A short, visual story about pancakes and kitty cats.

I’m embarrassed to admit that last night I mistook peeing for my water breaking. At around 11:00 PM I finished my raspberry leaf tea, peed, and then headed to the bedroom to lie down. About five minutes later, I had to pee again. I got up, peed, and then went back to bed. About 15 minutes later, I had to pee again. I peed, and then went back to bed. At around 11:30, something weird started to take place in my lower abdomen. It felt like the baby was using my cervix as a punching bag. Every time he punched it, a jolt of pain would shoot down my legs and then the Braxton Hicks would start up. And then I felt a bubbling sensation right where his head is.

And then suddenly I had to pee so badly; I thought it might come out all over our bed. I waddled to the bathroom.

Having peed not 15 minutes earlier, I was shocked at how much urine came out. I haven’t seen that much pee since I drank too much beer at the England vs. Germany game during the World Cup and held it until halftime. It just came pouring out. It was entirely clear and odorless.

To make a long story short, I called the doctor at 12:30 AM and asked her if my water broke. It did not. I was being overly cautious. (Not cautious enough to visit the hospital, however.)

I have to admit to something. Lately I feel like I’m walking around on an area known to be filled with landmines and that at any given moment one of the landmines will go off. KABOOM!!!!! Only I won’t die at the end of it. Instead I get a miniature poop machine that looks just like Tobyjoe. It’s both exciting and scary as hell.

Last night was rough. I peed every hour and then each time I spent five minutes wrestling with intense Braxton Hicks contractions. They were harsh enough to make my legs ache. That’s the best way I can describe it although the pain feels a bit like someone is puling on a nerve. Or a hundred nerves. I’m having a rough time. I’ve said as much. I am smiling in this shot because cats make me really happy.

My left hand is also experiencing a dull ache much like the pain in my hips and ankles. It feels bruised. I can’t stop rubbing it. The pain and constant desire to poke at it is reminiscent of having braces and dealing with that second, third, and fourth day after having them tightened.

My pica cravings are still there. But I’ve found that parsley usually quenches the bizarre thirst I have for chemicals and the like. I moved away from sharpies and have instead grown attached to a tape measure we have in the house. It smells like crayons but is a lot more intense. Man does it ever smell good! Tobyjoe finally had to put it back in the toolbox. I also can’t seem to consume enough fruit. I eat more fruit than most monkeys.

We watched 20/20 last night. They aired a special on dwarfism and gigantism (footage courtesy of National Geographic). I’m fascinated by human oddities like that. But when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed that I gave birth to a massive baby boy – a giant. It was horrifying.

I visited the doctor on Thursday. My cervix was 50% effaced and still only 1 centimeter dilated. She said that if she had to make a guess he’d probably arrive right around his due date, which is a mere 7 days from now. But if last night was an indication of things to come, the next 7 days could prove to be some of the longest days of my life.

I have had a decent pregnancy thus far. I haven’t complained too much and I’ve enjoyed 8.5 months of it. I haven’t been mean to folks (well, except for Toby and my parents and a few nasty male drivers), but I’m finally exhausted. I’d be lying if I said that my patience hasn’t worn thin. But I think I passed. I did make it 38 weeks without becoming too bitchy. I’m ready now. I’m ready to meet this little man. I’m ready to sleep on my tummy even if it is for only a couple of hours a day.

About six months ago, I began working with a new client. They quickly became one of my favorites. They are perfect in a dozen different ways. They help me sleep better at night. They’re also super easy to work with and completely down to earth. They’re a graphic designer’s dream come true. They even know I have this blog! (Gasp!) I got lucky when I was introduced to DonorsChoose.

DonorsChoose is a non-profit organization that helps teachers get the funding they need for students all over the nation. Basically, a teacher writes a proposal, DonorsChoose reads it, and posts it on their Web site. Donors are then driven to the site (donors can range from corporations to individuals like myself) and fund whatever amount of money they can to whatever proposal might be of interest to them. The proposals range from the need for a kiln to a request for microscopes at a science lab to asking for funding to pay for a field trip. And every little bit counts.

DonorsChoose needs our help. No, I’m not asking you to give them money. All they need is your vote, your friend’s vote, or your coworker’s vote. Recently, DonorsChoose made it into the final five for American Empress’s Members Project. You may have seen the AmEx ads on the TV machine. The ads feature Martin Scorsese, Ellen DeGeneres, Sheryl Crow, to name a few. AmEx is donating up to 5 million dollars to the winning project. And I’d love to see that money go to DonorsChoose.

If you’re American Express card holder (personal or business) or you’re thinking about becoming one and you have a few minutes to spare, please go and vote for DonorsChoose. They are a super non-profit organization, an organization backed by great people. And the money will go to public school kids all over America.

