Category Archives: Pregnancy

Give a Boy a Registry Gun…

We wanted Colt to feel invested in the process of preparing for our new baby, so we brought him with us to register for a few necessary items.

We didn’t expect him to hijack the scanner for the entirety of the process, but I should have guessed.

A “gun” that shoots a “laser beam?”

And anything you scan magically arrives at your house via UPS, and you don’t have to pay for it?

Yes, please.

We gave in and let him scan whatever he wanted.

Todd and I didn’t realize the next hour would be the most heartwarming 60 minutes of our parental lives to date.

Scanner in hand, Colt skipped from aisle to aisle.

He explained why baby Libby needed a pair of [hideous] cat leggings to keep her legs warm, and five pair of baby UGGs for her little feet [um, we live in Florida].

“Mommy, Libby needs these sparkly shoes, too. Girls LOVE sparkly shoes!”


These shoes were worth the reach.

He picked out jammies and socks and hair bows, and a fur vest?

And diapers and bottles and sippy cups and pacifiers and….Legos and Avengers and Teenage Mutant Ninja….

Wait a minute.

We corralled him back to the baby section and convinced him to help us select a rocker.

He tried each one, judging the level of softness as compared to his blanky.

He eventually settled into a grey velour-ish glider, most closely resembling a J-Lo jumpsuit, deeming it the softest one of all.

His eyes glazed over – he would spend the night there if we let him.


Somebody bring him a Shirley Temple on the rocks!

So we scooped him up and disarmed him. He’d done enough shooting for one night.

I’ll have to delete 90 percent of what he chose, but who cares.

It was worth it to see the delight in his eyes.

The love in his heart for a sister who isn’t here yet.

I hope when she’s crying, and pooping, and eating his Legos, he remembers how much he wanted her legs to be warm and her feet to be sparkly. 

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When Life Gives You Lemons

Pregnancy makes you want some weird sh$t real bad.

It started with lemonade.

But that was just a gateway craving.

Then I experimented for a while with straight lemon extract. (There’s an extensive collection of empty plastic fruit under my kitchen sink.)

Now I’m eating WHOLE lemons – everything but the peel. Sometimes more than one a day.

I’ve tried to keep my addiction a secret, but the other day Todd walked in on me methodically slicing my snack.

Hovering over one of Colt’s plastic plates,  mouth watering with anticipation.

Soon I’ll have mouth sores and acidic teeth, but I sure won’t have scurvy!

Instead of judging me, Todd has been my biggest enabler. Er, supporter.

Tonight, he bought me a BAG of lemons.

Sweet Jesus. I’ve never been so excited to see tropical fruit in my life.

Forget flowers. THIS is true love.

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The Dreaded “Annual”

There’s nothing more exciting than an annual visit to the gynecologist.

The day when you get to be extra late to work because you have to go answer a bunch of really uncomfortable questions about intercourse and self-breast-exams and your family’s medical history. And then walk around all day with a gallon of KY Jelly oozing out of you. Asking yourself …why the hell did I decide to wear a skirt today???!!!!

Before you even see the doctor, you get to fill out a 9-Page Inquisition.

Sometimes you tell the truth.

Do you drink alcohol? If so, how many drinks per week.

Your answer (1-3). The truth (mmmm…5-7).

Do you exercise? If so, list activities.

Your answer (walking and jogging). The truth (sitting on the couch and…refer to previous lie).

Did you have intercourse before the age of 18?

I know I’m 30 now, but shit, is my mom gonna see this? 

I remember the first time Todd went with me to the doctor. It wasn’t for an annual (for the record, it’s freaking weird if your husband/boyfriend/life partner accompanies you to the gynecologist for an annual check-up.)

It was for my 8-week pregnancy exam three years ago. The nurse left us in the room, asked me to undress, and notified us that the doctor would be in shortly.

“What are you doing?” Todd asked.

“I’m taking off my clothes,” I said.

“All of them?”

I looked up at him. Blinking.

“Well I didn’t know the doctor was going to see – everything.” he swallowed.

“Perhaps you thought the doctor would look up my nose?” I said.

“The baby is down here,” I pointed.

I gave him the devil eyes as he loomed over the doctor the entire time he was examining me. He was standing too close to him – invading his personal space.

Today I was glad to be alone.

Sitting naked on an examination table is a great time for introspection.

I stared at the informational posters on the wall.

Hmmm, symptoms of menopause – looking forward to that.

Might I be interested in a clinical trial for a new birth control?

I love my doctor. He’s a 60-something fuzzy-headed man with large black spectacles. I like him because he’s very direct and somewhat impersonal.

I imagine he’s seen 10,000 vaginas in his day. Mine being no more – no less exciting that any other.

I DID NOT like the OB who came in grinning ear-to-ear like the Cat in the Hat.

