To baby or not to baby

I went to a Christmas party last night, and made sure my champagne glass was never empty for more than a nanosecond. Which means I found myself wide awake at 5:30 in the morning, suffering heartburn and playing with the pregnancy app on my phone. It is just about to be 2012, and assuming that the Mayans were just out of room on their calendar and we are going to live to see 2013, it's time to start thinking about the dreaded Second Baby.

To say "dreaded" is to be a tad dramatic. Of course I want a new little baby every time I see one, or hear one squeak, or see my 18 month-old daughter try to get the attention of eight year old boys all night long at said Christmas party (for instance). She's growing up fast and will be screaming at me and slamming doors in my face before I know it.

I've been looking at all of my pictures of her lately and, while totally missing that tiny baby she used to be, I've also been reminded of how much my life used to SUCK when she was new. The random crying jags. The breastfeeding every three hours all through the night. The milk coming in and flowing unbidden all over the couch. Hanging out topless with super engorged breasts. Being fat and wearing maternity clothes well-post-partum and/or never getting dressed. The gigantic production of leaving the house. The lack of independent play ability. Carrying that effing car seat everywhere.

I love that kid and I have loved her every step of the way, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that the infant stage is not something that I enjoy. Sure, they are cute and snuggly. But they are also tiny little leeches that suck every ounce of your life force for their own benefit. I'm not real excited to go there again. But they say it's easier the second time, right? Right?

So I'm torn. I can wait to space them three years and buy myself a mostly independent, non-pregnant summer now, but be stuck with a brand new baby next summer and have six years to wait before both my kids are over three. OR I can be pregnant this summer and have them more like 30 months apart. Opinions? I'd love to hear them.

Reflections on a year

It being Mother's Day and all, I did some looking back and reflecting and whatnot. I was looking at the last year in pictures, and here are a few of the observations I made.

In my parents' kitchen,  May 2010

Observation number one: Holy shit, I was huge! This is me about two weeks before Marlo was born. Keep in mind that I was wearing a 34F bra at this point, which should give you some perspective as to how large that bump was. Plus, my face was totally fat. At the time I had no idea. I thought I was looking pretty good. I did not realize that I could be mistaken for the broad side of a barn. That's a very kind mental trompe l'oeil - thanks, Mother Nature!

Her first night home, I believe

Observation number two: Marlo was so tiny! How was she ever this small? I remember thinking she was huge, at the time. Funny that I thought I wasn't that big and that she was bigger. Looking at this tiny baby in pictures makes me want a real life tiny baby.

Observation number three: I had a picture of Marlo sleeping up against my breasts, but at the last second I decided that putting it on the internet was asking for trouble. Had I been willing to subject myself to pervs, you would have seen that my baby's head was absolutely DWARFED by my rack. It looked like twin Death Stars and she was the Millenium Falcon. Hey Moms, remember that day when your milk came in and your boobs ached and spouted milk everywhere and were upgraded from "cantaloupe" to "watermelon?" Good times.

Face is still fat

Observation number four: We had a wedding to go to when Marlo was eight weeks old. It was the first night we left Marlo home with Gangee and Pop Pop. People kept saying they couldn't believe I had given birth only eight weeks ago. I think they were just being polite. Again with those hooters! I am glad they are getting back to the realm of reasonableness.

We have about the same amount of hair

Observation number five: I am glad that my hair has started to grow back in. I think this picture, from Marlo's four month birthday, is at about the worst point of hair loss.

In which I bitch about my baby fat

It's summer and I have an infant. These are my top two excuses for not posting, in no particular order.

Marlo turned two months old on Tuesday. She has her 2 month check-up with the pediatrician later this afternoon - so I'll update you on her vitals soon. In my estimation she is about 12 pounds and 24 inches.