Here’s the link again. There are only 9 days left! (That sounds like a very short amount of time, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t hoping to be in labor and with baby in less time than that. OK, enough about me. GO VOTE!)

... and things are looking much less goth.

You’re looking at a shot of the hair dye job I wrote about on Sunday. (I’m sort of cursing myself that I didn’t take a picture when it first happened. It was so dark and startling. Sorry, mom!) The good news is, the color washed out substantially. (Here’s to the all natural stuff!) The bad news is, I ruined two towels, a shower curtain, and my Snoogle.

I can’t take much more of this.

Murray and I snuggle. He stands on my great big belly and I scratch him all over. And he has trouble keeping his eyes open. Eventually, I hypnotize him and he falls over. He wraps himself around my neck and falls asleep. And he purrs, oh boy does he ever purr. His purr calms me greatly. It’s so calming I’m considering bringing a recording of it to the hospital with me when I go into labor.

Murray and Toby have a different relationship. They are playmates. They play hide-and-go-seek, a wicked game of chase, and tackle. My favorite is when they combine hide-and-go-seek with chase, which consists of Toby running from one room to the next and Murray tearing after him. Sometimes he runs so fast, his butt passes his head and that makes me crack up.

Usually Murray gets the game (or games) going the moment Toby gets home from work. Murray makes direct eye contact with Toby and then he TAKES OFF! running in the other direction. And since Toby is fluent in Catonese, he knows exactly what to do. And I sit and watch, wondering what our neighbors must think, as my boys run back and forth chasing one another like children. Tobyjoe giggles and Murray squeaks and meows. Watching them play has me so excited about having Toby’s son. I can’t put that feeling into words.

About a month ago we emptied the guest room in order to ready it for the baby. My mother is going to stay with us for a while once the baby arrives because neither of us has any clue as to what to do with a baby. I don’t even know how to hold one let alone feed one. So if things don’t work out, we’re just going to give my mother the baby and send her on her way. In the meantime, we decided to hold onto the futon so my mother has a fairly comfortable place to sleep.

One of the places Toby and Murray end up playing is the doorway separating the dining room from the foyer that leads to the bathroom. This is also where the futon currently lives. Tobyjoe hides behind the door jam and Murray hunts Tobyjoe from the futon. And this works out well for the two of them. It doesn’t really work out so well form me, however.

I use the bathroom a lot these days. I visit it every 90 minutes. And since I usually walk fast in order to get there, Murray often thinks I’m ready to play and assumes his position on the futon. It doesn’t matter that it’s me – the one he usually snuggles with. He wants to play! He makes it downright impossible for me to go directly to the bathroom. It’s like that game we played as kids where you have to pay a toll in order to do something. I simply cannot use the bathroom until I have played with Murray. Unfortunately his stamina and attention span is a lot larger than my bladder so I always feel like I’ve let him down.

Here is a brief video of what you have to deal with in order to use the bathroom at our house. When he runs off at the end that’s my hint that I’m supposed to chase him. Unfortunately, I can barely walk these days let alone chase a small kitten.

^{(The video is a .mov file because I can’t figure out how to export any other file format from iMovie because I’m retarded.)}

I dyed my hair last night. I used one of those natural hair dyes, the kind deemed perfectly safe for a pregnant lady. I bought it at Whole Foods. Before I got pregnant I dyed my hair using the standard over-the-counter variety, the toxic kind. During my pregnancy, I’ve been going to the salon to have my color evened out, which is pricey to say the least especially since I’ve been paying for the nontoxic kind. Whole Foods at Union Square was out of Henna and since Toby and I are currently on a very tight budget, I decided to try something new, safe and cheap. This was one of the worst decisions I have made in a long, long time.

I bought a color I thought was a cross between my natural hair color (which is a perfect shade of strawberry blond and white trash brown) and the color the salon has been giving me (an even red). I ended up with a really, really dark, almost black color. I am a pale person. My face is stark white and smothered in freckles. I look goth. I would take a picture but I’m really cranky about it.

Judging by a couple of email I received yesterday in response to this post, I’m gathering that reading negative thoughts about New York City isn’t an easy pill to swallow for some New Yorkers. And to the folks who cried, “Well, then get out!” We’re trying. We don’t necessarily want to, we’d like to stay here, raise a family (safely), get our kids the education they deserve, and embrace everything this city has to offer. But it’s not that easy. I imagine that we’ll move to New Jersey or Upstate New York so we can have the best of both worlds. My post was written out of frustration. I’m certainly entitled to feel frustrated by this city. Goodness knows, frustration is a catalyst for change and you’re lying to yourself if you don’t think that this city could use a little change. Anyway… I’m done with that for now.

Tomorrow I have my weekly check up and I’m absolutely certain that little Ndugu has dropped. I’m certain of this because I can no longer sit with my legs together. My belly is literally in my lap, so much so, it’s pushing my legs apart. I am very uncomfortable.

