Going into labor at Ikea

Is it a problem that I've blogged as much about Ikea this year as I have about children's literature? That its one of my most frequently-used tags? What can I say? I'm beginning to believe I am actually really hooked on that insanely delicious chemical smell in the warehouse. I can not get enough.

David thought our Ikea trips were completed. So did I. But on Friday, I began to feel a desperate, relentless urge to solve the lighting deficiency above our desk area. There is, of course, only one way to do that and it involves Swedish meatballs. Somehow, I managed to get David on board for an impromptu Ikea trip. I don't know why I say "somehow." I know precisely how I did it, by bartering sex which also offered the promising possibility of jump-starting my labor, the which I am eager to do. Yes, in the course of a few hours, I received acupuncture, had sex and went shopping at Ikea, and that regimen is commonly accepted as the labor-induction trifecta.

So there we were in Ikea, perusing lighting options. I knew something was up because the elated, out-of-body feeling I usually have while walking through the model rooms was absent. Even rifling through the Children's Ikea puppet bins was offering me any satisfaction. And I walked straight through the marketplace without so much as picking up a bunch of place mats or measuring cups or a handy grater Also, I had to keep stopping in the aisles to huff and puff through contractions, which were coming like crazy.

Still, I preserved. We were so close to solving the lighting deficiency. Also I wanted to replace our coffee table. And while we were there, maybe a few more shelves. One can never have too much storage. Finally, we were on line waiting to pay and David asked if we should pick up some cinnamon buns to take home to the kids.

"Ohhhh, I don't know," I moaned.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, "I've never known you to say no to cinnamon buns."

"I don't know," I said, "I may be having the baby. Like, right now."

"Well, should we leave?" he inquired.

There were two people in front of us on line.

"No," I said, "We've come so far. And we've almost solved the lighting problem. Let's just pay and then we can go to the hospital if necessary."

David pointed out that if I did indeed go into labor at Ikea, maybe they'd give us a free nursery. I didn't that it was that easy to score a free nursery. I'm guessing dozens of women go into lobar in Ikeas world-wide each year.

As it turned out, I was not, in fact, in labor. The contractions subsided, giving us ample opportunity to install the overhead lighting and put together the new coffee table. Still, would've been a good story. And I could've given the baby a middle name of Ikea.

Worst Pregnant Lady Ever, That's Me

I'm the worst pregnant lady ever. Everything's gone smoothly so far and I haven't stopped whining and worrying and bothering everyone with each and every detail of my physical maladies for a millisecond. The good news is, this abysmal behavior on my part will work as great insurance that I never get knocked up again. Even if I lost my mind and tried to procreate another time, and even if I hypnotized David and got him on board, the extended community of friends, acquaintances, pediatricians and OBs will never, ever let it happen. An intervention would surely take place, if only to spare them the pain and suffering of listening to my lamentations.

The other thing I've realized in the past few months is that I am going to be a really shitty old person. If I can't handle nine months of mild, temporary discomfort, which will be more or less instantly cured after childbirth, at the end of which is waiting the gleaming, spectacular reward -- that I craved so dearly - a baby, then there's no freaking way I'm going to be able to handle old age. Its not temporary, for starters, and the only reward at the end of all the accumulating agony . . . is death. David has already decided he's going to go before me, just so he doesn't have to listen to me whine. I don't blame him.

How you know you're officially Uber-Pregs

The first sign is when you start wearing your 6"4' husband's T-shirts featuring graphics of a corn dog on them to parent-teacher conference, because that's the classiest thing you own that covers your mid-section.

That's a pretty good indication you're getting Mondo Preggo.

But its not til you wear your GRANDMOTHER'S clothing that you're Uber-Pregs. When you wear the ankle-length, long-sleeved white polyester nightgown your grandmother bought at the 99 cent store, that's when you know your water's gonna break soon. Particularly if you wear that nightgown to bed as a means of seducing your husband, the sole motivation being that you're trying to induce yourself into labor. The grossness on so many levels will indicate to you that you'e 40 stinking weeks preggie and about to enter a whole other realm of grossness, an alternate reality of physical grostequerie known as childbirth and post partum.

And that's where I am right now folks. Wish me luck.

Nesting Disgust

I wonder if birds ever get as disgusted with the nesting process as I feel right now. Like, at this moment is there a ratty-ass pigeon across the street with her wings behind her head, taking in the jumble of sticks and leaves and garbage she is trying to cobble into a cozy home on top of a too-small air conditioning unit, who's just saying in pigeon language, "Oh, fuck this."

