top it all off, MY PANTIES ARE STILL TOO TIGHT.

Perspective

I went off of birth control in September of 2008. I was blissfully married to my soul mate, we had walls of diplomas, a budgeted bank account - we'd wholeheartedly embraced the very essence of responsible adulthood. In the socially acceptable continuum of life, we were ready to be parents.

Ready. Set. No.

Years of dutifully suppressing your own fecundity are driven by the notion that on any given whim, there is a possibility. And when that possibility becomes not only planned, but desired - it's absence each month is felt with crushing disappointment. I think in the beginning Jeremy and I both thought it would just happen - like two clumsy teenagers drunk on overactive libido and peach flavored Schnapps. We'd done everything right, we'd planned our life down to my morning temperatures and we were healthy, happy and worthy. But as our grocery bill each month was padded with EPT tests and fertility predictors we began to subtly question, why. At work I interviewed a 21 year-old basket case who admitted to random promiscuity and mainlining methamphetamine for much of her pregnancy before delivering her fatherless baby girl in prison. I left not analyzing the trajectory of her illicit behavior, but thinking about how I had avoided even the smell of caffeine for the greater part of a year with nothing to show for it. Why was she worthy?

One Sunday afternoon in early June, Jeremy and I were on our way to Walmart for our weekly grocery date. When I should have been brainstorming dinners or making a pact not to grab a bag of mini donut holes to munch on while we shopped - I was silent. My thoughts were consumed by yet another disappointing cycle. Jeremy was worried and pulled the car over in the empty parking lot of a tractor supply company. It was there that I wept. Fretting about our timeline, with only one cycle left until he would be rotating away for over two months. We would stop trying until we were settled into residency, that was always the plan. The plan. I sobbed uncontrollably and wondered out loud why I couldn't have what my heart desired. Jeremy handed me a tissue, his eyes were helpless as medical scenarios undoubtedly rattled around in his mind. Is it her? Is it me? We just sat there in that parking lot and let me cry it out. Because we had already done everything else we could think of.

Last week, after six weeks of bed rest, I was (shamefully) feeling sorry for myself. I vented about how isolated I felt and how badly I wanted to contribute to our household. I was jealous of other third trimester mommies bopping around, running errands, walking, nesting. I felt like I had cautiously, but healthily navigated almost two trimesters alone - only to find that once Jeremy was home and ready to experience this pregnancy and enjoy our last three months of being newlyweds together - all I had to give was messy couch hair and seemingly nagging requests for ice water and nail clippers.

And he looked at me and said,

Remember that girl who cried in the parking lot of a tractor supply store? Because I do. That girl wanted a baby more than anything in this entire world. And on that day, if someone would have told you that you could have a son, but you had to lay flat on your back for nine whole month in order to do so ... you would have jumped at the chance. And by laying here, you ARE contributing. I know it's not the way you envisioned the end of this pregnancy to be, but you're taking care of the most important thing we've ever done together.

I know there are people who try unsuccessfully, not for months, but years for a baby. My heart aches for women who will not know this feeling. My dear friends who struggle, my mother who struggled. My own blip of disappointment doesn't hold a candle to their loss. I can't explain the blurred line between "God's will" and messy planning or even try to hypothesize who is worthy of a bearing a new life and who isn't. But what I do know, is that the second that little plus sign appeared - all of our hopes, and tears and plans were wrapped up in this one little possibility.

My husband was right. I would lay flat on my back for eternity to have my son here safely. And I know any hopeful soul who has ever sobbed for a chance to experience this amazing miracle would to.

Conversations with my baby daddy

This past weekend Jeremy and I were able to hang out, so much that now that he is away again I sit here amazed at how 48 hours together could remind me of every single reason that I married him. But it did. I hope so much that our baby could feel me giggle and hear us both crying with laughter. At each other, at funny things, at nothing. I swear my cheeks hurt from laughing so much.

We laughed at how our baby is guaranteed to inherit the unfortunate pinky toe we both share. It's a stub with a sliver for a nail, it barely even qualifies as a real toe.
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We laughed when the baby kicked and punched me in the ribs.

Jeremy: Wow! He is all up in your business!

Me: I think he wants out.

Jeremy: He doesn't even know there is an "out"

Me: Well then he's gonna be pretty pissed off when he finds out how he has to get out...

Jeremy: I think he'll forget about it once he figures out how he gets to eat. I know I would.