I’ve been sleeping propped up on pillows. Not because of terrible heartburn as one might assume. I sleep that way because when I lay on my left side (which is the side you’re supposed to sleep on in order to get as much blood to the placenta as possible and to alleviate Braxton Hicks contractions) the upper left hand side of my belly becomes numb and starts to burn. It feels as though someone is holding ice to it. Sound weird? Yeah, well, I’m 9 months pregnant, nothing related to my body will ever seem weird to me ever again. If I lie on my right side, I wake up an hour later with hip pain. I can’t lie on my back because the baby is too big now and we both suffer. Plus, I have trouble breathing if I lie on my back and he moves around in a most peculiar way; it’s his way of letting me know that he is NOT comfortable and I need to move. And I find that funny, because when I first got pregnant and started reading up on the dos and don’ts of pregnancy, I read that it’s best to not stay on one’s back for too long. I remember thinking, “How the hell am I going to make sure that doesn’t happen? What am I supposed to do if I end up on my back while I’m sleeping?” The book stated that the body has a way of letting a woman know. And boy was that ever true. It’s become physically impossible for me to do so. It’s far too uncomfortable. (If you do find yourself knocked up, buy yourself one of these immediately. The Snoogle was, by far, the most important item we purchased.)

I have to be honest, I have had trouble addressing this site recently – stuck between wanting to write out the whole gruesome truth and writing nothing at all. But then I think about everything I didn’t know about going into this and I figure, why not just put it out there? But I’m going to try and avoid too many gory details even though these things are absolutely natural and normal and I wasn’t ever really that good at keeping my mouth shut. So if you’re not one for gross talk, you might want to avoid this site from here on out. You’ve all been warned: I’m a gross, disgusting woman who willingly writes about poop, vaginal issues, eating placentas, and breast milk.

My due date is right around the corner. One of the many signs that labor is on its way is flu-like symptoms. (Translation: “women get the shits.”) They say that this is nature’s laxative – a way of cleaning the body out for what’s to come. (In the past, doctors used to give women enemas in order to clean out the intestines before giving birth. Some women still do this at home when they first go into labor. I find that a little crazy. What’s wrong with a little poop?) I was told that women who are susceptible to getting sick before they get their periods would most likely suffer from the flu-like side effect before they go into labor. If I remember correctly, this is caused by the hormone oxytocin. Without going into too much detail about my menstrual history, let’s just say that now that I’m deep within “Labor Month”, things are totally out of whack with regards to my system. I’ve reached a new level of discomfort. I’m a host at this point, on hold.

The good news is Nico is coming into the city tomorrow for a visit. And I haven’t had a social outing in a few weeks. I think the last time I went out was with Dave and Brad and we had dinner in the city. I’m looking forward to some girl talk. I’m looking forward to taking my mind off things for a while. I’m looking forward to gabbing. I’ll try and keep it clean, however. And I’ll try not to go into labor because Nico said she’d freak out.

It’s pouring in NYC. I haven’t seen rain like this in years. And of course the city is falling apart. Streets are underwater. The LIRR, Metro North, some of the subways (D, F, E to name a few), and all the major airports are barely functioning. The BQE is flooded. The Long Island Express is flooded. The FDR is flooded. The Cross Island Parkway is flooded. I should probably try and mention what roads aren’t flooded because the list seems to get longer by the minute.

We saw rain, world. Rain. And things are failing miserably. I can’t even begin to imagine what would happen to this city should we ever see a hurricane. We’d lose countless people, I’m sure. And public transportation would be destroyed. It’d be complete and total chaos. And I wish I were joking.

I’ve had a tough time with New York City as of late. Yesterday, I tried to get a new social security card at a branch close to my house. The Web site didn’t mention anything about NOT being able to get a new card at that specific branch so I went. I stood in line for almost an hour only to be told I had to go to the ghetto (yes, it’s in the ghetto) to get a new card. There’s no subway near that particular office and finding parking on (or near) Flatbush Avenue is like trying to find an honest politician in America’s current political arena. Looks like I won’t have a new social security card anytime soon.

Today is one of those days where I’m honestly questioning why anyone would want to live here, including myself. I’m frustrated and pregnant, it’s true, but the amount of work that goes into living here far outweighs the amount the city gives back. Granted, I guess I could get out more, see more exhibits, visit more art shows, see more films, but I don’t. I don’t because it takes so much work to get the basics taken care of (registering a car, getting a license, buying a week’s worth of groceries, finding Pedialyte Popsicles, living) I’m exhausted by the time it’s over.

Our cable, which we spend a bloody fortune on, doesn’t work. We’ve called. They’ve promised. It still doesn’t work. And our Internet access drops constantly. I have no idea what we’re paying for.