The nesting starts out nice enough. About a month or two ago, when I began to feel the craze to organize build to a breaking point within me, it felt delicious to give in. Throughout the first three trips to Ikea I was high on my pregnancy hormones. I felt so gratified when I renovated our recycling center. The day I sorted out my pen and office supply drawer was one of the best days all year. I found the deed to our house. I mean, come on, that's a major win.

But now I'm at the point in the nesting craze where everything is shit. I'm at the tail end of these big home improvement projects which are all intended to miraculsouly convert my 900 square foot one bedroom apartment into a palatial home where five people can live happily without grating on each others last nerve. Now that the projects are nearly complete, it is clear that will NEVER happen. 900 square feet remains 900 square feet no matter how many floor-to-ceiling bookshelves you get. Ikea is great but it doesn't magically add an extra bathroom onto your house. So there's that somber realization.

And also, since I have completed the projects, I'm at the stage now where I've gotten rid of all the old furniture but haven't yet finished assembling the new shit so I just have piles of clothes and books and Easy Bake Ovens littering every corner of my house, right next to the piles of boxed up shelves and furniture. Not to mention, since I'm full term now, I could have the baby at any minute, so I've filled my apartment with all the baby shit - strollers and car seats and bassinets, oh my! - but haven't found a place to put any ofit yet. Because there IS no place.

So, I'm that aggravated pigeon who opts to flip on her bird boob tube and watch reality TV instead of dealing with the mess of shit that should be her home. I'm sure that pigeon tells herself she'll find the magic solution at the next trip to Ikea.

My love affair with maternity clothes

When I was pregnant with Primo, my first, I remember maternity clothes being SUCH a drag. All the stuff I could afford was so frumpy or generic, so utiliarian, and the fashionista in me balked. So besides some cheap jeans and black pants from Old Navy, I mostly culled my maternity wardrobe from the $5-$20 rack of Urban Outfitters, where I bought empire-waisted stuff a size larger than I'd normally wear. Since I was minutely small, that meant buying a Medium. The reason I can share this with you without fear of you being so disgusted you un-follow my blog is that I am as disgusted as you are. The clothes I sported as maternity in my first pregnancy didn't fit me in my regular non-pregnant days before I got knocked up this time. What can I say? That's youth for you.

This second time around, not only was I too big for those Barbie-sized non-maternity-maternity clothes, I was still too poor to buy a real maternity wardrobe and way too belaguered with a two year-old in my charge to give a shit. So I wore David's long underwear. He is 6'4" and the sleeves were about five inches too long but it got the job done. It provided warmth to my physical form,

This pregnancy is a whole new ball game. Finally, after seven years, my peers have joined in on the baby racket and all my girlfriends have recently had babies. Since they waited til thier mid-thirties to start a family, instead focusing on thier careers, they have enough money to buy nice maternity clothes, and since they live in NYC apartments, they have no room to store them. So they've all been incredibly helpful and generous, handing over bags full of Motherhood Maternity apparel for me to borrow. Thus outfitted, I have discovered something: I love maternity clothes.

Though I complain almost non stop about the discomforts of pregnancty, there is one thing I have no beef with and that is the way my pregnant body looks. The upside of relentless morning sickness is that I am actually thinner as a pregnant person than non-pregnant. Not weight wise of course, but in general appearance. Its not on purpose, and if you'd have witnessed me putting away a nutella and strawberry Belgian waffle five mionute ago, you'd be convinced of that. Its just the progesterone poisoning lasts for so long so intensely and then keeps me vaguely nauseous for my whole pregnancy that it keeps my appetite lower than when I'm not having a baby. Yes, I'm green in the face and have aged thirty years in nine months from the strain of it all, bur if we're just looking from the neck down, I do great in my pregnancies. Big, bulbous belly and a huge rack. Hell, I feel like a damn Venus Hottentot. Suddenly, instead of hiding my belly (which I've been doing ever since someone asked me if I was pregnant a few months after having Seconda (and, to clarify, I WASN'T)), I get to flaunt it. I can suddenly sport tight-fighting tees again because hey, my belly is SUPPOSED to be huge. I love my massive mid-section. I'm proud of it.

But the other reason I love maternity wear is that I am totally off the hook about my wardrobe. If I manage to cover my massive belly without wearing my husband's XL clothing, well then I'm a fashion success story. The bar is so very low. I find people expect me to look like shit warmed over and if I look even slightly better than that - like if I'm wearing a clearn button down that actually fits me -- they are wowed.