“Soooooooo,” he said smiling. “You’ve got some funky discharge!”

I pictured him singing…

“Let’s take a look at your gobbly goo! Your mother will not mind at all if we do!”

I prefer my gyno to report the news like an anchor from the McNeil Lehrer Report.

Just the facts. No funny business.

Usually my favorite doctor doesn’t chit chat.

But today, for whatever reason, he was on a constitutional rant. Something about Obamacare and Canada and….

If religion and politics are off-limits at the dinner table, they should certainly be off limits on the examination table.

I smiled and nodded and prayed he wouldn’t discover my political affiliation. (It doesn’t say Registered Democrat anywhere in my chart does it!!???)

I was sweating.

Please let the speculum be outside my body should he uncover this fact.

“Everything looks fine.” he said with Eeyore’s enthusiasm.


Regardless of the subject matter, it’s so unnatural to make small talk with someone’s hand up your hoo-hah.

Like you’re making love to your husband, and he’s getting all handsy, and asks, “so…how is work going?”

“Oh fine… I’m really enjoying my new position.”

I’m glad there are 364 days until my next annual exam.

I’ll need that time to get a new voter registration card and practice some talking points for next year.

Perhaps I’ll even look into drinking less, exercising more and…seriously…is my mom gonna read this? I was 18, I swear!!!

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The Most Impractical Baby Shower Gift

Isn't she the cutest!

Isn’t she the cutest!

If you’ve had a baby, you know that baby shoes are totally impractical.

Shoes can change your life.

Shoes can change your life.

Babies kick them off, fuss when you try to wrestle them back on and outgrow them too quickly.

They are a total pain in the ass.

But they are soooooooooo cute.

So when I found a plaque that read: “Cinderella is proof that shoes can change your life.”

Ugh, I died.

I couldn’t resist buying my friend Anni a basket full of adorable (albeit useless) baby shoes!

I love shrink-wrap!

I love shrink-wrap!

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The Ween-ager Stage

A few weeks ago my adorable coworker, Brittany, came to me… frustrated.

She’d been shopping for clothes and NOTHING fit (welcome to the club, right?)

“Where were you shopping?” I asked.

“Macy’s” she answered. But with more prodding, I discovered, she’d been browsing the JUNIOR’s department [insert gasp].

Well, there’s your problem.

She’s 24 and in that weird stage between being a teenager and a woman (when you’re getting your master’s degree, but still shopping  at Charlotte Russe.)

Girl, you grew a booty in undergrad, and I’m sorry but….you can’t shop there anymore.

This is not something to bemoan. It’s something to celebrate!

It’s time to welcome new fabrics into your wardrobe like cotton, jersey knit, and linen! Time to embrace even sizes like 2,4, 6 and 8!

Sure, you can “fit” into a 9, but your ass crack is going to hang out a little. And let’s get a handle on those love handles, shall we?

It’s a tough transition, I know.

Retailers call it “misses.”

I prefer to think of it as “ween-ager” – because you really do have to wean yourself off of the teenage shopping mentality. I’m almost 30, and I still incorporate pieces from Forever 21 into my wardrobe.

The trick is knowing the kinds of pieces (like probably not pants) that you can get away with – without the other mommies at the park talking shit about you.

Even if you’ve got a bangin’ body, it’s probably best to say goodbye to crop tops, daisy dukes, super low-rise jeans (or super high-waisted jeans for that matter. Your camel toe wasn’t cute then, and it’s not cute now.) And definitely none of those sweatpants with words on the butt.

“Juicy” has a whole new meaning after you’ve had children and peed your pants a few times.

I convinced my young grasshopper to let me take her shopping.

I made Brit this Boho Chic Outfit-Board for days when she's feeling uninspired!

I made Brit this Boho Chic Outfit-Board for days when she’s feeling uninspired!

I told her to bring $200 and block off 4 hours for trying on clothes.

Before we left, I asked her a few questions about her style and what kinds of items she wanted. I also assessed her closet to see what she already had and what she needed.

Together, we turned “Blah Blah Brittany” into “Boho Chic Barbie!”

Click here to see photos from the makeover!

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I Have Feelings for My iPhone. And Publix.

I used to be calm. Cool. Collected.

But something happened when I got pregnant, and I lost complete control of my emotions. (And my bladder. But that’s a whole other post.)

Anything sad, sweet or remotely HUMAN – and I become a hubbering, blubbering mess.

I have not watched a single movie since Colt’s birth that hasn’t made me hyperventilate.

I cried at The Hangover.

I think big marketing agencies recruit women like me.

Pregnant, postpartum, menopausal, hysterectomied women – any female suffering from hormonal imbalance.

Basically all of us.

They sit them together in an agency board room, feed them chocolate donuts and strap electrodes to their brains.

