You wouldn’t think it would take me a month to post about the most important event of my life to date.  Then again, the sort of event that qualifies as the most important one of my life to date isn’t exactly conducive to having the time to write the sort of blog post that does it justice, so maybe you would think it would take me a month.  Of course, it only took me a few days to post pics to Facebook, so maybe this is just yet another of those cases where Facebook has ruined my ability to blog.  Seeing as there are all of ten of you who actually follow my blog and you’re all on Facebook, there’s probably very little point to posting now.  But A) it seems wrong not to mention the birth of my first baby on my blog and B) even though there are captions on my Facebook pics, they don’t convey my point of view.  Not that I’m likely conveying much through these sleep-deprived words.   But anyway, here goes…

All through my pregnancy, I watched TLC’s A Baby Story religiously. All five times a day it airs. Then I called it preparation for childbirth. Now, twenty-nine days after giving birth, I’m still watching it, only I call it all I do is nurse my baby every 2-3 hours, what else am I supposed to do? comparing notes.  Herein follows my baby story:  Read the rest of this entry »

For those of you who don’t follow me on Facebook:  I am too heavy to sit in my husband’s lap.

This would be grounds for utter devastation, were it not for the fact that I am 38 1/2 weeks pregnant with a baby that will probably make headlines and retaining enough water to fill Lake Superior.   It’s easy to be amused about outweighing your husband (yes, I really do) when you know that in a few days, you’ll be well on your way back to the status quo.  (Oh yeah; in my failure to update this blog regularly, I might have neglected to mention that we’re going to induce labor next Monday, a week ahead of my due date.  Because of the Lake Superior and 19-pound baby issues.)

My poor husband must be given credit where credit is due; he tried to let me sit on his lap.

He was browsing the interwebs for new computer desks (for his upcoming new work-from-home job, which I also really need to post about!) and I wanted to look with him but didn’t want to walk the whole six feet over to my desk to drag my chair over, so I asked if I could sit in his lap, as I often do when we want to look at stuff together.  The dear man didn’t even cast a wary eye over my gargantuan belly before un-crossing his legs to accommodate me in his lap.

So, certainly he can’t be blamed for letting out a quiet, “Uffda!” when I sat on him. Or even for adding, “You are kind of heavy,” because he was amused, not critical; my vanity wasn’t the least bit wounded, though I feared his lap was. I asked if I should get up and get my chair.

“No,” he sort of gritted out, shaking his head with determination — like a weight-lifter asked by his spotter if he needs a hand with his bench press. “You’re fine.”

I was fine for about three minutes longer.

Really, it’s a testament to what a sweet man he is that he can tell his wife she’s squashing him (and that he’s looking forward to the return of the status quo, too) without making her cry. (Of course, considering I have only had one melt-down during my entire pregnancy, I’m starting to think that instead of becoming hormonally unhinged, I have developed the emotional control of a Vulcan.  Eat your heart out, Mr. Spock.  I only hope this continues through those harrowing weeks of learning to live with a newborn.)

I’ve always liked my husband a lot.  Duh.  That’s why I married him.  But pregnancy has made me like him even more.

Probably I shouldn’t have said that.  Undoubtedly, he’ll remind me of these words at some crucial juncture Monday when I’m at the brink of screaming at him never to touch me again.

It dawned on me this morning that now I’ve got a car again (should have thought of this last week, when I acquired said motor vehicle; but I am pregnant, ergo, a little bit slow), I don’t have to do my grocery shopping on the weekends, when Walmart is a circus. If my grocery budget would allow it, I’d shop anywhere but Walmart, because even on weekday mornings, when it’s not busy, Walmart can be extremely annoying because there are certain items I buy that they don’t sell (or, more annoying, used to sell, but don’t any longer — most recently, Wolf hot dog chili).

So, before Walmart, I ran in Kroger for the express purpose of buying Ragu 7 Herb Tomato pasta sauce. Two jars of it.

I came out with six jars.

Plus six more in other varieties.

And nine boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch…

…five boxes of Lucky Charms…

…four boxes of Barilla pasta…

…three 8-roll packs of Bounty paper towels…

…and two packages of Oscar Mayer hot dogs.

It’s like The Very Hungry Caterpillar Goes Grocery Shopping.

I couldn’t help myself! They were all items I buy regularly, and they were on sale cheaper than Walmart ever has them, and in stock, and–

Well, you know you may have gone a little beyond taking advantage of a good sale when the cashier remarks, “Not planning on going out for a while?”

I gave a sheepish laugh and indicated my baby belly. I should have told her I was preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse and asked if she was ready (because nothing says preparedness for zombie attack like weenies, cereal, pasta sauce, and paper towels). But I never think of these things in the moment. Even when I’m not pregnant.

One of the things I’ve discovered about being pregnant is that everyone likes to make small talk with you.  (Once it’s obvious that you are, indeed, sporting a baby belly and not a spare tire.)  I think it’s one of those things in life that’s common to just about everyone:  either they, personally, have had a baby, or are in the process of having one, or they know someone who has had/is having a baby.  Also, I think people just like babies and pregnant women!

Sunday night, Mr. Burt and I went to dinner at Sweet Tomatoes (which is, by the way, a fantastic salad bar/buffet that caters to a younger, more health-conscious crowd than Golden Corral or Sirloin Stockade) because I was too tired to cook after a long previous day of shopping and decorating, a largely sleepless night, and a baby shower that afternoon.  As we were carrying our trays of salad to a table, one of the guys busing tables interrupted an animated conversation he was having with a table of ladies to shout to me, “Hey!  How many months are you?  Eight?”

“Just about,” I replied.

He threw his hands up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.  “I knew it!”

“You’re having a boy,” chimed in one of the women, pointing at my belly.  “I can tell from how you’re carrying.”

“Oh yeah,” agreed the busboy.  “You’re totally having a boy.”

“It is a little boy,” I said.

Another victory dance.  I wondered how excited this guy would get if his own wife told him he was having a boy.  “Is he going to be a junior?” he asked Mr. Burt.

“Nah,” Mr. Burt answered.  “He’s my little dude, but we’re not naming him after me.”

The busboy’s jaw dropped.  “You have to name him after you!  Carry on the family name — all the kings did.  You know, like Henry VIII.”

Apparently the busboy missed the part where Henry VIII kept divorcing and beheading his wives because they weren’t having boys… (Though, to be fair, Henry VIII’s illegitimate son was a junior.)

“You should name him Kingston!” suggested the woman subscribing to the old wives’ tale that carrying low means a boy.

“As in, the capital of Jamaica?” I whispered to Mr. Burt as we left the busboy and the customer to continue their discussion about what to name baby boys.  Who knows?  Maybe a romance blossomed that night, and nine months from now the busboy will be the proud papa of Busboy, Jr.

Thankfully, the nurse who took my blood pressure yesterday at my OB appointment thinks Liam Alexander is a great name.  We concur.

This could turn out to be one of those memorable weekends.  Take lots of photos and preserve the memories.

Considering that I spent Saturday in a state of insatiable hunger and today throwing up everything I attempted to eat, this weekend’s memories are not ones I want to preserve.  Especially not in photographs.  Therefore, my horoscope is wrong.

Or, since I’m immortalizing it on the interwebs, does that mean it’s right?

Also, wouldn’t this have been a better horoscope for the start of a weekend than the finish?  What if my Friday night or Saturday had been awesome, but I found myself without a camera because I hadn’t yet been told by a clairvoyant to bring one?  Horoscope fail!