"You look amazing!"

What they really mean is, "its amazing you don't look as bad as I thought you would." Same diff.

The other great part about a maternity wardrobe is no matter how well appointed your pregnancy closet, its going to be limited which means getting dressed in the morning is a cinch. Its all basic pieces which enable you to more or less get dressed in the dark. As someone who's never filled my closet with basics, I find this simplicity wildly liberating.

Also, the elastic waistbands. They are God's gift to women, not just pregnancy ones, either. EVERYTHING should be made with an elastic waistband. I love elastic waistbands so much, I may just cave and purchase those pajama jeans I've seen on infommercials. People would make fun of me but really, I think the euphoria would overrride my shame.

For all these reasons, I may never stop wearing maternity clothes. Never.

The Truth About Epidurals

Just read this article on Slate called The Truth About Epidurals which I found enlightening and thought I'd pass on. When I read the title, I got a bit freaked out because I thought it was going to be one of those fear-mongering pieces that make you feel panicked and guilty and shamed about getting an epidural. But, in fact, it was an overview of the research on the modern epidural's safety which was pretty even-keeled and balanced, I thought.

I've interviewed a ton of moms, who've had all different kinds of births - at home, in tubs, hospitals and birthing centers. I've interviewed moms who've used hypno-birthing, moms who've used epidurals, moms who've had C sections, moms who've used acupuncture, moms who used Lamaze, moms who've had births lasting 36 hours and ones whose births took an hour. It is very clear to me after hearing so many amazing stories that -- you guessed it - there is no one right way to have a baby. In many ways (those of us with insurance and without pertinent health considerations, at least) are lucky enough to choose what kind of birth we prefer, which is pretty freaking amazing. So its a shame that we tend to get so defensive about our choices and judgmental when other women go a different way.

I had two amazing childbirth experiences, both in a big teaching hospital, both with big, juicy epidurals. From my perspective, the epidural was one of the best parts of the experience. I remember the childbirths in two parts - BE and AE - Before and After the Epidural. I got the shot at about the same point both times - when I was 6-7 centimeters dilated, which meant I had hours and hours before of what they call a "natural" childbirth (this vocal doesn't annoy me the way it does some women, but it does crack me up. What did I have -- an unnatural childbirth, a supernatural one? Did I bear a cyborg on a UFO?I mean, come on, its silly). My point is, I had pleeeeenty of labor pain. Not the worst of it, not the ring of fire, but plenty. A few minutes into transition, and I got the idea. Totally not for me. Which I knew, going in. I never thought I'd go without an epidural. I was raised by a doctor dad, grew up around hospitals and things like medicine and shots make me feel better, more comfortable, more relaxed. So, getting the epidural was always in the works and boy, did that morphine cocktail deliver.

After Epidural I was relaxed, open, happy. My husband, sister and I listened to Beatles music, and I brushed my hair as I waited in joyful anticipation of meeting my baby. I could feel my legs and the urge to push and I had no problems dilating the last few centimeters after I got the shot. Before Epidural was nice, too, I guess, the way diamond mining must be nice. Greuling, not fun, but gratifying because at the end you know there's a diamond waiting. Yes, its probably the shittiest metaphor about the birth experience you've ever heard and you heard it here, folks, at a mom amok. In conclusion, I loved my epidurals. They injected a big surge of Smiley Happy People back into my birth experience. Can't thank those epidurals enough.

But I also understand that hospitals give a lot of people the heebie jebbies, or maybe its just the idea of shots that freaks 'em out, or a lot of people are curious to experience every moment, unmediated, of childbirth. Hell, there's any number of reasons someone wouldn't want an epidural and that's cool, too. Its like that theme song of that pivotal 80s sitcom used to sing, "Different strokes, it takes different strokes, it takes different strokes to rule the world." Yes it does.

$400 Trash Cans?

My nesting craze has continued unabated, only picking up steam as I near my due date. It was only a matter of time before my organization zeal turned its unrelenting eye to the trash corner of our apartment.

Our kitchen is not so much a kitchen as a corner of the living space which a high density of appliances. I just asked David to estimate how big it is and he guesses 5 x 3. Feet. It is a tiny little crumb of space. And half of it is covered with trash.