My mother donated a car to us recently. It’s in near perfect condition. It’s been with us for three weeks and its bumpers have already been torn to pieces because people can’t seem to parallel park or they just don’t give a damn about what other people own.

The other night at 4 AM a Daily News delivery truck driver decided that he could not wait a couple of minutes for someone to pay off a cab driver and instead laid on the horn for minutes on end. The noise was so loud and intrusive and right outside our window. (In fact, the guy paying off the cab lives on the second floor of our apartment building.) The driver may have been up at that hour and working, but the rest of us were trying to sleep. I actually laughed about the interaction. I had to laugh, crying at 4 AM was far too depressing an option. (Why am I not surprised it was a Daily News driver and not the New York Times?)

A few weeks ago, an online commenter on a very large New York Based Web site suggested that couples that stay in the city after they have children are selfish. The commenter suggested that no child should have to be raised in a city like this one – without a backyard, healthy air quality, or a safe place to run around. As expected the person was blasted for what they said but he (or she) never once backed down. The commenter insisted it was selfish and that anyone who was indeed a parent and disagreed with what he wrote was in denial and merely trying to justify their actions. I stayed out of it, chose to lurk instead. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what the commenter wrote.

Is there something selfish about raising a child in a place like New York City? Because on days like today I feel a little conflicted.

BREAKING NEWS: Reiterating my point about the infrastructure and this city...

Murray was dumped at a construction site in Williamsburg. He was motherless and barely a week old. He was found by a Hasidic developer and dropped off at BARC in a box along with his brother and sister.

That’s how Murray came to be in this world.

Yesterday, Lisa Cat (of BARC shelter fame) put up this amazingly cute photograph of a very small, orphaned kitten. I was beside myself. (Click that link, I dare you.) As with many of the little guys, this baby will be bottle-fed by one of the staff members at BARC. Our Murray was bottle-fed by a gentleman named PJ for the first few weeks of his life. Later, Lisa fostered him and her job was to plump him up, play with him, and love him until he grew old enough to be neutered and adopted.

Right about the time Lisa was fostering Murray (at the time his name was Cherokee) we were saying goodbye to our most beloved cat, Schmitty. That was a really rough time for both Tobyjoe and me. A lot of tears were shed; we suffered through a lot of really sad days and a lot of sleepless nights. Saying goodbye to Schmitty was one of the harder things I’ve had to do to be perfectly honest. (It’s still hard.) One day, while looking at my computer screen through a blurry wall of tears, I saw this picture on Lisa’s photo stream. Distraught and missing my striped man, I left a comment asking if he was still available.

That’s how Murray was introduced to us.

What I didn’t know at the time of leaving that comment, was that Lisa had already emailed me suggesting we come to BARC to meet Cherokee, that he was an old soul and she thought he’d be a perfect match for us. But what I remember the most about her email was when she wrote, “You need to laugh.”

That’s how Murray came to be in our home.

I read recently that a cat’s personality is defined during the first couple of weeks of its life. I can’t say whether that’s true or not; I haven’t asked. But the more I get to know Murray and the older he gets, the more and more I’m starting to believe it. You see Murray is one of the most trusting animals I’ve ever met. He is not afraid of anyone. He is kind, playful, alarmingly snuggly, and needy as all hell. He looks to us for food, comfort, love, and companionship. It’s almost like he was raised by humans, humans named PJ and Lisa.

Like every other cat, when Murray sleeps he dreams. I watch tails flick wildly when it’s naptime. I watch their whiskers twitch, their eyes move rapidly, and their little feet move. Of course they’re dreaming about living in the wild ready to take down a large antelope or a New York City cockroach. Murray dreams like that as well, but he also does something much more peculiar and adorable. He doesn’t knead pillows and human bellies like Tucker does. He doesn’t make us biscuits like Pookum. He probably doesn’t even know what that means since he never had a mother. Instead of pushing on plump, soft things in search of milk, Murray nurses a bottle when he sleeps. And today I have video of it.

That’s how Murray makes me thankful.

^{To Lisa, PJ, and the rest of BARC, thank your for being so loving toward animals. You make me believe in angels.}

I am currently addicted to this site. (Thanks to Jen and Sarah!) I started this morning and I can’t stop writing reviews! And I have work to do today. Anyone care to join me? I only have two friends at the moment.

I haven’t had my period since October. That means I haven’t had cramps for that long as well, and sometimes my cramps were very bad. Not having to go through that every 28 days has been one of the better parts about being pregnant. But the 9th month makes up for all the time spent without the annoying cramps. Because the 9th month (commonly referred to as “the labor month”) has been filled with period like cramping. A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t experienced at least an hour worth of cramping. I’m basically having a month long period.

Thank you, 9th month. Thank you for reminding me of what I’ve been missing for 8 months.

