And all I have is gratitude...

Last weekend, Matt and I were invited to our doula's wonderful Birth Preparation Workshop to be guest speakers. (I promised Matt that he wouldn't have to actually speak, but I may have lied a little bit.) I have to admit, finding myself in a room full of pregnant women made me feel a little wistful, because for the most part, I really loved being pregnant (no matter what I said during the last two weeks, okay?) and because soon, these lovely ladies will all be meeting their babies, and OH NEWBORN LOVE! See, technically I guess Isaac is a newborn for another week or so, but he just seems so big to me now. And I love it. I love watching him grow, I love how he's rounding out -- all belly and cheeks, YUM! -- and turning into such a solid little guy. I love how alert he is. I love all the little glimpses into his personality -- little gifts of insight each day.

It's just that it goes so fast. Every parent says this, and it's one of those things you hear so often it loses its meaning -- until it's your babies outgrowing all their newborn clothes and rolling over and learning to walk and starting kindergarten. Watching my children grow is the single greatest joy of my life, but still, sometimes I wish I could hold each moment just a little longer.

As we left the workshop, I may have turned to Matt and said, "So, let's have like SIX MORE BABIES, okay? I want more new ones!" (Ladies, just a heads-up: this type of declaration is probably a really great form of birth control after you have a baby. It's just not sexy talk, is what I'm saying.) Matt stared at me and said, "Man. You have a newborn addiction."

People say that when you're done having babies, you just KNOW because it feels THAT FINAL. I remain unconvinced. I'm pretty sure I'll always feel a little wistful when I see pregnant women or hold a newborn -- and that doesn't mean I actually want to have eight babies, despite the fact that Matt and I broke off eight rings of our kransekake at our wedding reception. And honestly, I am more than happy to focus on the two children we have, because they're more than enough and more than I could hope for. I just really like babies, and I often do miss being pregnant. (Although I have to admit that this time I did feel quite ready to be done.) But in the spirit of not wasting too much energy mourning the past when I have so much to be grateful for today, here are some things that are particularly awesome about the right now of my life:

-- Getting into bed and getting comfortable is so easy. I'm not remotely picky about what position I fall asleep in (when Isaac isn't nestled against me, anyway) and Matt doesn't have to listen to me grunting as I heave my huge belly into bed and struggle to create the right arrangement of the twelve pillows that make sleeping even slightly comfortable.

-- There is no tiny human pressing against my bladder. Which means I sleep as long as Isaac will let me, as opposed to having to heave myself out of bed and waddle into the bathroom every ninety minutes, all night long. (Five hours in a row the other night! Can I tell you how easy it is to be completely in love with your kid after five whole hours of sleep?)

-- I haven't had to take a Zofran since early December. I wake up feeling like I could sleep for ten more hours, sure, BUT! I don't spend the first ten minutes of my day hunched over a toilet bowl, and that feels fantastic.

-- I can breathe again! I don't miss pregnancy sinuses. I don't have to spray forty blasts of saline solution into my nose three times a night just to sleep.

-- I can put on my socks all by myself! Because I can totally reach my feet!

-- I was going to write something about how great it is that I don't have to wear maternity clothes anymore, but it's not like I have my pre-pregnancy body back, so I'm going to have to pass on that. Plus, there is a distinct advantage to maternity jeans. When everyone else was unbuttoning their pants at Thanksgiving and saying they'd just like a tiny piece of pie, I was all, I'LL HAVE BOTH KINDS, PLEASE, with whipped cream. So get back to me when I fit into my real clothes again, and until then, nevermind.

-- I miss feeling my baby kick, which is absolutely my favorite part of pregnancy, but I also really love kissing his feet outside my body.

-- I love seeing Isaac's expressive little face, especially after he finishes nursing. He's beginning to smile (love those milk-drunk grins!), and the rest of the time, if he's not just sacked out peacefully, he makes the goofiest little faces. (Many of them remind me of Suzannah's newborn expressions, and while Suzannah and Isaac are obviously very different children, I also love noticing the things that connect them in such subtle, intimate ways.)

-- Witnessing the developing relationship between Suzannah and Isaac is a blessing and a privilege. This deserves its own entry -- probably lots of entries -- but for now, I'll just say that each day I'm struck by how lucky I feel that Matt and I were chosen to be parents to these particular children. It may seem rather obvious, but I'm still kind of amazed by how perfectly Isaac fits into our family, how he's exactly the right sibling for Suzannah. I can't articulate why; I just know that he is.

-- Little onesies and little jammies and little socks. ALL FILLED WITH BABY.

-- That newborn smell. You know what I'm talking about. That newborn smell pretty much destroys all sense of reason.

In other news, tomorrow begins my third week of staying home with my babies. We're hanging in there. Last week I actually ventured out with them almost every day, and it was much less scary than I thought it would be. It's also very, very good for this mama's sanity, which is probably why this Sunday seems a little less daunting.

Another Still Pregnant! post

This is not a Birth Announcement. This is not even a Labor Announcement. I should just go ahead and get that out of the way, because every time I talk on the phone or send an e-mail these days the first thing I have to say is I AM NOT IN LABOR! And then I become decidedly less interesting.

Once I bypassed the crucial 37-week mark and realized I probably wouldn't be giving birth immediately, I actually wanted to stay pregnant until at least today, more than two whole weeks past the 37-week mark, because today was supposed to be Suzannah's first Christmas program at church and I really, really wanted to see her in it. The good news is that as far as I can tell, I'm not in labor yet. The bad news is that Suzannah came down with a cold late last week, and while she seems to feel a bit better than she did two days ago, she has almost completely lost her voice. She sounds, I think, a lot worse than she feels, but we decided to keep her home. She's touchy and croaky, and while I would love to see my little girl up there with all the other kids, I decided it wasn't fair to drag her out when she wasn't feeling great just for my sake. And anyway, she's three; she's not really the glue that holds the program together. There will be other Christmas programs, right?

Still, I'm in a bit of a funk over this, and I'm second-guessing our decision as well, since our daughter is not resting -- she's being an absolute pill this morning. I just love that stage where kids are too sick to go out but they're not sick enough to snuggle on the couch with movies or books; they're stir-crazy and prone to fits of whining. Fun times. Right now Matt is concocting some kind of delicious French toast brunch creation with cream cheese and apple slices, and I suppose that will help me cope.

So anyway, 39+ weeks pregnant is a lot different than 36 or 37 weeks pregnant. I know I felt uncomfortable a couple of weeks ago, but was it really just a few days after Thanksgiving that I could waddle up the street in Seattle and browse through Elliott Bay Book Company? And go to dinner afterward? I haven't left my house since Thursday, and I can hardly waddle between the couch and the bathroom. I have contractions all the time, but they have yet to settle into a pattern or otherwise do anything.

I never got to this point when I was pregnant with Suzannah, which makes sense since she was nearly a month early. I mean, I was uncomfortable. Of course. That's what happens before you go into labor. But I taught three junior classes and two sophomore classes until the day before I went into active labor. I cleaned my house, I did laundry, I drove my dog to the vet, and when I was done with all that I reorganized all our bookshelves, learned how to knit, and drafted my own plan for healthcare reform. (Just kidding. I totally can't knit.)

Now, though, my brain has turned to mush. Two weeks ago, I read South of Broad and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo in rapid succession, but I've been unable to read more than a hundred pages of The Plague of Doves in a week -- and I love Louise Erdrich. I have all these beginnings of journal entries that just sort of fizzle out. I can hardly even finish an episode of Gilmore Girls, and it's not like that takes a great deal of concentration.

It doesn't exactly help to tell myself that my brain is probably going to be pretty mushy for quite some time.

But based on a few gory details I won't write about here (much to my mother's disappointment, I'm sure), I don't think it will be long. And for the most part, I'm okay with that, because I think babies know better than we do when their birthdays should be. I think it must be getting crowded in there and life might be nicer on the outside, but then again, if Baby is comfortable and healthy and wants to just chill out for awhile longer, that's okay with me.

Waiting...

This whole waiting to go into labor, expecting it, is totally new for me.