I am referring to literal trash We've got our stainless steel, step-top garbage can and that does the job well. But then next to that is our "recycling center." This is a gross overstatement. It consists of two tiny plastic cans, one purple for paper and one mint green for plastic, with no lids, smashed next to the trash can which is smashed next to the oven. Neither one of the recycling bins is large enough to hold more than two standard-sized recyclable items. Put one carton of milk and one soda can in the plastic bin and it is full. So even if I emptied the things out several times a day (and lets be serious for a second, who does that?) it would still always be full and always look like crap.

Mixed in between the three cans is a pile of "what-the-hell-do-we-do-with-this-shit?" garbage. Mainly, this is electronics like an old laptop someone gave me last year which never worked and batteries. I know I'm not supposed to just throw them out but I don't know what the hell to do with them. So they keep the garbage company.

In my travels to other people's houses, I have seen that not all grown-ups live this way, Other people have recycling areas which are well-maintained and tidy. All it took, it appeared, was a decent-sized bunch of recycling bins, one with tops. How hard could that be?

Not hard at all, it turns out. But really freaking expensive.

To the tune of $400.

Don't know precisely when it happened but since the last time I went trash-can-shopping, about a decade ago, garbage cans have become high-end speciality items. They now have features like "Auto-close" and "Motion Sensor." They are all stainless steel. After some cyber-browsing, I discovered if you're in the market for a garbage can, and you don't want- or can't - spend $70 or more, you basically are stuck with a white plastic swing top. Two or which'll still cost you a good $40. The whole thing was demoralizing, almost enough to make me accept my purple and mint-green garbage-y garbage center.

But then Ikea saved the day. Again.

Because in their marketplace, I helped myself to two tall, rectangular lift-top trash cans which can hold up to two or three days worth or recyclables without me having to empty them out. Together, they cost under $30. Perfection. Bliss.

The only problem which remains is that I'm such a hoarder, I can't bear to part with the old recycling bins yet. I am certain there is a good use for them, somewhere. So they still hover in my garbage corner, though they've done from holding the garbage to becoming the garbage. What can I say? Life's tough.

Nesting Craze. Emphasis on Craze.

So, I'm nesting. Like crazy. Full-fledged move-around-the-furniture, Container-Store-get-ready-for-business, organizational explosion of energy. I'd estimate the 99 percent of the tasks I have labored to complete are things which make absolutely no visible difference to people who visit my house. In other words my house still looks like a piece of shit. Its still messy and cluttered. We still are short about three bedrooms. NONETHELESS. Things are way better for those of us who inhabit the tiny abode.

I have replaced the rings which hold the shower curtain in place because the old ones aways fell off and every time I've bended over to retrieve a piece-of-crap shower curtain ring for the past three years, I have vowed to replace them with the kind that close all the way around the rod and now, folks, that immensely annoying circumstance will occur no more . I have fitted cheap Ikea frames with custom mattes so I can finally hang up wall art given to us seven years ago as a baby gift.

I have sorted through the five years' worth of artwork that my son has produced, which I have been shoving into boxes and hoarding like a person on the TV show of the same name. If left un-edited permanently, this collection of artwork would, unquestionably, bury our whole family. In another few years, you'd enter my front door only to find yourself waist-deep in ripped-out spiral-notebook pages covered with line drawings of zombies, and you'd see a desperate, petrified hand reaching out from the sea of paper. That would have been me. Thankfully, nesting saved me

The domestic task which really filled me with gratification, however, was replacing the batteries of an old-school, ten pound flashlight that hasn't worked in, oh, over a decade, and which I have packed and moved from one apartment to the next to this most recent one ALL WITHOUT EVER BOTHERING to change the batteries. At long last, I unscrewed the damn thing. I found out which kind of battery it required (four Ds, like a 1990s boom box). I bought those batteries. I put them in. The feeling I experienced when I pressed the button on the top of the flashlight and the thing responded with ILLUMINATION was amazing, transcendent. It was a rush of euphoria similar to what I remember feeling when I could still drink alcohol, four million years ago, before I became pregnant. It lasted approximately 10 seconds. Still, it was worth it.

This kind of labor, like parenting, goes largely unnoticed and totally under-appreciated. My husband, for instance, who does the dishes and laundry and cleans the bathroom and basically tends to all household cleaning obligations, is not impressed with my sudden and insane burst of organizational zeal and less impressed with its invisible results.

He observed this yesterday, when he walked in to find the sink piled high with dishes, the coffee table laden with crumbs and the toilet clogged: "This house is still a fucking mess."

Who needs a backbone?