The latest company to employ this tactic was Apple. Have you seen the new iPhone commercial?

Every time I see it, my heart swells.

See what I mean?

See what I mean?

Perhaps it’s the dainty piano melody in the background. The warm lighting. The little girl in her bunny suit. The dancing silhouettes of children in a corn field.

For some reason this commercial makes me proud to have an iPhone.

Like I’m sooooooo glad I don’t have a Metro PCS phone, which could NEVER capture life’s magical moments the way the iPhone can.


They both do the same exact thing.

How about that Folger’s commercial from 5 years ago that they KEEP playing every Christmas?

You know that one where Peter comes home from Christmas, and HE’S the present?

Ugh. I’m getting choked up just writing about it.

And Publix?

Was Winn Dixie responsible for bringing family Christmas to that working doctor who couldn’t make it home?

No, that was Publix, and my loyalty remains.

My husband is cold and heartless. He watches these commercials and is completely unaffected.

“Do you have no soul?” I ask him as snot runs down my face…

He looks at me.

Like I’m bat shit crazy.

He must wonder, as do I, is this going to get worse with age?

Could I one day become overwhelmed by such products as… Miller High Life? Motor oil? Viagra?

I’m so glad…sniffle, sniffle, when the time is right…that man can have an erection…sniffle…sniffle…

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My Love/Hate Relationship with Spanx

Funny things happen to your body after you have a baby.

Even if you get back to the same “size” you were pre-pregnancy, your parts are all in slightly different locations.

Things are a little…. longer…and a little… lower…than they were before.

Not only do you have an actual baby to worry about now, but you also have all these jiggly bits to manage.

Look at the ridiculous size of this shape wear

Look at the ridiculous size of this shape wear

For example, it is now part of my nightly routine to spray tan myself with L’oreal Spray Tan in a Can.

Todd still hasn’t caught on to the routine, and seems to always walk into the bathroom right when I’m completely engulfed in a fog of aerosol and carrot oil extract. Annoyed, he goes stumbling, coughing, out of the room.

He likens it to Chemical Warfare Training in Marine Boot Camp when he had to wear his gas mask. Don’t be so dramatic, I say.

Sure the spray tan makes me smell like a bag of oven roasted peanuts, but I feel like a sexy bag of oven roasted peanuts. The other downside, of course, is that my wrists and ankles are perpetually orange. But trust me, I look at LEAST 10 pounds skinnier.

Another new product in my bag of tricks is my Spanx body shaper. A nude-colored sausage casing meant to suck in and smooth down. I actually bought my first piece of shape wear when I was pregnant. The store clerk, who was clearly from Brooklyn and thus brutally honest said, “Trust me, you’re gonna need this.” She also told me not to buy the white pants. So right.

A couple of weeks ago I attended an event (this event shall remain nameless in case any of you happened to have been there.)

I was determined to wear a very form-fitting black dress, but I knew I needed a little…smoothing.

Seeing as how Colt is almost 2-years-old, I figured it was time to retire the maternity Spanx and purchase a new pair.

So I bought a size small at my local Stein Mart and joyfully returned home. I opened the box….and pulled out what looked like a pair of bike shorts… for a Cabbage Patch doll (see photo. I’ve taken it with Todd’s flip-flop for size relativity).

It’s going to take an act of God to get my fat ass in this, I thought.

Several minutes of hoisting, grunting, stretching and finagling, and I was in.

I turned to my floor length mirror to survey the results.

Damn. I looked awesome, I thought.

Only problem was…

I couldn’t breathe.

I mean. not. even. a. little. bit. Short shallow puffs were all I could bear.

But I was so determined to wear my little black dress sans cottage cheese, that I convinced myself to wear the Spanx anyway. They’ll loosen up, I thought.

(But that’s the thing about Spanx – they don’t loosen up. In fact, that’s the whole point.)

So I went to the event and 30 minutes in, I was in Severe Pain. My stomach was caving in on itself and I was feeling lightheaded from not really breathing for the last hour. Could have been the omelet I ate, I thought. Maybe it’s food poisoning.

I’ve always been one to make excuses for fashion. What shoe size am I? Depends on how cute the shoe is.

But this was getting unbearable.

Finally, I’d had enough. I went to the bathroom and wrestled those Spanx offa’ me. I’ll control you, Control Top, I said out loud.

Only problem was… I wasn’t wearing anything underneath the shape wear. Mmmm, quite the conundrum.

See, I am ALWAYS in favor of underwear. I am not one of those girls that likes to be free and breezy. Ever. In fact, the Granny-er the panties, the better.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and so I stuffed those Spanx into my purse (yes, they fit in my clutch) and walked out of the restroom with my head held high.

Just keep it together, I thought. Literally.