I had my weekly checkup on Friday. I was lectured pretty severely by both my husband and my doctor because I didn’t call in on Thursday to report the dizziness, the headache, or the white fireflies I saw a couple of times. Tobyjoe insisted I call but I didn’t listen to him.

“I didn’t think anything was wrong.” I said to my doctor.

“And you know this from your years spent at medical school?” She asked. “You were going to wait until you had a seizure?”

“Point taken. From now on, I’ll listen to my husband.”

He looked at me with that “I told you so!” face.

She took blood to check for Preeclampsia. I checked out normal, thank goodness.

My cervix was 1 centimeter dilated and slightly more effaced that it was the week before. The baby has dropped but he hasn’t become engaged yet. (Engagement is the term used to describe it when the baby’s head moves into the pelvic bone.) I used to think that he’d be here early, now I’m not so sure. I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. And I wake up at 5 AM almost every day and it takes me at least an hour to get back to sleep. At that point, I toss and turn until 7. So I’m ready whenever baby’s ready. I’m prepared for sleepless nights. At least I’ll be able to lie on my back and tummy again.

WARNING: GRAPHIC SECTION

(Best to skip this if you’re not into reading about the female reproductive system.)

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I might have lost my mucous plug. I wrote about it. But now I’m thinking I may have been wrong. On Saturday I saw some blood and that blood has continued. There hasn’t been much of it, but there was enough that I called the on call physician just to make sure it was normal. And it is. Of course the Internet leads me to believe that this is what is commonly referred to as the “Bloody Show.” After reading more, I’m having a bit of trouble discerning between the mucous plug and the “bloody show.” Some explanations combine the two into one of the same. But it’s my understanding is that the mucous plug protects all the good stuff throughout a pregnancy and that once the cervix begins to dilate it falls out. Whereas the “bloody show” is something that takes place once the cervix starts to thin (efface) and the blood vessels start to rupture. But I’m not sure. I also read that “the bloody show” can mean labor is right around the corner; I also read that it could mean labor is weeks off.

Last night I looked at Tobyjoe and said, “You know, penises may be considered ugly, but vaginas do some really weird stuff.”

I woke up with a headache, cramps, and some intestinal issues. I don’t feel well. Had the worst night’s rest ever. The baby hasn’t dropped, which has a few people guessing that he’s coming after my due date (which is 3 weeks, 2 days away). Whatever my future holds, I need to pack a bag for the hospital, make an iPod set list for delivery (I’m thinking REM, The Postal Service, or Will Oldham), and clean our apartment for as long as my unwell body will allow. I’m exhausted. Truly beat. It feels as though every vein in my body is working overtime.

Edited to add: I have a list of things I was told I’d need while in the hospital, but a list isn’t always as good personal input. So, if you have any suggestions as to what you (or your wife) used during labor and delivery, please do not hesitate to let me know.

Edited to add: What’s the point of this set list? To calm me down? Make me happy? Induce labor? Because that totally drives who and what songs I choose.

I wrote a post a little over a week ago about my love for tar. My cravings haven’t subsided. The other day while watching Mythbusters, I noticed something very peculiar. A big part of the show takes place in a warehouse where they build contraptions for their many stunts. They recreate situations in order to bust or confirm a myth. They weld on the show, burn wood, mix chemicals, and spray anything and everything from a can. I salivated the entire time. For me it was like watching Top Chef only replace the kitchen with a warehouse and the food with hardware.

In typical Michele fashion, I began to freak out a bit about these weird cravings. That fear kicked in full force when I was at the gym signing up for a piece of equipment. Each member has to write his or her name on a white board using a dry erase marker. One might say I spent an uncomfortable amount of time with that marker before putting the cap back on. I feel the same way about Sharpies.

So I began looking things up on Google. Instead of trying to hide the weirdness, I figured it’d be best to talk about it. I looked up things like “Craving tar while pregnant” and “The smell of paint while pregnant.” I looked up things like “I am about to suck on a dry erase marker like one might a Popsicle.” I searched for “What is wrong with me?”

Of course I was relieved by what I read. Some women talked about spending more time in the broom closet at the office with the industrial cleaning supplies. Others talked about craving paint chips. Still others said they wanted to eat soap. One New Orleans woman told me that some of her female relatives used to eat Mississippi dirt from the side of the road. I read countless stories about pregnant women craving the weirdest of the weird. Suddenly, I felt better about my strange desires.

I learned this: it’s not uncommon to develop pica cravings during pregnancy. Experts aren’t exactly sure why they develop, some say it may be due to an iron deficiency or other chemical deficiencies, but I think us pregnant bitches are just weird. All that said, I think I’ll take a trip to I Hate Perfume in Williamsburg. They have a scent called Chemical. Awesome.

In other, more awesome news, check out this picture of Murray and me.