Since I hit about month seven in my pregnancy, I have gradually begun to shape my life around one single, solitary goal: avoiding bending over at all costs.

By this point, 34 weeks, there's no way I could bend over even if I WANTED to. Its structurally impossible, like a walrus doing ballet. Consequently, I have to be much more careful not to drop shit now because if I do, the discarded item will just have to remain there until someone more able-bodied comes along or it rots and is carried off my vermin or -- very rarely -- I devise a super sophisticated way to retrieve it from the floor without the use of my immovable backbone. Like picking stuff up with my feet. I've become somewhat skilled at using my foot like a hook, shimmying it under a towel one of my brutish children threw onto the floor and lifting the leg up until I am able to pass it off to my hand.

By the time I deliver, I may be an honorary monkey. Silver linings, folks.

The other ingenious strategy I use to retrieve things without the use of my hands is to bark orders at my kids. I figure I created those hands and now they can repay the favor my being my proxy hands.

Sometimes I'll be polite about it like, "Honey, can you please pick up that pen for Mommy?"

Usually though, its more like, "Pick up that pen please. [Pause] Now. [Pause] Unless, of course, you're also 8 months pregnant with shooting pain in your back and it is impossible for you to bend over. I mean, for the love of God, how much do I have to suffer in this lifetime before someone will HELP me???"

I'm not proud of it but neither am I proud of having created slovenly children who perpetually have wax in their ears, especially when it comes to cleaning up.

It occurs to me that I could learn a thing or two about creative solutions to never bending over from my 80 year old grandmother. Nonnie is a pretty fit, feisty octogenarian, with a few problem areas including stairs, sprinting and bending over -- pretty much the same as me, in my compromised condition. Her FAVORITE household item is a dustpan attached to a pole which she uses, not just to collect dirt and debris, but to retrieve anything unlucky enough to fall to the floor. Cell phone slipped out of her hand? Sweep it into the magic dustpan and empty the pan on the table. BAM. Who needs a functional spine?

I want one of those dustpans, man, bad. Or maybe, even better, one of those toy robot hands they sell at Cracker Barrels nation-wide. Those are super portable -- I could just stick my robot hand in my purse and hit the town. Once I have the baby and regain use of my spine, I could continue to use the robot hand to reach stuff that's just out of reach without getting my ass off the couch. You can steal that idea if you want to. Put it on your postpartum wish list.

I'm no Duggar mom

Much has been said about the Duggar mom and I'm not going to add anything new to the conversation -- let me just manage your expectations upfront. I will say this however.

I always marveled at how someone could take care of all those kids but now what I marvel at is how someone could GESTATE all of them without her uterus falling out because of sheer exhaustion. A uterus has limits. Mine has pretty much reached its, on pregnancy number three.

Because I like to pretend I'm a celebrity and keep my pregnancies a secret for as long as possible, you all were lucky enough to miss the blow-by-blow of my miserable, epic, nonstop morning sickness. No need to rehash it all now months later. I'll just sum up those four to five glorious months by sharing these two facts:

Fact 1. I threw up in my hand on several occasions.

Fact 2. During that time, when my four year-old would play with her dolls, I'd over hear them all throwing up.

"BLEGGGGGH," goes Snow White Barbie.

"Mommy! Mommy! Do you need mouthwash?" says Rapunzel Barbie.

"Hold on, honey, I'm not ready -- BLEEEEEEGGGGH," replies Snow WHite, mid-yak.

It was a vomitpalooza chez nous.

Now that I'm in my eighth month, I'm pretty much done with the vomiting.

Now, I just feel like a brittle old bag of bones. With a very large baby in the middle.

After three pregnancies, my insides are so stretched out and saggy that I feel like the baby's arm is about to fall out from between my legs at any moment. Like I might be dropping the kids off at school and a tiny baby fist will drop out and I'll have to excuse myself to shove it back it until the appointed time.

Forget taking a decent breath. That shit ended around month five. I pant so heavily just by walking across the room that it UNSETTLES people. It makes my companions uncomfortable because they think I'm just going to keel over from having a heart attack. I gasp for breath even when I'm doing NOTHING, when I'm lying down, fully at rest.

Its so distracting David can't even watch TV in peace.

"Its like I'm sitting next to a perv," he said, "All the heavy breathing."

Add to that the shooting pain in my spine and the fact that my darling, beloved baby kicks me hard in what I can only describe as my lady parts -- I know its impossible for her to get that low, but trust me, somehow, she manages it -- and I am pretty much a total cripple now. If I had a wheelchair, I'd use it.