As for me, my weight loss has stalled a bit and that depresses me. Just in time to start losing all my hair and get really depressed, I suppose. I'm really rather vain, you see. I considered my pregnancy a success not because I gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby girl, but because I didn't get any stretch marks or varicose veins. I gained 41 pounds, and looking back at the three pictures of me pregnant in existence, I was pretty much big as a house. I'm short-waisted and small-boned, so even ten pounds around the middle gets pretty significant. As of my six week follow up with my OB, I had lost 25 pounds. Hurray, right? 25 pounds without any effort, just sitting through breastfeeding sessions eight times a day. Three weeks later, I stepped on the scale to discover I've lost...27 and a half pounds.

Now, hold on. I know what you're thinking. That's still almost a pound a week! That's still with no effort, other than breastfeeding eight times a day and not ever getting to eat because the baby won't nap! I know. It's still wonderful and can't really be considered stalling. I should be ashamed of myself. BUT the problem is that now it LOOKS like fat, and not like perfectly excusable pregnancy related weight. I'll get over myself, I promise. Feel free to slap me in the face next time you see me. My still-fat lookin' face.

And did I mention the size of my boobs? Well, lately? They're frightening. Especially if Marlo naps for a particularly long time (which does happen every once in a while - it's feast or famine with this girl) and I get a little engorged. They remind me of the death star. Especially when you see Marlo's head up against them. I am thinking about putting them on the kitchen scale to see how they are contributing to my weight retention - although since I don't have a pre-pregnancy boob weight to compare them to, it wouldn't really be very accurate. Still might be fun. Especially if I can take some SFW pictures of the process.

Here ya go, here's a picture of me with my fat face and giant boobs, eight weeks postpartum. Astute observers will note that I'm wearing the same dress I wore four weeks, um, prepartum? at my baby shower. Husband looks handsome, as usual.

23 Weeks

While yesterday I announced I was four months from my due date, today I am here to tell you that it's technically 17 weeks. Can we all just agree that we need to have some ruling board lock themselves in a room and not come out until we have one, unified, universal system of time-keeping in pregnancy? It's just ridiculous. I mean, yesterday was 4 calendar months until my due date, today marks 17 weeks until my due date, I'm considered 5 months pregnant, but I'm in my 6th lunar month, it's the beginning of week 24 but really let's call it week 22...too many answers to the same effing question, in my opinion.

*Deep breath* ... Anyway...I am 23 weeks pregnant today.

Supposedly the baby is now the size of a mango. All I can think of is Chris Kattan in his gold lame' skirt and beret. Picturing this inside of me is rather unsettling. Although I must say if my little Chopita ever gets into a slap fight with J-Lo, I'll be pretty proud.

Everything I'm reading now about my body is getting very ominous, from a vanity perspective. I have been warned that the baby is about to quadruple in size and that stretch marks are imminent. So far so good there - through some combination of water consumption, body oil and genetics I have avoided them so far. Of course, I have also avoided having some wiggly four pound alien in my belly so far, so who knows what will happen.

Speaking of wiggly four pound objects, my breasts are completely out of control. I have gone from a nice, manageable borderline B/C cup to an F. EFF. Yes, my bra size is now 34F. When I say this to mothers who have experienced the horrors of Milk Coming In, they shudder. They shake their heads and regard me with pity. I think I had better pay special attention to the section in the breastfeeding book about What To Do if Your Giant Oversized Breast Is Suffocating the Baby.

I'm now pretty solidly in maternity clothes and t-shirts that used to be too big for me to wear in public, and I think I have about all that I need to get through the duration. I tried to buy a bunch of cheap t-shirts, cardigans and sweatshirts so that I could layer according to the weather. I had to buy cheap because the budget was blown on the miracles of engineering that are my two new bras. The one thing I still want to buy is a new pair of slip on shoes, seeing as getting to my feet is already slightly uncomfortable sometimes.

The best part? I feel Chopita move all the time now. The worst part? I feel Chopita move all the time, and she's getting deliberate. Lately it feels like she's been punching me in the cervix. It's uncomfortable. I have tried bargaining with her - hey kid, stop punching me in the lady bits and I will let you wear mascara in high school - but apparently that's meaningless to her now. I'm looking forward to telling her how she blew it later on.