One A Day- really a better diet plan than a daily vitamin

And they're not even freaking One A Days.  They're Target "compare to" One A Days.  And they were cheap.  And I'm cheap.  And for some stupid stupid reason, I thought it'd be cool.

I was wandering around the kitchen this morning, making my daughter toast (she eats it dry and it's like her new favorite thing.  Weirdo.) and trying to make myself some coffee, when out of nowhere I had an undeniable urge to vom.  It was one of those, "my stomach feels empty, and somehow, that's bad, and it's about to get a whole lot emptier", sensations that sent me racing straight to the bathroom.  No passing go, no collecting $200 along the way.

So it's official folks, my first pregnancy 2 sick session.

Although, gotta say, I don't feel like it counts.

Somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom, I had the time to have one, singular, coherent thought: WHYYYY?!?!?  I mean seriously, I'm almost 14 weeks along, and NOW I start throwing up?  This cannot be for serious.  And then it occurred to me.  Last night I forgot my vitamin.  So my bright idea solution was to take it this morning.  Roughly 10 minutes before my body decided it needed to be expelled.

So again, I'm now quite certain this was One A Day sickness, not morning sickness.  I'm not sure what they put in that stuff, but it's violent and painful and I hate it.

That being said, if for some reason any of you DON'T become violently ill with this brand of vitamin (I assume somewhere out there has to be okay with them, unless they're used exclusively by bullemic girls who are too embarrassed to purchase laxatives and can't gag on their own fingers), I have a just-purchased bottle of 298 prenatal vitamins you may have!  That's right, this is my first official (and probably last official) AEISY FREEBIE GIVEAWAY!!!!!  First person to ask for it who lives close enough that I don't have to mail them can have all of my vitamins!!

Go ahead and leave awesome begging comments now, to get your chance at the pukamins!!!!

Some doctors don't have boarders. Mine doesn't have boundaries.

Let me start off by saying this:  My doctor is not a pervert.  Probably.  No, not.  He is NOT a pervert.  And I'm stickin' to it.  I'm just saying that the guy could be a little less... something.

There's something important to remember about doctors.  They don't seem to have strong rules about personal space.  Maybe it happens in med school.  You work with enough cadavers, enough fake and then real bodies, and you just sort of forget that it's a body.  People maybe start looking more like cars rolling into the local mechanic.

And if not in med school, it could start before.  Doctors are basically nerds, right?  So maybe they never got around to learning the more refined points of social interaction.

Anyway, that's enough speculation.  On to my point.

At Maternity Doctor's Appointment One, doctors always insist on groping your chest.  I'm actually starting to think it's how they shake hands in Doctor Land.  But I've been through these things before.  Deep breath, I was expecting it.  What I WASN'T expecting was the color commentary.  "Hmmm, ooh, yeah.  Yes.  Yeah.  Yeah, those are some VERY normal breasts".

... "Thhhhank you?"

And I should note, in his voice, it didn't sound terrifyingly creepy.  I know it may read that way, but that wasn't it.  He really sounded impressed, to be honest.  Impressed by the overwhelming normalcy of my chest.  I didn't know how to take it.  In fact, it happened almost 6 weeks ago, and I only just told my husband yesterday.  How do you break something like that to your spouse?

Now we get to the reason I told him.  I was at Maternity Doctor's Appointment Two, during the "lay back and show the doctor your tummy portion" (gosh this all sounds so humiliating when you lay it out this way), when Mr. Doctor asked if my "body has been changing".  I mentioned that I felt I was getting thicker around the middle and... and that's when it happened.  He stuck his thumb into my belly button and pinched my lower abdominal fat.  He then... give me a moment, this is hard to say... he then wiggled it.  He wiggled it and asked, "See this?  Your body wants to store food in case you need it later."

Yes, my Dear Mr. Doctor, I understand the concept of fat.  I really, REALLY didn't need a hands on object lesson.

I get that to Dear Mr. Doctor, I am just some old clunker who has come in for some minor repairs, but just the same, I'd rather you not spend so much time man-handling the seat cushions and commenting on the tail pipe.  Stick to what's necessary, and remember one thing:  In reality, I am, in fact, a pregnant woman.  And while I probably won't sue you or smack you when you've crossed the boundaries you never seem to see, if you wiggle any part of me again I promise you I WILL start to cry.

I think that's fair warning for the both of us.

With great power comes great big stress ulcers

One of the things I've learned over the past few years is that parental incompetence begins long before the stork ever drops that kid off at your door step.  Which brings me to an issue that's been on my mind a great deal lately.  I'm pretty sure I might be an incompetent parent.

First, let me answer your question. No, I'm not drinking. I'm not doing drugs or eating buckets full of tuna or engaging in any other crazy and irresponsible behavior that may label me incompetent. No no, this is different than that.  I don't know, may be worse.