We made bean burritos last night. Tobyjoe made a salad to go on the side as well corn on the cob. I know. That might sound a little weird. It sounded weird to me. Corn on the cob doesn’t really go with bean burritos, does it? But Toby wanted to put corn in his burrito, which didn’t end up happening. The burritos were too filling so we decided to save the corn on the cob for another day.

There’s a discrepancy to the story at this point. Tobyjoe claims that he wasn’t the one who left the corn in a metal bowl on the windowsill in the kitchen. But I’m absolutely positive it wasn’t me. And I am always right. There’s no way I would have done such a thing because I know that the windowsill in question is Murray’s favorite launching pad onto bigger and better kitchen appliances, such as the laundry machine or the kitchen sink. But Tobyjoe is certain that I left the bowl there. And so it’s become a battle of he said, she said. Let’s just say that someone in this household left the bowl of corn on the cob on the windowsill in the kitchen all night long.

I got up at 7 AM today. The first thing I do when I get up is pee. The second thing I do is brush my teeth. The third thing I do is feed and water the cats. I checked their water bowl first and discovered little yellow things floating throughout it. “That’s weird.” I thought. “Wonder what that’s all about.” I fed Tucker and Murray their Merrick’s and checked to make sure that Pookum had enough dry food. It took me a few minutes to realize where the yellow bits had come from.

Unfortunately, he’s still too small to flip them over, so his snack came to an end once he’d gotten all the exposed bits. The best part is that I know that at some point during the night he tried to lift them up out of the bowl and onto the floor below. How do I know this? Because on Sunday night he crawled into our trashcan and tried to liberate two chewed cobs. We watched and laughed as he tried unsuccessfully to air lift each cob to the floor. The cob clearly outweighed the little guy. And so he was left with no other choice than to consume his meal in the trashcan while I took photos of it.

I can’t believe what this little guy will eat! I only hope our son feels the same way about food. But I’m hoping he doesn’t dig it out of the trashcan.

There’s a store here in the New York called The Upper Breast Side. I first heard about it during one of our birthing classes. Our instructor said, “I can’t believe I’m going to give them even more business but…” Apparently the woman who owns The Upper Breast Side is notoriously snotty.

The instructor furthered her description by saying, “If you get her on a good day, everything will go fine and they really do know their stuff. But I have sent clients to her and they have left in tears. And if you are at all shy, this place might not be for you. The measurements take place on the floor. Women are made to stand completely shirtless in a room full of people.”

I’ll talk and admit to just about anything. I’ll write about even more. But I do not feel comfortable standing in a room full of strangers with my shirt off especially while pregnant and huge. I’m not ashamed, necessarily, but I can’t say I’m proud of how I look (feel?) right now. And while I regularly walk around our house without any clothes on, I don’t feel comfortable walking around in public that way.

On Friday I did a little legwork and found a store called Boing Boing right here in Brooklyn.

Here is a short review taken from the New York Magazine Web site

“I went to boing boing because i find the upper breast side shop to be pretentious and somewhat degrading. boing boing employees were helpful, and kind. i love all their products.”

The woman I spoke to at Boing Boing was happy to take measurements but she made it clear that she’s not an expert. Either way, she was extremely helpful. I tried on nearly 15 bras of all different shapes and sizes. I tried on sleeping bras, nursing bras, “sexy” (relatively speaking, of course) nursing bras, and just plain old Bravado nursing bras. I left with $166.00 worth of boob-related stuff including some nursing pads (to hide unsightly leakage) and a box of Soothies.

Of the four bras I purchased, I am most pleased with the Anita Maternity bra.

My second favorite is the Bravado Microfiber nursing bra.

The Anita is a bit more fancy and it does have an underwire, which really comes in handy for the big breasted. I have gotten mixed reviews regarding nursing bras and underwire. Some women believe that having underwire while nursing can lead to mastitis. But I went ahead and bought one anyway because it’s so much more comfortable for my back and shoulders. The other three, however, are without underwire support.

In other, non-related boob news we’re just finishing up the baby’s room. Here is a picture along with some information regarding the decor and the bumpers we purchased.

We took a tour of the hospital yesterday and the both of us are super excited. I know that my baby and I will be in very capable hands. The semi-private rooms (covered by insurance) were nice enough and had a view of the East River as well as Brooklyn. The private rooms (run 600 dollars a night, NOT covered by insurance) also have a view of the river and the spouse can stay the night. The private suites were filled (run 800 dollars a night) so we didn’t get to see them. They have a leather couch, a TV, and a DVD player. They’re basically hotel rooms. Obviously, we can’t afford either upgrade, but should I lose my mind entirely and decide that I cannot deal with being without Toby, or I’m stuck rooming with a nasty woman, we’ll go into dept to pay for something. But I don’t see that happening. Although, I’ve heard some horror stories from those stuck in semi-private rooms. I’m crossing my fingers I get a decent roommate.