When I went into labor with Suzannah, I was very much not expecting it. I rationalized everything, telling myself this is just what it feels like to be really pregnant, I guess. Finally, when I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without dropping to all fours in the hallway and panting through a contraction, I realized I had to come to terms with the fact that I was actually going to have a baby. Imminently.

I'm just over 38 weeks pregnant now, and I've already started my maternity leave, so that leaves me all this time to do the following things: OBSESS and OVER-ANALYZE. And hey, guess what! I'm super good at both of those things already! Excellent. Seriously, though, at least once a day I am utterly convinced that I'm going into labor within the day. On the flip side, at least once a day I freak out about how this baby will go to college in my belly and Matt will have to help me put on my pants for the rest of our lives. What a lucky man.

Well, I hear all babies have to be born eventually.

My guilt over not working anymore is ebbing, though, because I'm pretty wickedly uncomfortable. That, and I absolutely reached my limit of what kinds of comments I could endure and still respond in a civilized manner. I grew resigned to the usual barrage: Are you sure you're not having twins? You look like you're ready to POP, you're HUGE! No way will you make it to your due date! What is your due date? No, your EXACT due date? You're definitely having a boy. You're definitely having a girl. You're huge. You look incredibly uncomfortable. You've dropped. J., you've had four kids, look at her -- hasn't she dropped?

But the last one I heard on my way out the door WINS.

On the day before Thanksgiving, I had to swing through the office to sign some paperwork on my way out. The worst offender, the one who always makes the most bizarre and inappropriate comments (and is also a woman I really don't know, which makes her comments even more bizarre and inappropriate), walked over to me and grimaced.

"You look like you're dilating," she said.

Blink.

Blink blink.

What?

"I mean, have you gone in and gotten your cervix checked?" she asked.

I was literally speechless for a moment, and then the tiny Shari in my head screamed at her, "How can I possibly LOOK like I'm DILATING?" Finally, I just said, "Uh, no, and I'm not planning to, ever, because I don't think that information is at all relevant." Seriously, there is only one number that matters, and when I get to that number, no one will need to tell me. (I probably should have followed that with, "And how is this at all an appropriate thing to ask someone you hardly know? In an office?")

She continued to gape at me, then said, "Well, have fun," in a tone of voice that suggested I was somehow either stupid or crazy. For what, though, I'm not sure -- for dilating without checking? For being pregnant at all?

I just -- I really don't even know. I look like I'm dilating?

I ran into one of my colleagues on my way to my car.

"L. told me I look like I'm dilating," I said. When my colleague managed to gain control of her hysterical laughter, she asked, "Where -- uh, where was she looking?"

This little encounter is perhaps all I need to think about when I question whether or not I should have stuck it out at school a little longer.

37 weeks and change...

Still pregnant.
Still having tons of contractions.
Still feeling great in the mornings, exhausted in the afternoons, significantly uncomfortable at night.
Nothing terribly interesting going on.

I keep trying to compare this pregnancy to Suzannah's, but obviously that's ridiculous, and I'm only succeeding in driving myself crazy. I know perfectly well I could go into labor tomorrow or still be pregnant two weeks from now, and that's all fine; it's just hard for me, the eternal control-freak, to accept the fact that I can't predict when or how labor will start. Or how it will go. I know there's some annoying life lesson in all this.

Thanksgiving was, overall, quite pleasant. Matt baked his famous pies, my dad took care of the turkey and stuffing, and my mom cooked pretty much everything else and cleaned my house and put up my Christmas decorations. (See, Friday or Saturday would have been such a convenient day for me to go into labor -- so much help, a clean house...which is why I knew it wouldn't happen.) On Saturday, we drove up to Seattle and wandered around a bit; I wanted to hit up the Elliott Bay Book Company and we had some good coffee. I didn't think I'd make it to Seattle again before I had this baby, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea. And it was fine, but every time I start to feel guilty about leaving work before I'm actually in labor, I go out and walk more than twenty feet and realize that I'm really, really not up for working days anymore. Matt parked just down the street from the bookstore, and by the time I waddled in the door I was really, really uncomfortable. If I'm on my feet, I'm pretty much contracting non-stop.

BUT, I have officially passed the 37-week mark! Which means that whenever I do go into labor, I can head to the birth center and deliver with my fabulous midwife. It also means I can vigorously scrub the kitchen at 10:30 at night if I feel like it without worrying that I'm going to send my body into preterm labor, and that's exactly what I did last night. It took a long time, because by that time of night I am one big ball of Braxton-Hicks contractions and I actually have to breathe through some of them, but wow, did it feel good to scrub things. I haven't done much more than light dusting for over three weeks now, and my nesting urges have been pretty unbearable.

But it made Matt nervous. "Is this a LABOR PROJECT?" he kept asking.

"I don't think so," I said. But then I reminded him that labor, at this point, is pretty inevitable. And also, it's going to happen soon regardless of whether I scrub the kitchen or lie on the couch.

"Well, yeah," he said. "But you know me. I like to procrastinate."

At any rate, I woke up very much Not In Labor this morning. Matt and I headed to my 37-week prenatal appointment (I wasn't sure I'd make it this far!) and things are fine -- now we're just waiting. I vacuumed my house today (ahhhh!) and did some laundry and squeezed in a nap. It's weird not to be teaching. This morning I felt so energetic that I wasted a good chunk of time second-guessing my "early" maternity leave, but as usual, once lunchtime hit, I couldn't keep my eyes open or remain comfortably on my feet, so I guess that's my answer.

36 weeks 2 days!

Oh, heyyyy, look at this! Still pregnant! Five days 'till full-term and I can stop worrying (or worry a lot less) about a hospital birth I do not want!

I actually sort of hesitate to write things like that, for a couple of reasons: One, I don't want to jinx myself and go into labor tonight (though I should hasten to add that I don't feel at all like I'm going to), and two, I don't want anyone to think that I'm dumb enough to assume I can predict the date on which this baby will be born or that I'm just SO READY to be DONE! I'm uncomfortable in that hugely-pregnant way, but I'm not miserable, especially because I've spent the better part of the last week easing into my maternity leave. I'm finishing up at school a little earlier than I intended, but I'm trying to listen to my body's cues this time around. Sometime during the wee hours of Wednesday morning after a particularly sleepless night, I realized that I just don't have it in me to teach my full schedule anymore; I wind up exhausted and I have too many contractions. (Teaching freshmen requires a whole lot of energy, y'all.) So I went to school on Wednesday morning and asked my department chair if we could possibly get my afternoon classes covered for the rest of the week. Since I'm already on a .8 contract, taking a half-day means I only had to show up to teach my juniors, and I love my juniors, so I had a pleasant couple of days. I've also had a lot -- a lot, a lot, a lot -- of grading to catch up on, and I know that if I taught my full schedule there's no way any of that grading would happen, because when I come home it's pretty much me just hanging out with Suzannah for the rest of the day. On the couch, if she lets me. Forget grading when she goes to bed, because when she goes to bed, I go to bed. I've gone to bed earlier several times, actually. I'm basically completely useless at night.

My juniors threw me a huge surprise party yesterday. I got to school shortly before third period, tossed my stuff on my desk, and ran (or waddled) up to the office building to pee during passing time. When I returned to my classroom, I was met by three of my junior boys, who blocked the door and began to sing -- a noisy version of "Silent Night," of all things. (They were especially animated when they sang the words "mother" and "child." Also, "virgin.") I laughed, then asked if I was allowed to go inside yet. I could see that my classroom was dark...

...and when I opened the door, they flipped the lights on and yelled something -- "Surprise!" or "Congratulations!" or something I don't remember, because I was busy staring, absolutely wide-eyed, at my room. They'd all gathered underneath a giant banner they'd decorated and signed, and the room was full of pink and blue streamers and tons of balloons. And food, from one end of the room to the other -- cupcakes and brownies and cookies and chips and breads and dips and huge bottles of juice and soda. I was literally speechless. I wasn't really surprised they'd done something, but I thought maybe they'd give me a big card. The fact that they threw this room together in six minutes flat and managed to coordinate so much food and so many decorations (when? I don't know!) blew my mind. And the dorky teacher side of me thought, what a cool class -- they work together so well.