Me: Anything is better than sitting around drinking your own pee for nine months.

Jeremy: True story.
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We laughed about my mental breakdown over the bra AND the sage AND the turkey.

(last month)
Me: It's time to order turkeys from the local farm. We got a post card in the mail today!

Jeremy: (from another state) I saw them at Kroger last year. We'll do that since I don't have time to drive all the way out to the farm to wait on line for one we order.

Me: Okay... but I really want a local free range vegetarian fed turkey, like last year.

(Sunday afternoon)
Jeremy FRANTICALLY searching the bins of fresh turkey's at Kroger while I stand next to the cart (breathing deeply) deciding that I have no qualms about driving out to that farm myself and flopping my pregnant body onto the counter in front an entire line of people while I cry and beg for a Thanksgiving bird that my husband wouldn't let me order in advance.

still searching... looking like he's going to cry or throw up...

Jeremy:(YELLING TRIUMPHANTLY) They're OVER HERE! They're HERE! (waving wildly like he won the lottery) See, LOOK! SEVEN!

Me: (staring at the remaining Bowman Landes Turkeys) Man are you lucky.

Jeremy: Oh my god I was totally freaking out! All I could think about was what kind of present I was going to have to buy you to make up for this, then wondering if I was even going to live long enough to make it out of the store. My heart is beating so fast.

Me: This turkey is expensive!

Jeremy: I don't care if it's a million dollars! THIS IS OUR TURKEY! (pats turkey emphatically and heads to the check out line, happy to discover a $14 off rebate - but happier to walk out of the store, head held high with his pregnant wife and a 22 lb dead bird).

(For the record I'm really not a terrible, demanding wife - just a wee bit emotional over turkey)
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And this conversation, quite possibly takes the cake (did somebody say cake?) and sums up all of the reasons why I want to spend eternity with this man.

Jeremy: You have A LOT of freckles - like all over.

Me: Are freckles recessive?

Jeremy: I don't know.

Me: Well, you have some too (pointing to spots in his arm).

Jeremy: Those aren't FRECKLES.

Me: Oh, what are they then?

Jeremy: AWESOME SPOTS. I have one for every time that I was awesome.

The day when $0.97 saved my marriage

I think I've mentioned on several occasions that my boobs now have their own zip code. If it offends you to read about boobs, please stop now. If you are related to me and it makes you uncomfortable to read about MY boobs, you can stop now or get over it because you've probably met me before and know that I'm a health educator and will probably have my child saying UTERUS by the age of two.

So my baby feeders are kicking into action at a rapid pace, faster than my Victoria Secret slings can keep up with. Two weeks ago, I found a GLORIOUS SALE RACK of $12.99 bras and bought the next size up.

Those lasted me exactly two weeks.

But because I cannot possibly imagine buying new undergarments EVERY TWO WEEKS I've been suffering in silence. Except for when I complain to my husband.

This weekend he noticed a rash on my side because of the elastic digging in and decided I needed a boulder holder intervention. We went to the maternity store and attempted to buy some nursing bra's to which he replied,"Those fit like crap." Innocent comment resulted in an irrational pregnancy-hormone-induced TIZZY and to which I replied, "This is why I buy expensive bra's from Victoria's Secret!" (followed by some incoherent mumbling about someone being a bra judger and me hating my jugs and wishing I could win the lottery or at least some seed money so that I could invent nicer nursing bras - I think you get the picture.)

Sans pregnancy, I'm not small chested. I have gifted mammaries and although I've often swooned over cute little push up bras with ONE CLASP - I'm just not a ONE CLASP KIND OF GIRL. Jeremy suggested we try Vicki's and even offered to pay full price (WHAT?) for some bigger support (and mental stability). No luck. No nursing bras and apparently they don't even sell bra extenders.

So I proceeded to have a nervous break down in the food court over mediocre food and my pregnancy breasts. I was in fact, so incredibly inconsolable that I needed to go home and sit quietly by myself (yes, even grown women need time-out).

And then my husband mysteriously left for a half hour and returned with this from Walmart.

And for less than ONE DOLLAR I was able to deal with my life and marriage again.

AMEN.

Melts in your mouth, not in your belly button

Not long ago I put my shame aside and admitted to eating inhaling a questionable piece of chocolate from my desk drawer.

Today it is with great pride that I admit to finding some M&M's left over from our wedding and using them as a prop in a valiant attempt to show you something I know you've been JUST DYING to see...