Because in 28 short weeks, I'm suppossed to tell some professional medical-type people what my kid's name is.  And I have no freakin' clue.

I've never had any sort of desire to wield this kind of power over another human.  I never made a list of baby names I would one day name my children when I was in high school.  (Because seriously, girls who don't get dates do NOT plan that far ahead.  We have more pressing concerns from day to day, like, "I hope no one looks at me and notices my... face", or the oh so unforgettable, "Don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down".) And for heaven's sake, I'm even terrible at naming pets.  Example: we are currently on our second cat named Allie (of course, the first one was an abandoned infant I found in a parking lot and it was sickly and it only lived for about a week, so I'm not sure if that counts.)  Unfortunately, everyone except for George Forman seems to frown on naming each of your kids the same thing.

For years husband and I liked the name Xavier.  Husband recommended it pronounced with a Z sound, and that sometimes we call him Zave.  But now we worry that if our poor kid is a nerd, (I know, OUR kid?? You'd never suspect...) that name will just sort of emphasize the nerdiness.  So Xavier is out.  Sorry Charlie.  Hmmm... Charlie?  No.

Anyway, there's a number of names that I think are ... nice, but nothing I necessarily love.  Nothing I'm elated about.  Nothing I'm ready to brand another human with for the rest of his or her life.  If you're curious how I did this once before, I didn't.  Husband picked the name years before we were in a position to think about it, and it sounded good.  So we went with it, and that worked out fine.  But maybe I should have some say on this kid?

Probably not.  ::Sigh::  This all just feels like one more thing to put in the memo line of the checks I will inevitably be writing to Thing 2's therapist.

Love, Mommy.

Internet-trospection

I had a difficult moment of realization this morning when checking my site stats.  What I learned was that an unfortunately large number of people have stumbled across this blog while searching for some disturbingly fetishistic internet material.  Most recently, for example, I've been discovered thrice from the Google search "fat wives exposed".

First, this hurt my feelings.  Especially when I clicked the link they followed, and realized it was a picture of me in my skinny jeans.  Then, I felt dirty and, well, exposed.  Someone was looking for creepy porn, and then went to my blog instead.  My husband assures me that if nothing else, he's certain they were disappointed. ...Thanks?

I guess there are certain things you shouldn't say on the internet.  Like fat. Or bottom. Or wife.  Or pee?  Yeah, there was some search about pee too.  This sort of feels like Google is setting me up to look like a total perv.  Thanks a lot Google.  Well with any luck, maybe the creeps will click around and generate a few ad sense bucks my way.  Really, I think it's the least they can do after making me feel like a fat, exposed, wannabe amateur porn star.  Seriously, creeps.  Help a sista' out.

Mucho excitement week, and looking devastatingly chubby.

Well, after 10 1/2 hours of sleep last night, I'm quite ready for a nap now.  In my defense, I've already been awake for like, a few hours, so... there ya go.

My overall sleepiness is a big problem at the moment though, because this is not a week for sleeping.  THIS is a week for celebrating.  Tomorrow, my incredible little weirdo of a baby girl turns 2.  A bona fide toddler, as she's even starting to fit into some clothes with a T behind the number, instead of the word "months".  Target has taught me that 2 years is wicked monumental.

Then, to make matters additional, the day after My big girl turns bigger, I turn super duper old. 28, not 27, as a friend of mine had to remind me.  Does 28 sound old?  28 sounds old.  But it doesn't matter, because the day I turn older, we'll be celebrating birthday week at Disneyland.  And it's supposed to be under 70.  I'm too excited to feel old and creaky.

Anyway, I can't button my pants anymore.  It's become a problem.  Or at least a nnoying.  To make matters worse, everyone I ever ever see tells me the same dang thing: "Wow! You're HOW far along? You don't even look pregnant!"

Neurotic Girl Translation: You look a lot fatter, but just fatter. That is all.

So I've decided to take some drastic measures. I've tossed aside my old jeans and the rubber bands I was using to keep them closed and donned actual factual maternity clothes.  Because the secret awesome behind maternity clothes is that pretty much no matter what, they make you look pregnant. Okay, right, if you're super skinny, and have nothing resembling a belly, they will probably just emphasize your six-packiness.

But if you have any sort of a belly, instead of smooshing it down like your regular zip up jeans tend to, maternity plans just let it all fly.  So here is my belly today, nearly 11 weeks pregs.

Here is what my belly CAN look like, if I really throw my back into it.

Impressive, right?  I think I'm gonna start walking around like that.

One of these days I hope I get to look in the mirror and see a pregnant belly, not just the slow fade of my years worth of weight loss.

Anyway: HAPPY BIRTHDAY WEEK TO THE MILLER LADIES! WOOP WOOP!