There may have been a childbirth simulation involving a backpack and a baby doll tied on a piece of string. That was fairly horrifying. There was also helium, so the boys -- well. They did what boys do, and I was serenaded some more, with their squeaky little helium voices.

They were noisy and silly and loud and I loved them, and I'm more than a little sad that I won't finish out the year with this class. (But it was nice to have some closure; when I was pregnant with Suzannah, I went into labor so suddenly over Memorial weekend that I just didn't go back to school on Tuesday after a perfectly normal Friday, and I found myself in a funk on the kids' last day of school.)

I really am ready to be done at school, though. I'm starting to let the crankiness out a little too much, and it's not even towards the kids; it's towards every adult who had children decades ago and therefore feels strangely entitled to share their observations and opinions with me. I don't actually need to know that I look like I'm about to pop because my belly has DROPPED so MUCH this time! (Fun Fact: After your first pregnancy, you often don't "drop" until you are literally in labor, but it's not at all uncommon to carry lower. Shouldn't they remember this? They seem to remember everything else.) And also, I don't understand why my pregnancy and birth experience has to mirror someone else's in order for it to be THE RIGHT ONE. And ALSO, I have no patience for people who begin sentences with, "When I was that pregnant, I was still__________." Fill in the blank with whatever impressive thing you want, and then listen to me snap, WELL PIN A ROSE ON YOUR FRICKIN' NOSE. (I really did say that to someone who has a little more, ahem, authority than me at school. Thank goodness the principal looked amused -- and also very much like he wanted to be in a different room at that point. Yeah, it's probably best that I leave now.)

More than once this week I thought, you know, it's a good thing I won't be back to school until next fall, or I'd have to listen to everyone tell me I should be stuffing my baby full of rice cereal or she'll never sleep through the night, and also, I need to be teaching her to sleep on her own. By the time I go back, I will be so deeply entrenched in my ridiculous parenting ways that perhaps people will consider me a lost cause and leave me alone.

35 weeks 2 days

Hello, my poor little neglected blog. Let's see if I remember how this thing works.

First things first: I did not go into labor last night and I am not in labor this morning! Of this I am reasonably certain! Now, you ask, why are you even announcing this, since you are not due for weeks? Because. Last night, Matt and Suzannah and I went out to dinner with Kyanne and her husband, and the last time we made actual concrete plans to do this together, husbands in tow, we wound up having the following conversation late in the afternoon:

Me: Yeah, so, I'm feeling really tired and uncomfortable. Do you think we could maybe meet somewhere closer to home? I don't know if I can handle a car ride all the way to Tacoma.
Kyanne: Uh, do you want to maybe just not go?
Me: No, I can go, I think, I just don't think I want to be that far away from home.
Kyanne: Are you SURE? Maybe we can just go another time?
Me: Well...maybe.

And a few hours later I was on all fours in the hallway, in very active labor with Suzannah. For the record, her husband totally called that I would go into labor that night, and last night when I told Matt we'd be meeting them, he called on his way and said, "Oh, by the way? DON'T GO INTO LABOR YET."

And I didn't. I wasn't even unreasonably uncomfortable. We had a very pleasant evening at this wonderful little Greek restaurant in Kent, something I wanted to do while it's still relatively easy to hop in the car and go out for dinner if we feel like it...because I know those days are numbered. (And no, I'm not exactly planning to become a shut-in or anything, but right now all I have to do is say, "Okay, Zannah-pants, get your shoes on!" and we're gone. It's nice. And don't ask me why I call my daughter Zannah-pants, because I don't really know.)

Suzannah was an absolute ham all night. More than usual. She stayed up way too late, which meant that she slept in she woke us up about forty-five minutes before we normally have to haul her out of bed on weekdays. Charming how that works.

We've been asking her if she thinks we're having a baby girl or a baby boy, since everyone always says the siblings just intuitively know. Mostly, she announces that she wants a baby girl (is this the same thing as knowing we're having one, or is she just putting in her request?) but the other morning she switched it up and said, "Um...a baby boy." That afternoon, she flung her hands up in the air and said, "I don't know!"

Perhaps we're bugging her too much.

So anyway, things are going well. I have a nice stash of prefold diapers and covers washed up and ready to go, and this weekend my plan is to get some kind of storage for them. We haven't bought any of the pocket diapers I want yet, but I think the prefolds will last us nicely for the first several weeks at least (and really as long as we need or want them to). My other plan this weekend is to get everything packed for the birth center, since, as I recall, we hadn't packed a thing when I went into labor with Suzannah. Of course, that also means that I already know I don't need a lot of stuff, so this shouldn't be so difficult. (I always laughed at the "suggested" list of things to pack that you find in mainstream pregnancy books and magazines. Really? Reading material? Thank-you cards? Anyway, if all goes well, we'll only be at the birth center for a few hours after the birth, so I won't have to worry about killing time there.)

Matt has taken over all the vacuuming for the next couple of weeks; my midwife suggested that I take it easy at least until I hit full-term at 37 weeks. Which, incidentally, is twelve days from now, or Thanksgiving Day. I don't particularly feel that labor is imminent or anything, and I'm more than happy to be pregnant as long as this baby needs me to be, but Suzannah was born right around 37 weeks so I feel like I should at least try to prepare myself for that.

I'm going to go right ahead and admit that it's hard for me to relinquish control of the vacuuming. Matt told me I'd just have to lower my standards (yeah, that helped me relax), but he's actually been really wonderful about taking on far more than his share of the chores around here. Then again, he informed me that he doesn't envy me, being the one to carry and birth our baby, so I guess it all evens out in the end.

Good things

Since I know you're all on pins and needles, let me just update you on my glucose tolerance test.

I came home to a message from my midwife's office: Please call. Which, in my brain, instantly translated to: Your numbers were high, you have gestational diabetes, you are going to need to start treating yourself with insulin and see a dietician, and also, your baby will be fourteen pounds by your next appointment and we will need to schedule an induction STAT, and also, you suck.

I don't know, I just assumed. I didn't remember them actually calling me to tell me I passed when I was pregnant with Suzannah. I thought they just told me at my next prenatal appointment or something -- no news is good news and all that.

So I called them back, and the nurse wasn't at her desk, so I had to wait. During my eight minutes and fifteen seconds of waiting, I sent Matt a couple of hysterical instant messages at work -- something along the lines of, I'm sure I failed, they're going to bully me into doing terrible and unnecessary things to my body and my baby, I suck, they suck, everything sucks.

He responded mildly, "Baby, I'm sure it's fine -- let's just assume they're calling back to tell you that you passed." He's just so reasonable sometimes. It's kind of maddening, really.

The phone rang. I snatched it up.

"Hi, Shari. We got your numbers back."

"AND?"

"They're totally fine."

Well. I knew that.

So let me share the other things that have made this a really great Tuesday:

--a vanilla rooibos tea latte on my way to school

--getting a wicked amount of grading done today

--blustery fall weather

--which means that I can finally wear the cute sweaters I picked up back in early August

--and Suzannah can wear her new pink sweats, which make her so huggable. More than usual. I can't stop cuddling her. And also, she says she has "comfy pants like Mama." LOVE IT.

--waffle fries with our veggie burgers (I have a serious thing for waffle fries)

--buying tickets for Kyanne and me to go see MARGARET ATWOOD read from her latest novel, The Year of the Flood

This last one is huge. This is my rock concert. Sherman Alexie is reading from his latest collection of short stories the night before, and normally I'd be all over that, but two consecutive trips to Town Hall, on school nights, during a week in which I have a prenatal appointment in Tacoma and a trip to the pumpkin patch at Remlinger Farms -- well, it's a bit much. Besides, I've seen Sherman Alexie a handful of times now, and all of my books are autographed, and I've had my picture taken with the man. I love Sherman Alexie, but, you know, he's not MARGARET ATWOOD.