It’s hot as hell here in New York City. I have decided to not go outside today at all. Instead, I’m sitting here in the dark working on some freelance projects. I’m sitting in the dark because I’m trying desperately to conserve energy as we enter blackout territory. Every little bit counts, right?

I learned a few things while at the doctor’s office today. For starters, I am only 35 weeks and 6 days. That means I potentially have to live this way for another 5 weeks. I wasn’t particularly pleased with this realization. And I can’t get my weeks straight for the life of me. But I was informed that my cervix is currently a half a centimeter dilated.

“You will not be having this baby next week.” She told me.

The baby is in the right position but he’s still moving around like a madman. While we watched his tiny body on the monitor, we were able to see his face. He looks exactly like his father. They have the same nose and cheekbones. He has the same round, chubby face as well.

“I think this little guy is going to look like his father.” She said.

“Damn recessive genes.” I mumbled.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t get an accurate reading of the little dude’s weight and size because he wouldn’t stop moving. (Go Baby Ndugu! Dance!)

“He’s still in orbit.” She told us.

Lately, I have had some pretty irritating pain in my upper right abdomen. It feels like he’s either on top of, below, or hanging onto my ribcage. And so today I asked her to let me know what he’s building in there. Well, as it turns out, not only is he repeatedly kicking me in that one spot, but his arms are up there as well. So it’s his ass, his legs, or one of his hands causing me so much discomfort.

“Why are his hands all the way up there?!” I bitched. “Is he grabbing his foot?”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s after.” She said with a smirk.

I’m a dense person. And I have grown more dense in my 30s. Her hint went right over my head.

“My heart? My boobs? What is he doing with hands all the way up there? Is that normal?”

Toby looked at me and chuckled. “His penis, silly. He’s reaching for his penis.”

He’s not even out of the womb yet and he’s already found his penis. I have a little boy inside of me who may or may not be reaching for his penis.

Nature is weird.

I’ve been tasked with finding a pediatrician by tomorrow. I’ve known about this for two weeks but I’ve totally ignored this impending deadline. As much as I’d like to use the pediatrician at my current OBGYN, it’s not the easiest place to get to especially with a newborn. I can’t take a newborn on the subway and parking for free in the city is nearly impossible. Paying to park would run me at least 25 dollars and paying for a cab each and every time I have to get to the doctor is not in our budget. (My doctor is on the Upper West Side. We live in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. See map below.)

All that said, I’m trying to find a doctor a little closer to home and this isn’t easy. I don’t mind going to second-rate doctors if need be, but I am going to be a lot more cautious when it comes to the baby. I’m hoping that the doctor I have in mind (and I do have it narrowed down to one office) will be totally awesome.

I put on two more pounds last week. I’m not happy about it at all. My feet aren’t either. I have put on 28 pounds since getting pregnant. It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to get up off the couch, pry myself out of bed every other hour in order to pee, and pick up around the house. And I don’t sleep well at all these days. I’m lucky if I get 3 hours at a time. Perhaps this is nature’s way of preparing me for a plethora of sleepless nights once the baby is born. Here are a few pictures of me and my belly. Check out the scary tattoo around my bellybutton!

I finish up 36 weeks tomorrow at which point my doctor’s appointments become a weekly meeting. Tomorrow we start the internal exams to see if my cervix has “effaced” (the shortening or thinning of the cervix). My doctor is also going to check to see if I’m dilated. I’ll also get to see what position the baby is in during an ultrasound. I’m looking forward to seeing him again but getting to the doctor every week from here on out without being able to drive is going to be tough. I won’t lie. (Damn walk to the subway. Damn subways stations and their stairs. Damn riders and their inability to give up their seats.)

Let’s see, I also started applying this stuff to my nipples twice a day. The application routine remains very much the same every day. I start to put it on, it hurts, I scream, “THIS AIN’T NOTHING, BITCH! DEAL WITH IT! IT’S GONNA GET SO MUCH WORSE!” I put myself through Boob Camp twice a day, Gunnery Sergeant Hartman style. (That makes for my second war movie reference in two days.)

What else…. My mother gave us her car, which has been incredibly awesome because it has air conditioning and it doesn’t leak through its roof. (The Volvo has a leaky sunroof). Speaking of the Volvo, it’s for sale as of today. I’ve purchased signage for it. All we need to do is give her a nice bath and clean her out. I’m hoping to get enough cash to pay for everything else we need to pick up before the baby arrives. It will be sad to see the Volvo go, but moving two cars in order to abide to the daily alternate side parking calendar has been really tough. And that will only become tougher once the baby is born. So, if you know of anyone who wants a really sweet looking 31-year-old, 164 Volvo, please send him or her my way.