Luckily, Sharon Stone didn’t make an appearance, and I made it through the event unscathed.

I guess the moral of this story is that women go through a lot to look good.

We pluck and Spank and tan just to feel normal, and it only gets more involved after babies. So be nice to us.

If you see a woman at dinner looking pale, give her a break. Buy her a drink.

And tell her she looks fabulous.

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An hour a day? Who has time for that.

Colt was only a few months old. His acid reflux was keeping us up at night. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours in…

I stumbled into the break room at work for my morning coffee. Half conscious. It took every ounce of energy I had just to shmear my bagel.

I overheard two colleagues discussing an article they’d read on weight loss. How in a couple of weeks you could lose two dress sizes. I looked down at my sagging, pitiful belly and moved in on the conversation. “What do I have to do to lose two dress sizes in two weeks?” I asked desperately.

The women laughed and said, “Sex. An hour a day.” With an unfamiliar perkiness.

Sex. An hour a day. An HOUR. EVERY day?

Who does that, I thought. I actually said it out loud. They stared.

Defensively I countered. But there’s laundry. So much laundry. There’s a ring around the toilet in the guest bathroom. Colt is teething. My mother-in-law is coming…

The women looked at me like they felt so bad for me. I should mention that both of these women were in their mid-forties. Childless. Not married. And apparently at their sexual prime.

“An hour is nothing. Especially if you have toys.” They giggled like school girls. “Just don’t forget the batteries.”

Thanks for the advice.

If you want to know real panic, try realizing you’ve forgotten your baby wipes. And your child has just had a diarrhea explosion. In Target.

Forgetting to buy batteries for sex toys is hardly at the forefront of my mind.

Mostly I’m just jealous I guess. I look forward to the days when Todd and I can laze around all day with the “Bunny tickler” and the “Vibrorattler.”

I’ll be so freaking skinny.

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Pregnancy. Meh.

I am a mom. I have a 13 month-old little man, Colt. And he is awesome. Well, he can’t walk yet, but he can unlock my iPhone, which is awesome.

My friend Jennie says you’re either a baby person or a kid person. I am not a baby person. My pregnancy was great, don’t get me wrong. The birth? Easy as pie. But I like the fact that I can put him in time-out now.

In rummaging through my computer hoard (this is a real, diagnosable affliction), I found a post I’d written to myself. I suppose I wrote it and kept it, as some sort of subconscious reminder that I. do. not. want. to. do. this. again. anytime. soon.

Almost a mommy...

Almost a mommy…

I’m pregnant. Twenty weeks humongous and half-way done. I feel proud to have gotten this far, not because I’ve survived five months of this supposedly excruciating process (I mean it’s no keg party, but it’s not nearly as bad as everyone makes it out to be) but because I’ve survived five months of torment by every other woman who has ever had a baby. The worldly woman who seeks to deliver her wisdom to me, the young defenseless lioness. She can smell my growing uterus a mile away. She comes on friendly, oohing and ahhing over me. And then the conversation turns to labor and delivery? hemorrhoids? weight loss? The maternal trifecta.

Being pregnant is weird enough as it is. Your boobs start to resemble cow udders. Your belly button looks like someone’s face smooshed up against a car window. You can’t see your crotch, and the first time you sneeze and pee yourself, it’s really disconcerting. The last thing you need is someone reminding you that it’s only a matter of time before there’s a cluster of grapes hanging outside your butt hole.

I used to come home and share these horror stories with my husband over dinner. “So today this lady told me about this hemorrhoid that she got from giving birth that was bigger than her thumb and she had to have it lanced off with a knife.” I looked up at him, tears in my eyes, hoping for a two-part response to quell my fears. Something like “Honey, that’s ridiculous. That’s not going to happen to you, and even if it did I would still think you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Instead he looked down at the steak on his fork, chuckled and started wagging it around. I guess the meat dangling off the fork was supposed to represent the hemorrhoid. Funny.

Today at work the Korean janitor stopped me in the hall …”You pregnan?” (Yes, I said smiling. Scared.) “I haf son. He 16-year ole now. I in laba for forte (40) howas wif him. He ten pouns. I almos die.” Brief pause…. “You pray erey day, you not die and baby OK.”


It never fails to amaze me the willingness that women have to scare the shit out of one another.

Same goes for weight loss. A woman from our church asked me if I was having twins. Another asked if I was going to have a C-section because it was GOING TO BE A BIG BABY. And countless others have informed me that the ONLY way to lose weight after birth is to breast-feed until the child is 10.

More than anything I’m writing this post to remind myself NOT to share my horror stories (should I in fact get the meat dangle) with other young, impressionable women. Lie to them. Tell them how beautiful and thin they look. Tell them that birth was a breeze and that the weight just FELL OFF. Tell them what they want to hear. They don’t want to hear anything else.

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