I have loved Margaret Atwood since I was nineteen years old, when I first discovered The Handmaid's Tale -- the first book to keep me company during my summer in Alaska after my freshman year of college. And whatever, everyone has read The Handmaid's Tale, and it's not even my favorite Atwood, but it will always be my first, and I have such clear memories of reading it, shivering in my fleece pullover while the wind raged outside my shoddy little room at Rainbow King Lodge. (Wait, what? You haven't read it? Then what are you doing here, reading this useless blog? GO GET YOURSELF SOME ATWOOD. RIGHT NOW.) Cat's Eye and The Robber Bride were both airplane reads that stuck with me long after I climbed off the plane. The Blind Assassin is one of my favorite books, period -- my favorite of hers, so far. Lady Oracle was a purely wonderful Spring Break escape several years ago. The Penelopiad is razor-sharp, funny, and haunting. I love her essays. I love her shorter pieces in Good Bones and Simple Murders. And I should probably reread Oryx and Crake, since The Year of the Flood apparently picks up where that one leaves off, and I haven't read it since 2003.

Margaret Atwood on The Year of the Flood (via amazon.com):

I’ve never before gone back to a novel and written another novel related to it. Why this time? Partly because so many people asked me what happened right after the end of the 2003 novel, Oryx and Crake. I didn’t actually know, but the questions made me think about it. That was one reason. Another was that the core subject matter has continued to preoccupy me.

When Oryx and Crake came out, it seemed to many like science fiction--way out there, too weird to be possible--but in the three years that passed before I began writing The Year of the Flood, the perceived gap between that supposedly unreal future and the harsh one we might very well live through was narrowing fast. What is happening to our world? What can we do to reverse the damage? How long have we got? And, most importantly--what kind of "we"? In other words, what kind of people might undertake the challenge? Dedicated ones--they’d have to be. And unless you believe our planet is worth saving, why bother?

So the question of inspirational belief entered the picture, and once you have a set of beliefs--as distinct from a body of measurable knowledge--you have a religion. The God’s Gardeners appear briefly in Oryx and Crake, but in The Year of the Flood, they’re central. Like all religions, the Gardeners have their own leader, Adam One. They also have their own honoured saints and martyrs, their special days, their theology. They may look strange and obsessive and even foolish to non-members, but they’re serious about what they profess; as are their predecessors, who are with us today. I’ve found out a great deal about rooftop gardens and urban beekeeping while writing this book!

Another question frequently asked about Oryx and Crake concerned gender. Why was the story told by a man? How would it have been different if the narrator had been a woman? Such questions led me to Ren and Toby, and then to their respective lives, and also to their places of refuge. A high-end sex club and a luxury spa would in fact be quite good locations in which to wait out a pandemic plague: at least you’d have bar snacks, and a lot of clean towels.

In his book, The Art Instinct, Denis Dutton proposes that our interest in narrative is built in--selected during the very long period the human race spent in the Pleistocene--because any species with the ability to tell stories about both past and future would have an evolutionary edge. Will there be a crocodile in the river tomorrow, as there was last year? If so, better not go there. Speculative fictions about the future, like The Year of the Flood, are narratives of that kind. Where will the crocodiles be? How will we avoid them? What are our chances?

If you've never read Atwood, I think fall is the perfect time to start.

So what did you do with YOUR Saturday?

I had to take the horrible three-hour glucose tolerance test today, and it did not make me a happy camper. First of all, the test itself is stupid. The "failure" rate for the one-hour test is absolutely ridiculous, and most women go on to pass the three-hour just fine. Obviously, I have no idea what my numbers are yet, but I suspect that I will be among those women. I wasn't shocked that I had to take the three-hour test; I "failed" the one-hour when I was pregnant with Suzannah as well, but just barely. This time when the nurse called to break the news, she didn't even want to tell me what my number was -- she suspected, correctly, that I'd be pretty pissy about it.

"If it makes you feel any better, I've seen way higher numbers than yours today," she said.

"I still have to drink that sludge after FASTING," I grumbled. And that's the absolutely stupidity, right there. In what universe does it seem like a good idea to have a pregnant woman fast for twelve hours and then drink a bottle of syrupy grossness, get her blood drawn about a thousand times (okay, four), and continue to not eat for three hours? Because I will tell you right now that almost the first thing I have to do upon waking up is EAT SOMETHING or I will still get sick, in a noisily heaving way that does not scream HOW SEXY AM I? to my husband on the other side of the bathroom door. That's just the way I do pregnancy.

Anyway, I was so tempted to decline the test altogether. But one of the drawbacks of delivering a baby in a hospital is that they come up with all kinds of ways to bully women into submitting to their standard procedures, and I'd really prefer to keep my label of low-risk pregnancy. I'd also like my insurance to continue to cover me and blah blah blabbity blah. (I should add the disclaimer here that I'm as comfortable with my hospital as it is possible to be, and I'm pretty appreciative of the care I've received there. But I had to do my homework -- all hospitals are not created equal.) And in the grand scheme of things, it's not the end of the world, but it did mean going without food for a very long time and getting up way too early on a Saturday morning. I wanted to be there when the doors opened.

I stopped at the clinic first to pick up my paperwork, then hiked across the street to the hospital. The lab was closed. What? My midwife's nurse specifically told me I could do this on a Saturday! Why was I reading a sign that told me that FOR MY CONVENIENCE the lab was open Monday through Friday, 6:30 a.m. - 6:30 p.m.?

I hiked back across the street (since the hospital was also completely deserted; no one was stationed at the information desk yet, and I didn't see anyone who looked like they'd be able to tell me if there was another secret lab somewhere). They told me they thought there was another lab on the ground floor. They gave me a map.

I hiked back to the hospital. I found the second lab. IT WAS CLOSED.

I hiked back to the clinic, sweaty and irritated. I did not wake up before dawn and drive all the way to Tacoma for the lab to be closed. (Or to walk back and forth between the hospital and the clinic eighty-five times.)

The receptionist had no idea what to say; she was very nice, though, and started digging through phone numbers to try to track down someone. Then a nurse appeared and said, "Oh -- there's an after-hours button around the corner. You have to push that, I think."

"Will an actual human being appear?" I asked, only half-joking.

I hiked back to the hospital. (Did I mention I was carrying a bag full of papers I planned to spend three hours grading? You wouldn't think they'd be so heavy, BUT THEY TOTALLY WERE.)

I found the after-hours button. I pushed it. SOMEONE OPENED THE DOOR. He looked as though he'd slept there and it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: a sweaty pregnant woman frantically brandishing her lab paperwork and possibly making some desperate threats. He let me in. Told me to have a seat. I flopped onto a moderately uncomfortable chair while he disappeared into a back room for five minutes. When he reappeared, he said, "Okay, I'm going to send you to a different lab -- they'll take care of you there."

I was skeptical at this point. But I followed his directions and hiked across a skybridge and into the medical plaza connected with the hospital -- and found yet another lab. With people behind the desk! And one or two bleary-eyed people in the waiting area! Hallelujah! And I'd only left my house a mere ninety minutes ago!

My treat for all that work, of course, was a bottle of lime-flavored glucose solution that didn't taste all that horrible but left my throat burning from the syrup overload. And then I got to spend the next three hours trying not to throw it up. It actually wasn't too bad after the first hour (during which I felt shaky and awful); I'd taken a Zofran before I left the house. The lab technician smiled approvingly after my second or third blood draw when I told her I felt pretty okay; she said my body "seemed to be handling this really well, and that's a good sign." (Uh, okay!)

My last blood draw was at 12:06. At 12:07, I was hightailing it out of there to meet Kyanne and Becca for LUNCH! with FOOD! that I could EAT! We met at Mary's Burger Bistro and downed enough fry sauce with our homemade french fries to service the homemade french fry needs of an army. And I ordered a milkshake, which I never do, but today? Today I deserved a milkshake. An Oreo milkshake. (And they're the perfect size there, not like the giant milkshakes that come in a huge glass plus a container of extra. I was so justified in ordering this milkshake. Oh, and the baby wanted it. AND I've eaten roasted vegetables with polenta or brown rice about eight times this week.)