(you'll notice Fred in the upper left corner of the image)

Please ignore the smiley face scar below my button - I was ravaged by a pack of wild billy goats and luckily, all they got away with was my lousy gallbladder. All I gotta say is, thank heavens for laparoscopically inclined livestock. The more pregnant I get, the more my belly smiles :)

This is a picture of me demanding (hands on hips) that my husband take a picture of this trick while I can still do it.


AND, for the record... I had to eat that M&M, it had my name written ALL OVER IT!

A game of Simon Says, except for I told you to click and my name's not Simon

Remember how I told you I disparately want for my baby to be smart but burping up fish guts at my desk was precluding me from giving my child the start he needs?

If you forgot, READ IT HERE.

I hear there is a great children's book called Baby Brains and Mrs. Brains "wanted to make sure their baby was going to be very smart," so they read aloud, played music and languages, and turned up the news for the child in Mrs. Brains's tummy. Sure enough, Baby Brains is discovered reading the newspaper on his very first morning at home. He attends school the following day, announcing his desire to study medicine. In just two weeks, he begins his medical practice and is discovered by the press. I NEED THIS BOOK.

Anyway, I also found a list of ways to GUARANTEE that my baby boy is a genius in this article called Harvard Bound: 52 Tips to Boost Your Baby’s Brain Development. Although I'm ignoring the part where it says that playing Britney Spears for your baby makes him smarter. Because if your baby truly is smart - he'll want to punch her in the face the second he pops out of the womb - just like the rest of us. I'm just saying...

And NOTE #24: Sing your baby songs & lullabies.

Jeremy (this one's for you pumpkin!) please direct your attention to the lullaby tutorial HERE. Complete with CORRECT words and sing along fun.

Someone I know intimately but shall remain nameless says that Harvard University campus has BY FAR the ugliest chicks on the planet (no offense). And since I'm going to train my babe to be smart and socially savvy enough bring home a hot girlfriend - we'll brainwash him with hopes of some other academic powerhouse. BUT, for now, I'm going to go ahead and follow the list on how to brew up a smart baby.

Because in a messy game of rock/paper/scissors, smart babies beat out ugly chicks every time!

Cry, Baby, Cry! Stick your finger in your eye

When I found out I was pregnant, the first thing I did was clean the toilet. After all the horror stories I’d heard about morning sickness, I was convinced my little poppy seed was going to make me VOM my brains out at ANY SECOND. I scrubbed that bowl until the bristles frayed and then scrubbed some more. The next morning, I woke up expecting to make a heaving run for it...AND NOTHING HAPPENED. Each day I’d wake up thinking, "THIS will be the day I unleash my breakfast on the porcelain gods." After all, I’m a puker. You got the sniffles? I’m barfing. Broke your wrist? I’m spewing last night’s Mexican pizza. So with being knocked up, this was only the next logical progression in my nauseating medical history.

And clean that bowl I did. EVERY. OTHER. DAY. Was it dirty? Well, by my standards, living with a Y chromosome in the house is the definition of a filthy toilet. Resting my bum there is one thing but my FACE wasn’t about to take the chance of brushing up against the remains of a sleepy 3am pee. So I scrubbed some more. Until one morning I woke up and something strange happened...

It was my second trimester.

Somehow by the grace of God I’ve been unbelievably blessed with a strong, healthy body during this pregnancy. For the most part I feel wonderful and spend my days thinking about how since Jeremy never had the opportunity to hold my hair back while I blew chunks, he owes me a few dozen back massages.

My only pregnancy symptom has been a stabbing headache. I call it my “pregnancy headache” because it’s nestled just behind my left eye – every time, without fail. My first trimester was littered with them and there was nothing I could do to escape it. Tylenol, naps, cold compresses, warm compresses, caffeine, sledge hammers – nothing seemed to take the edge off. EXCEPT

Closing my eye and sticking my finger as far back as I possibly could.

Perhaps if I could tickle the headache it might subside? Who knows, but this type of pressure was like cupcakes for breakfast and no matter how much my husband told me it grossed him out when I did it – I just kept on poking. For the first time in my life I can say that poking myself in the eye IS AWESOME!

For the most part, the headaches subsided after my first trimester but I still have a few here and there. Today it’s definitely here. And as I sit at my desk (with freshly washed hands) subtly plunging my finger deep into my orbital cavity there is only thing that I can be 100% sure of

this little boy is so totally worth it.

and then some.