It’s hard to believe that in just 3 or 4 short weeks I’ll be a mother. I can’t wait to meet the baby. I can’t wait to sleep on my tummy again, flip over without groaning, shave my legs quickly, tie my shoes properly. I’ve employed the infamous “side knot” for two months now.

I can’t wait to eat sushi, have a beer, drink some high-octane coffee, shed some of this weight (my goodness, do I ever need to shed some weight), and eventually go for a jog. As my due date gets closer, my patience with being pregnant becomes effaced.

Last week we went to Ikea to pick up a dresser for the baby. We ended up getting a bunch of stuff we’ve needed for years. Right after checkout, my job was to pull the car into the loading area so that Tobyjoe could try and maneuver 800 dollars worth of stuff into our fairly compact, hand-me-down Toyota. The loading area, as well as the rest of the Ikea parking lot, had a fresh coat of tar all over it. And it was hot out. I’m not sure what came over me, whether it’s the hormones or I’m trying to kill myself and the baby, but at that moment the smell of tar became the single most amazing smell on planet Earth. I inhaled deeply and begged it to come home with me. When Tobyjoe arrived with our cart, I told him I couldn’t get enough of the chemical goodness. And he looked at me as if I had eaten too many Ikea cinnamon buns.

“You obviously never worked in construction. The smell makes me sick. Plus, it reminds me of not so great times.”

“I want to eat it. The smell. All of it. I’d wear it as perfume right now.”

I figured the whole Ikea tar craving phenomenon had been an isolated incident. But later that day we hit a hardware store on Bedford and another chemical smell that I couldn’t place wafted into my nostrils. I was smitten all over again.

“Take your time, Toby. I want to get more of this smell.”

“You’re weird.” He reminded me. “Really weird.”

Month 9: Chemical cravings. I can’t get enough of the man made aromas, which are clearly bad for a person, particularly a pregnant person. If what they say is true – that a pregnant woman should listen to her cravings, that it’s the body’s way of letting her know what it’s missing – well, then mine clearly has issues. And the cravings are all over the place. My mother’s new car smells glorious. I could sit in there for hours inhaling the toxic fumes. But cleaning related items – bleach, Comet, 409 – disgust me. The neighbor’s back deck painting project? Perfectly awesome. Burning rubber? Gross. Tar? The best smell ever. Gasoline? Well, I always liked the smell of gasoline. Motor oil, however, smells awful.

Currently, most of the streets in Williamsburg and Greenpoint are being repaved. (Sweet coincidence.) And sometimes, not all the time but sometimes, I get a whiff and I begin to salivate.

The smell of 40,000 fireworks will probably have me speaking in tongues.

Edited to add: Apparently, I might have a condition called Pica. Hmmmmm

Murray really enjoys it when people (and cats) use the bathroom. Whenever Tucker or Pookum have to use the bathroom, he stands outside the litter box and stares directly at them. If it’s Tucker (who is a little more forgiving than Pookum) Murray will occasionally climb inside to get a better look, rate the turd, whatever. Pookum hates it. So whenever she goes to the bathroom I have to grab a hold of Murray so he doesn’t interrupt her. One time, Pookum jumped out mid-turd because he was watching her.

He follows us into the bathroom as well. I’m not sure why he’s so fascinated with bathroom stuff. He came that way. But he keeps me company whenever I pee. I’m huge right now and not at all very limber. So when I use the toilet, I let my trousers fall down all the way down until they hit the floor. A lot of the time he’ll curl up in between my legs right in the circle of my waistband; it makes for a perfect kitten holder. One time, he looked so comfortable I decided to sit there for a little while longer so he could get a full snug in. It wasn’t hard to accommodate. I mentioned a while ago that camping out on the toilet brings me great comfort regardless of its potential hemorrhoid hazard.

With Toby, well, that routine is a wee bit different. Tobyjoe pees standing up. He lifts the toilet seat before he conducts any business. And Murray joins him as well. But things move whenever Tobyjoe pees, so Murray doesn’t curl up in his trousers or watch from below. Instead, he likes to stand next to the toilet rim and watch the arc of urine fall gracefully into the bowl. And I think he probably enjoys the way it sounds as well.

The other day I was sleeping and Tobyjoe came into the bedroom and said, “You want to hear a funny Murray story?”

I always want to hear a funny Murray story. Although, Murray is funny without a story. (He most definitely lives up to his namesake of Bill. Although, we’ve been calling Murray other names as of late. He’s become Myrtle for some reason.)

“Sure.” I said.

“I was peeing and he came in and usually he watches me pee with his front two paws on the toilet rim. He jumped up this time and nearly fell in. And part of his body got in the way.”

“Are you telling me you peed on the cat?”

“And then he took his paw and began playing with it!”

“Why didn’t you stop!”

“Men can’t really do that.”

“So you peed on the cat?!“

“Yeah. But only a little bit.”