I felt shaky and tired for the rest of the afternoon, but I'm mostly fine. Fine enough, anyway, that I decided I absolutely had to do paint touch-ups in Suzannah's room, our bedroom, and the kitchen tonight. Can't really blame that on pregnancy, though -- that is my normal.

Keeping it simple...well, trying to.

This pregnancy is flying by. At the same time, last May -- when I couldn't even sip water without throwing it back up -- seems so long ago. I only have one more monthly appointment with my midwife before I move into the every-two-weeks phase, and I might get three of those before I go once a week if I haven't delivered by then.

Just, wow.

So things are looking good. Baby's heartbeat is strong, and Baby is moving a lot. I'm carrying absurdly high, which is exactly how I carried Suzannah. I'm so grateful for my midwife, who doesn't fret much about fundal height, and especially not in my case when it appears that this is simply normal for me. I've seen far too many women post on pregnancy boards and communities that their doctors recommended inductions or suggested possible C-sections based on that alone, which I find pretty horrifying since it's such an inexact "science," especially at the later stages (Oh no! Your baby will be too big! Surely, you can't birth her normally, so let's just scare you now so you won't give us too much trouble later!). I'm sure I'll be measuring, like, eighty-five weeks ahead the next time I go in. Whatever. As long as Baby's feet aren't in my esophagus, and I can still breathe, I'm cool with it.

The Braxton-Hicks are more intense this time around, but I haven't experienced anything painful or terribly uncomfortable. Matt does worry about me when I overdo it, though, and last night I went to bed at eight o'clock while he took over kitchen clean-up and all the nighttime parenting. The extra rest was wonderful, though, because I'm still trying to find my groove at school and it's taken its toll a bit. (Happily, though, I've been on top of my game enough this week that I don't have any weekend planning, just my very first stack of grading. Give me an hour with a pumpkin spice latte and it'll all be good.)

I feel like I have so many things to update about, but I'm a little overwhelmed by them. Either I think that no one really wants to read about, say, our foray into the realm of cloth diapering (you guys! We are really excited about this!) or what I'm into cooking these days, or I think I should really watch how passionate I get about whatever it is I happen to be passionate about, because someone might get uncomfortable or defensive or whatever. On the other hand, I'm getting over that, because every time I freak myself out and expect hate mail, I'm pleasantly surprised. (Then again, I have disabled anonymous comments here. I don't mind dissenting opinions, but I do think you should be brave enough to own your words.) And anyway, I like having a space to write, and I've been writing online in some capacity for over eight years now -- people come and go and not everyone in the world will love me. That's okay. (True confession, though: Sometimes I really do think I've let my desire to be liked override my desire to speak or write what I feel, and while I don't necessarily want to go out and alienate my friends and family, I don't want them to like me just because they think I always agree with them.)

Perhaps I am over-thinking this. I do that sometimes.

I'm trying to keep it simple tonight, anyway. Matt was home early, and we've spent a cozy evening cooking together while Suzannah runs a grocery store out of the family room. Okay, I am going to talk about cooking, which is probably really boring, but I love reading about this kind of thing in other people's journals: I've been really into roasting huge pans of vegetables -- carrots, broccoli, parsnips, brussels sprouts, zucchini, yellow squash, and whatever else I happen to feel like throwing in -- and we eat those for dinner all the time now. Toss 'em in olive oil with a little salt and pepper, roast them until the broccoli turns slightly black and crispy -- aww, yeah. We've had them with polenta, with brown rice and a little lemon juice, with chicken breasts cooked in white wine, and tonight Matt threw in some diced sausage and potatoes and we topped it all with carmelized onions. Next I want to try them with quinoa, a la Bread and Honey, my latest cooking inspiration. She calls it Hippie Chow, and it's so ridiculously simple and exactly the sort of thing Matt and I like to eat. It's so funny, though. When I was pregnant with Suzannah, I wanted Clucks 'n Fries from Red Robin. I wanted huge milkshakes and chocolate sundaes. Mostly, I just wanted food all the time, but I really never got over my morning sickness-induced distaste of vegetables. This time around, I thought for sure those aversions would stick around since I was so much sicker at the beginning of my pregnancy, but to my happy surprise, nothing has made my pregnant tummy happier over the last month or two than roasting up a ginormous pan of veggies that will last us through at least one full meal and several sides. (On the other hand, the takeout that I found the least repulsive five months ago is still on my DO NOT WANT list. I think this is a good thing. Huge pans of roasted veggies are infinitely cheaper, and also, I feel pretty great.)

(And on another side note: I grew up hating brussels sprouts, probably because you're supposed to hate brussels sprouts. But guess what! They are actually really good, especially roasted! You can even prepare them in ways that make them taste nutty and almost sweet. Want to know what else I've been eating? Sardines. That's right. I've never eaten sardines before because no one is supposed to like sardines. But they're full of protein -- and I've definitely been craving protein during this pregnancy; in fact, I still get pretty queasy if I don't eat it regularly -- yet lack the mercury content of tuna. And they're light and delicious, and I really need to get some good crackers to eat them with. Trader Joe's is my friend.)

Anyway, dinner was simple and fabulous. Our daughter is hilarious and sweet and full of hugs and surprises and imagination and laughter. After she goes to bed, we are going to eat cupcakes and watch Mad Men. Baby Winslow is kicking away. (Seriously, I love, love, love this part of pregnancy. Even though when a certain someone saw my belly jump a little the other day, she yelled, "Aaah! Alien Baby!") I'll save the processing of my latest anxiety attack(s) for another day.

The end of summer, the beginning of everything else...

I'm sitting here sipping my tiny cup of coffee, enjoying the quiet before my daughter wakes up. Matt is having a swim at the gym, and I'm enjoying the peace -- I try to be especially conscious of moments like this because I know that soon, for awhile anyway, I'm going to have to find my peace in different places. (That's my way of saying I know this house will never be quiet AGAIN, for YEARS, probably. But today I'm okay with that.) It's also nice to be awake and showered and doing things before Suzannah wakes up, especially on a weekend. Everyone with kids knows that they're somehow programmed to wake up far earlier on weekends than they do on weekdays, no matter what time they went to bed the night before. Yesterday morning, my wild-haired little girl marched into the bedroom and said, "Mama, get up get up get up." Well, good morning to you too.

I've really been savoring moments in general -- I'm particularly conscious of the dwindling time we have as a family of three. Yesterday we all piled into the car and drove to Mt. Rainier for a somewhat spontaneous day trip, and all day I found myself thinking things like, "This will be the last time we go hiking here as as family of three," or "The next time we drive by this place, we'll have two kids in the back." I don't feel sad by this, although sometimes knowing that my time with just Suzannah is nearly over is a little bittersweet; I say it more with a sense of wonder, I guess, because I am already so aware of this little person kicking away inside me and he or she already feels like such a part of our family.

Matt has been feeling the baby kick from the outside over the past ten days or so, which is cool because I love sharing this part of pregnancy with him. He has to be a little patient sometimes, because this kid is a stinker -- she'll be kicking so much I can see my belly moving everywhere and I'll go, "Matt, get over here, Baby is having a PARTY IN MY BELLY." And he'll put one hand on me and Baby's all, okay, naptime. (I wonder if his hands will have the same calming effect when we can actually hold our baby? He doubts it.) But last night after Suzannah went to bed, we curled up in the family room to watch an episode of Mad Men and Baby woke up big-time. So I grabbed Matt's hand and moved it to my belly, and pretty soon we both felt those little feet pushing back up at us.

"Whoa -- wow," Matt said after a particularly forceful kick. "That's...weird." I just laughed, because I've actually never met a man who wasn't a little weirded out by all the tumbling around in a pregnant woman's belly, like it's a little alien invader. It's still my absolute favorite part of pregnancy.

Other things I'm savoring: my last Sunday morning before school starts For Real. I head back on Tuesday for two days of in-service/professional development/mind-numbingly boring and depressing stuff that doesn't matter and makes me want to quit every year, and then the kids come back on Thursday. Don't worry, I cope with the boring and depressing stuff by ignoring it. I learned years ago that if I want to feel hopeful, energetic and excited by the first day of school, I have to literally put my head down and pay ABSOLUTELY NO ATTENTION to all the things they throw at us about what we have to do to save public education, which involves more and more work and is usually nothing that actually matters to kids. Once I'm in my classroom, doing my thing, it all falls into place and I fall right back in love with the romance of September. My other coping mechanism this year is to remind myself that I only have to do survive for a couple of months if it's really that bad. I'm teaching two sections of freshmen for the first time, although I'm actually pretty excited about this. I'd rather teach freshmen than seniors any day. I loved my juniors last year, but when they whine about why I'm not teaching senior English I have to explain that it's because I would like to continue to love them, which would never happen if I had to listen to them whine about how THEY'RE SO DONE by the middle of September.

Class sizes are apparently huge this year. Thank you, budget cuts.

At least I have new notebooks.

What the kids are up to this week...

Miss Suzannah and I have spent a quiet week at home, and it's been really, really nice. Originally, I'd drawn up a list of Fun! Things! To! Do! this week, probably because I'm just really a huge fan of making lists -- I thought we'd go to Seattle Children's Museum, maybe, or do some huge fun art projects, or -- I don't know. I realized very quickly on Monday morning that what we really both needed was a week to just chill after two weeks of doing the opposite of chilling.

It was fun not-chilling, but the not-chilling meant that I don't think Suzannah had one real nap on vacation. I am almost afraid to write this lest I jinx it, but Suzannah has taken a real nap -- without drama -- every single day this week. She has even turned to me and said, "Mama? I take a nap?" And she actually meant it. Also, and this is almost too much for me, she has gone to bed easily every single night. And slept all night long. By herself. I don't even remember the last time this happened five nights in a row. She must be recovering from some wicked sleep deprivation. (I'm more inclined to believe that than to actually hope that this is her new pattern. We've just been burned too many times before. But we'll enjoy it while it lasts.)

I've been perfectly content to just go with the flow this week, without really planning some huge fun agenda. On Tuesday, we spent most of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon with Kyanne at IKEA while we had the CR-V serviced (ouuuuch) and yesterday, Zannah and I went to the mall for a change of scenery and read a lot of books in the children's section at Borders. Then she wanted to look at magazines, so the two of us sat on the floor and read our own. I caught up on People (once in awhile I splurge and buy a copy, and Matt always makes fun of me and/or makes his scorn quite apparent, but you KNOW he always reads it when I bring it home) and Suzannah read...a bunch of nature magazines, I think, and also something about getting your novel published. Then she politely requested that we go to lunch.

Our Big Event this week was our "big" ultrasound, our anatomy scan for Baby #2. We brought Suzannah along so she could see the baby, and while I think most of it was a little abstract for her (she got bored with the close-up shots of the heart and kidneys and various limbs and focused on tickling my toes instead) she was very excited to see pictures of the baby, and she asked for them several times throughout the day. She says "Hi, Baby!" to my belly every day now (she has to lift up my shirt first -- reminds me a bit of her nursing days!), and she loves to touch it and rub lotion on it. (Sidenote: No, it doesn't matter how much I grease the belleh, so don't give me any advice on "preventing" stretch marks, please. If you're gonna get them, you're gonna get them. I thought I was safe when I was pregnant with Suzannah, so much so that I bragged noisily to a friend about not having a single one in my twenty-eighth week. Naturally, I woke up covered with them the very next morning. But whatever, I really like the lotion anyway.) Of course, then she lifts up her own shirt and jabs a finger at her belly button, announcing that she has a baby in her tummy too. Why not?

We read The Berenstein Bears' New Baby several times each day, which, in theory, should get Suzannah excited both about the baby and the new bed we're going to get her when we move the crib into the nursery. We're actually painting the nursery this weekend because I have this relentless need to Get Things Done; I'm reaching a point of panic here, with the school year approaching and all, and this is one manageable task we can take care of. Once we have paint on the walls, we can begin to put the room together and, more importantly, turn Suzannah's room into more of a little girl's room. (I say "more importantly" because if this baby is anything like Suzannah, we won't actually need the nursery for quite some time. But the room will look good.) We're losing our guest bed, due to an unforeseen, er, hiccup in our plans, but I allowed myself to stress about that for one afternoon only and I've made my peace with the fact that a.) it wasn't a great bed to begin with, as anyone who slept on it can attest to, and b.) for now, we'll have more room to organize everything that needs to be in that room. I imagine we'll replace it with something better in the next year or so, something that could actually be used as a regular bed for one of our children and guests.

Anyway, the ultrasound went well. I tend to go the route of fairly minimal prenatal care because I think so many of those "routine" things only serve to make women anxious or give the impression that they increase the odds of a good outcome, when of course they have nothing to do with it; I don't have betas drawn, I'm not a fan of more ultrasounds than are strictly necessary (with Suzannah I didn't even have a dating ultrasound, although this time I really wanted one to convince myself that there was actually a baby in there making me so sick), and we've declined all screens and tests. I did enjoy the ultrasound, though. I mean, it was fun to see the baby. I didn't have the same innocent excitement I had with Suzannah, and after carrying her I didn't have any expectations that I'd feel closer to my baby because of what we saw on the screen -- I felt Baby moving during the ultrasound (I didn't with Suzannah; I had it a few weeks earlier and hadn't felt much movement yet) and I was relieved, only because I felt reconnected with the baby after focusing on a screen. Frankly, it's strange to me to see my child above my head with someone else who doesn't know her talking to me about her, if that makes sense. But it was still good to see that everything is where it's supposed to be. Baby's growth is pretty symmetrical, and I'm measuring a few days ahead just like I did with Suzannah. The OB in the practice reads the results so I don't actually know much, but my midwife said she wouldn't be concerned; she talked to me about some of the numbers (cervix looks good, heartbeat is strong, fluid is fine, etc.) and said that the ultrasound tech usually leaves her a note if she finds anything of concern, which she didn't.

I will say that this baby was a wee bit more uncooperative -- and more wiggly -- than Suzannah was. It took quite awhile to get a good profile shot because Baby kept flinging her arms over her face; actually, it's exactly what Suzannah does now when we're trying to get her out of bed before she's ready to wake up. I could almost hear this child mutter, "Go away, I'm sleeping," just like her big sister. It's probably a good thing that we didn't try to find out the sex; I doubt she'd have appreciated the invasion.

The Rules

I was thinking this afternoon that despite the awful heat (I think the weather report said 87 degrees; clearly, I am not cut out for warmer climates) it is pretty wonderful to be pregnant during the summer. At least, it's wonderful to be in my second trimester during the summer. The worst of my sickness has more or less passed, but I'm not so huge and uncomfortable and swollen that I can't enjoy my favorite summer activities -- hiking, for instance, or making weekend trips to Seattle, or hanging out in the backyard wading pool with Suzannah in the afternoons.

I realized it's also nice not to be surrounded by coworkers who comment all the time on various aspects of my pregnancy. When I was pregnant with Suzannah, I wasn't quite prepared for the extent to which casual acquaintances would feel entitled to tell me how huge I was every day. The break has been nice. But it got me thinking about how people seem to feel so entitled when it comes to pregnant women; they lose their filters, or something. So, just for fun, I made a list of Rules For Dealing With Pregnant Women. See, to me, this is all just common sense -- or common courtesy. But pregnancy turns perfectly nice people into very thoughtless people sometimes, and I'm not talking about the pregnant women here.

(This is mostly based on my experiences of being pregnant with Suzannah; this time around I'm more sheltered -- because it's summer! -- and I have better comebacks for situations that previously left me with my jaw hanging stupidly open, so I'm less bothered in general.)

1. There is only one appropriate comment to make regarding a pregnant woman's body: "You look great!" (Or amazing, or awesome...you get the picture.)

I can pretty much guarantee that every pregnant woman, no matter how large or not-large she is, no matter how she's carrying, no matter how far along she is, will be subjected to the following:

"Wow, you're HUGE."
"Are you sure there's only one baby in there?"
"Your boobs are huge!"
"You're never going to make it to your due date!"
And also, bizarrely, "Wow, you're really small for how far along you are." (This doesn't feel like a compliment, so don't try to make it into one. It feels like a suggestion that there is something wrong with the baby. Is that overreacting? I don't know, maybe. But come up with a better "compliment" (see above).

You get the idea. I heard every single one of these and more when I was pregnant with Suzannah. I heard you're really huge/you're really small on the same day, even. I find it kind of astounding how people feel entitled to comment on women's bodies just because they're pregnant. Would you honestly comment on a woman's size -- especially to her face -- if she weren't pregnant? I'm guessing not unless you want to get punched.

2. It is not appropriate to touch a pregnant woman's belly without her permission.

Okay, I'll admit to being less sensitive about this than some women are. I never minded when people touched my belly when I was pregnant with Suzannah, and I don't think I will this time around, either. It feels very life-affirming to me, somehow. And I love pregnant bellies! They're awesome! And it's amazing to feel babies kick -- that's my favorite part of being pregnant, and I love sharing that. If you're a good friend or a family member, I'm probably not going to mind your touching the belleh without formal written permission or whatever. I've never had a stranger try, although I know it happens, and that is just creepy. So...don't rub pregnant strangers' bellies, okay? Sheesh.

Also, a lot of women simply don't appreciate uninvited touches. You wouldn't grab a woman's stomach when she's not pregnant, right? Newsflash: it's still her body. Pregnancy doesn't turn it into public property.

3. It is never okay to share horror stories concerning pregnancy or childbirth with pregnant women.

Unfortunately, I don't know a pregnant woman who hasn't been subjected to this at some point. For some reason, people feel compelled to share stories of "people they know" who suffered terrible things during pregnancy and childbirth, and they feel compelled to share them with pregnant women. Don't tell a pregnant woman about your friend who miscarried, a friend who lost her baby during childbirth, a friend of a friend who knew someone's cousin who had a baby that died only a week before her due date. There is a time for sharing these stories, and I certainly don't mean to minimize the pain of these tragedies, but talk about them with your non-pregnant friends.

True story for you: When I was in my fifth month of pregnancy with Suzannah, a coworker stopped me in the office and asked how far along I was.

"About five months," I replied.

"Oh. I knew someone who lost her baby in the fifth month."

I know what you're thinking, if you're a reasonably sensitive person: Who says that kind of thing? Unfortunately, pregnant women hear these types of things all the time. Believe me, I know about all the horrible things that can go wrong in a pregnancy. I'd go so far as to say I'm far, far more aware of such things than anyone who is not currently pregnant; every fear I have is pretty much wrapped up in this kind of "what-if." So even if your friend's horror story has a happy ending, save it for a time after my baby is in my arms.

4. Along the same lines, don't tell a pregnant woman all the circumstances that would cause YOU to consider terminating your pregnancy.

I need this to not turn into a pro-life/pro-choice, thing, okay? It's not about that, it's about sensitivity. Matt and I chose to decline all genetic tests, screens, etc. because the outcomes (many of which are often only risk assessments and not definitive results anyway) would not, I hope, cause me to terminate my pregnancy. Some people would rather be prepared, even if they chose to continue the pregnancy, and I completely respect that; in my case, I want to enjoy and appreciate my pregnancy as much as possible without the fear of "what-if" or without being pressured into additional, more invasive testing if our risk ratio came back a little "high." Again, that's just my choice. Don't ask me about it, though, and then tell me that you would definitely not carry a pregnancy that [fill in the blank]. First of all, good for you, and second of all, I think it's pretty impossible to know what you would do in such a situation until you're living it yourself. Anyway, it's insensitive and upsetting to me, so I imagine this might be true of other pregnant women as well.

5. If a pregnant woman shares her name choices with you, unless she specifically asks for your opinion (and you are quite sure she actually wants it), there is only one appropriate response: "I love it!" or "That's great!" And for crying out loud, don't suggest alternatives if you don't like it.

We knew that if we had a girl, her name would be Suzannah. Sometime, maybe I'll write the story of her name and how it came to us, but for now, just know that it was a.) special to both of us and b.) one of the few names we actually agreed upon -- so, naturally, I was excited to share it when people asked. Many people were enthusiastic, but I also heard, "Oh, you don't want to name her Suzannah. People will call her Suzie. Ugh." (For the record, no one calls her Suzie. We don't call her Suzie. She's Suzannah, or Zannah. Or Bug.) I didn't particularly care what anyone else thought of our name choice, but it's not a wonderful feeling when someone poops all over something you love, is it? Anyway, I learned my lesson. Matt and I are not sharing our name choices this time around; I really feel that it's something intensely personal and private for now. Besides, I'm looking forward to introducing our baby to the world -- announcing that we have a son, or a daughter, and his or her name is____________. That's going to be a sweet, sweet moment!

6. Don't tell a pregnant woman to enjoy sleep while she can because after the baby comes, she will never sleep again.

I confess, I've probably done this from the depths of my own sleep deprivation hell. But it's just about the stupidest piece of advice ever. It's not like you can store up all that extra sleep anyway, and also: Duh. (Funnily enough, no one is saying that to me this time around. I guess it's less common to hear when you're pregnant with your second child, especially when your first child has been battling a SLEEP ALLERGY for her ENTIRE LIFE. Oh, you know I'm exaggerating. A little.)

7. As a matter of fact, all sentences that begin with "Enjoy_________ while you still CAN!" are kind of annoying.

Don't tell a pregnant woman that her life will be forever changed (especially when you obviously mean DESTROYED) after the birth of her child. She'll figure it out. And maybe she'll be just fine.

8. If a pregnant woman happens to have -- gasp -- a strong opinion! please do not assume that it is because she is all pregnant and hormonal.

I mean, please. If you know me at all, you know that I can be pretty opinionated when I'm not pregnant. My sophomores can get away with stupid assumptions because they are fifteen ("Oh, that's why you were mad at us for no reason a few weeks ago!" "No, I was mad at you because your essays were bad enough to make me want to stick my pen through my eye, and you obviously didn't read the book well enough to have a decent discussion about it, and that is why I made you write instead"). If you're not fifteen, don't be a jerk. And if you really think that my opinions are simply pregnancy-induced, you probably think I'm just an irrational woman the rest of the time anyway. If you want to know how many hormonal fits I've thrown during my pregnancies, ask my husband. Actually, he'd probably lie because he's smart like that, but the truth is that I've been too busy throwing up to throw things at his head. Tee hee.

A beautiful mystery

One thing I need to address before I confuse any more people: I tend to use feminine pronouns when I talk about our baby -- perhaps I'm simply used to having a girl, I don't know -- but we are not actually going to find out the sex before the baby is born. I don't even have particularly strong "girl" feelings; it's just that I don't like to write he/she or his/her all the time. (That said, I would love another little girl, for a million reasons. However, little boys really love their mamas and they're just awfully sweet. Either way, I win!)

We didn't find out that Suzannah was, in fact, Suzannah, until she was born either. It's funny, because before I actually got pregnant, I figured I'd find out -- partly because I'm very organized and I like to plan things, but also admittedly because a friend insinuated that I would not be able to fully bond with my child unless I could call her (or him?) by name. I gathered that I'd feel no more attached to my pregnancy than I would to a sack of potatoes bumping around underneath my shirt. That could not have been further from the truth, as I felt deeply connected to the little life growing inside me from the beginning, and to be honest, while I loved seeing our baby move and kick and suck her thumb on the ultrasound screen, the ultrasound itself certainly did nothing for our bonding. If anything, it was a barrier. I had always felt that I was learning things about our baby every day, that she was communicating with me on our own special wavelength (call that corny, but there you have it), and suddenly there was a gray TV screen and a stranger telling me things about our child -- suddenly someone else was the expert. I won't call it invasive, exactly, because it was fun and I loved our technician (we'll have the same one this time!) and I'm looking forward to the "big ultrasound" with this baby as well, but I know now not to expect that to make me feel closer to the baby. At least, I know I don't need to rely on it. This is the only time in our child's life in which her (his/her?) sex truly doesn't matter, and our relationship transcends that. I love it. She'll have the rest of her (his? his/her? See how confusing this gets?) to be treated differently.

Anyway, I'm definitely not a paint-the-room-pink kind of person, so from a purely practical standpoint, it doesn't matter at all. In fact, blue is my favorite color. We decorated Suzannah's nursery exactly the way I would have if I'd have known she was a girl. (The new baby will inherit all of that stuff, and now we will add more of a girly touch to Suzannah's room with a girly new bed set, complete with accessories, as a belated third birthday gift. Flowers and butterflies and everything.) I didn't want a pink car seat or stroller, and other than that, clothes are really the only gender-specific items we needed...and I'm pretty confident that we won't have much trouble dressing this baby.

But that's not to say I don't understand why people find out, and I definitely understand the temptation, especially the first time around. I think it must just feel right for some people to know whether they're carrying a girl or a boy. We're certainly not waiting until the birth to prove our superiority as parents or because we feel that people who find out are "cheating." It's not even about the "surprise" for me, as I would imagine you're surprised whether you find out at 20 weeks or at birth. It's just that our baby's birth feels like the right time for us for that beautiful mystery to be revealed. And when I remember that cloudy Sunday morning three years ago when I heard Matt cry, "We have a girl!" I'm not even tempted, because it was the very finest moment of my life.

Sixteen weeks

Yesterday morning I had my monthly prenatal visit (16 weeks!) and Matt and I heard our baby's heartbeat on the doppler for the first time.

I remember that moment so well with Suzannah (of course, we didn't know she was a Suzannah yet). I sat in that freezing cold room for what felt like hours, wondering if there was really a baby in there. Matt tried to reassure me, but he was distracted by a visual aid showing a fully-dilated cervix on the wall. When my midwife showed up and suggested that we listen to the baby, my heart nearly pounded its way right through my shirt -- and when she caught that little whompwhompwhompwhomp I couldn't stop laughing. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

We heard this baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound machine about five weeks ago, a strong, healthy 176 bpm. So this time I wasn't exactly doubting that there was, indeed, a baby in me. But five weeks is a long time to wait, and so far I haven't had any concrete second-trimester proof that she's alive and thriving (except, of course, for the fact that I've already begun to feel those goldfish flutters, and nevermind my ever-expanding stomach). So it was still with some trepidation that I sat there yesterday, waiting for what felt like forever.

Matt was unfazed by the fully-dilated cervix on the wall. He's seen the real thing up close now. Plus, he brought a magazine.

"Gee," I said. "It's so great that we have this unexpected chunk of time together this morning! I mean, we don't always get to just hang out and talk every day, right?"

He reached over and absently rubbed my back. He didn't look up.

"I'm queasy," I complained. "That's kinda making it worse."

"Sorry," he murmured, turning a page. He patted my knee instead.

"Wow," I said. "Look at that. That's how big my cervix has to get, you know. To fit a person through it and all."

"Yes, Baby," he replied mildly. "I know."

"Remember when that used to freak you out?"

"Yes. I'm blocking it out now."

"Or you're ignoring me."

"I'm not ignoring you."

"I'm actually, at this very moment, strongly considering just grabbing that magazine out of your hand and flinging it at that wall."

"Sorry! It's just -- it's a really interesting article!"

"I'm so glad it's more interesting than your wife's cervix and the fact that I have to push a person out pretty soon. I shouldn't have bored you by making you come."

He put down the magazine. "Baby," he said.

"No, really, it's fine. Finish your interesting article."

(This is another test to see if Matt reads this blog ever. If he does, I'm sure I'll hear about it.)

My regular midwife is out of town, so I met one of the others in the practice. She was very nice, but all I really wanted to hear were the words, "Let's listen to Baby!" I hopped up on the table and felt my heart begin to pound. Please, please really be there, I thought.

Within seconds, we heard the whompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhomp I've been waiting for.

"That's the baby's heartbeat?" Matt asked.

"Yep. Everything sounds great!" the midwife smiled.

And it does. It's right up there with the sound of my daughter's laughter -- one of the most perfect sounds in the world. I'm so grateful for it, because this week has brought some terrible reminders that there are no guarantees, not even after the magic twelve-week mark that every pregnant woman anxiously awaits. I belong to an online community of women who are all due in December, and this week, two of them received news that every mother dreads. One went in for her anatomy scan at eighteen weeks, hoping to find out the sex of her baby, and instead she learned that her baby has bilateral renal agensis -- a fatal condition in which the baby develops with no kidneys. The pregnancy will likely progress as normal, but if the baby survives until birth, she'll live only moments. The mother has decided to carry the baby to term anyway, just for the chance to hold her for those few moments and say goodbye. It's more than I can imagine -- I have no idea what I would do in her shoes -- and I think she's so brave in the face of such staggering heartbreak. The other woman learned at fourteen weeks that her baby has died, probably in the last day or two. Meanwhile, I'm growing rounder, feeling these flutters, and our baby's heart beats strong inside me. All I can do is pray and pray that we'll be allowed to keep her and continue to find the joy above the worry.

Twelve weeks

I feel the need to document this.

About fifteen minutes ago, I consumed one whole homemade banana waffle. With syrup. And I poured myself a very tiny cup of coffee and sipped at it.

I have not taken any Zofran yet this morning, and I haven't spent twenty minutes hunched over the toilet bowl. This is significant because, since the end of April, there have been exactly two mornings that I have not spent twenty minutes hunched over a toilet bowl: one morning last week after I got my Zofran and had to take some in the middle of the night, and this morning.

Could this be a turning point? I'm almost afraid to write that for fear of jinxing my good fortune, but if my morning sickness is on its way out, you'll probably be seeing a lot more of me here. I haven't been writing much of anything anywhere, and I haven't even been able to read a book in two months. Every time I try, it feels like I'm reading in the car on a very, very windy road. On a hot day. With no air conditioning.

I'm still queasy, but whatever, I don't even remember what it's like to not be queasy all the time. I've had this irrational fear for weeks now that this is just going to be my life, that I'll always feel a little sick to my stomach from here on out, that I'll have to discreetly duck out of Suzannah's high school graduation party to heave over a toilet. (Of course, this is entirely possible anyway, because yesterday was the seniors' last day at school and I kept thinking wretchedly that someday, my own little girl will grow up and leave me.)

This is also a turning point as far as my wardrobe is concerned. It's funny; I've gained less weight this time around (when I was pregnant with Suzannah, I gained ten pounds within minutes of peeing on the stick; as of last week I hadn't gained a thing this time around, although I don't know how I could, because as soon as food gets to my stomach it decides it hates to stay there), but my belly is pooching out sooner. Then again, I was pregnant with Suzannah in the late fall and winter, so I could wear bulky sweaters. We had a few days in the 90's this week, so no sweaters for me. I thought I was still doing okay with shirts that don't fit too tightly, and this week I dug out a pair of baggy capris that I bought right after giving birth to Suzannah, but my department chair informed me that I won't be able to keep up this charade much longer, especially if I keep resting my hand on my belly. I had no idea I was doing that, but my friend Kyanne was all, "Yeah, I noticed that, too." So today we're heading to the mall so I can buy some of those fabulous maternity shorts and pants, and I can stand in the too-small dressing room behind the filmy curtain and mutter about how no one gets pregnant for the fashion, but secretly I'll just be happy to be comfortable again.

She returns...

It appears I have not updated here in a month. I haven't done much of anything in the past month other than lie on the couch and otherwise fake it through the rest of my day...I've been sick. Ridiculously, absurdly sick.

But! I have a pretty good reason for feeling so miserable.

Matt and I are expecting another baby sometime in December -- the official due date is December 17, according to today's ultrasound, which puts me at 10 weeks and 5 days along. (Baby is actually measuring a bit ahead, which doesn't surprise me a bit -- Suzannah measured ahead during my whole pregnancy with her, and if we'd had an early ultrasound with her I'm pretty sure they'd have changed my due date and she wouldn't actually have been considered a 36-weeker.)

It's amazing how much like a baby she already looks, with little hands and feet. She even waved at us.

"That's cool!" Matt said as he watched the screen. And I couldn't stop grinning -- I just wanted to listen to the sound of that beautiful heartbeat all afternoon.