How the HELL did the Duggar woman take all this? Is she some sort of Amazon? Or a masochist? Or does she have that weird medical condition where you don't feel pain? And annoyance?

In situations like this, all I can say is: more power to her. And, frankly, a little more power to me, please, so I can make it through the next six weeks.

Brainwashing your child: hey, it happens

We all brain wash our kids, without even meaning to. They're just so impressionable and even the most mindful and mild of us parents pass on our beliefs and opinions about things.

My children, for instance, have a beef with teenagers. All of them, in general, as a category.

"I don't want to be a teenager!" exclaimed Primo one day, "They are so annoying!"

"Oh honey," I replied, "Not all teenagers are the same. Just like with everything, there are some nice ones and not-so-nice ones, and annoying ones, and perfectly pleasant ones."

"Well then why are you always complained about them?" he volleyed back.

This illuminated two things to me.

A. When did I become such a grumpy, crusty old octogenarian?

B. I have to be more careful about the shit I say in front of the kids.

"Yes, you're right, I do sometimes complain about teenagers," I agreed, "Because when I'm trying to walk you home from school and they take up the whole sidewalk and yell like maniacs and bump into us, it drives me crazy. But that's not ALL teenagers. And the truth is, I was the most annoying teenager around. Really. So I probably shouldn't complain."

But it was too little, too late. My kids are now prejudice against teenagers. And I have to launch a PR campaign in defense of them, to highlight the many positive qualities of many of the city's adolescents.

The other day, I noticed a new way I'd brainwashed Primo (Sec's way tougher to brainwash as she kind of just doesn't give much regard to anything I say).

I was limping around, moaning about my back pain and grumbling about being nauseous with my massive pregnant belly was sticking out of my pajamas and I just looked like the most miserable excuse for a human you've ever seen.

"Daddy, you're SO lucky," Primo pointed out.

"Why?" David took the bait.

"Because you get to have a baby without doing any of the work," he explained, "And poor Mommy has to feel SO BAD."

That time, I didn't bother to correct him. David had plenty to say on the matter.

We want to be surprised

You know something I've never understood? Parents who say they don't want to find out the gender of their in-utero baby because they want to retain the element of surprise. I mesm. I totally understand not wanting to find out the gender of the baby for a whole bunch of reasons, particularly the superstition variety. But wanting to be surprised at the moment of birth, I don't get, because it makes me think that they think if they find out that piece of information beforehand, there won't be enough surprises at the moment of birth.

I've experienced childbirth twice now, both times knowing the gender of the baby, and if there is one thing I can say with absolute assurance, it is that there is nothing BUT surprise at the moment of birth. That, in fact, is a wild understatement. A totally brand-new human being is coming our of your vagina. It is, I venture to say, the most shocking thing you could ever possibly experience. I don't care if you're the Duggard lady, that shit is surprising no matter how many timss you do it.

So the idea that you'd be lying there, and a baby would come tearing out from between your legs and you'd be like, "Oh yeah, a complete person is evacuating my vagina. Big deal. I know its a girl already." is funny to me.

I, in fact, feel the opposite. I DON'T want to be surprised. There are too many surprises already. I want to know whatever I can. If I could find out, from the sonogram, if the baby would be into sports or chess, I'd get that info now. If I could find out where the baby is going to college, that'd be rad. I'm an in-utero information junkie.

Inappropriate Questions People Ask Me Now

As you may guess if you'd read my blog before, I don't have a keenly-developed sense of privacy or decorum. I don't particularly even have a good grasp myself of the difference between appropriate and inappropriate conversation, and I have a tendency to overshare. But even I know you shouldn't ask a woman who is not on your speed dial if she meant to get pregnant or not.

And here's the thing: EVERYONE has been asking that with this most recent pregnancy. Didn't come up the first or second time but now, its just fair game.

I don't actually mind the question because my answer is simple and unequivocal and that is, for the record -- yes, I meant to, mine is a planned pregnancy, thanks very much for asking. The which always seems to surprise people, leading me to wonder why? is there a reason you'd think I didn't mean to get knocked up? Am I blundering so obviously in the mom department that its beyond the pale I'd dare to procreate again? Am I of such poor means and circumstances that its an outrageous proposition? Am I out of my freaking mind? It makes a gal, well, a bit defensive.

And then I think: what if it hadn't been planned? Would I then be compelled to choose between lying and calling my kid an "accident"? I mean, the go-to phrase people like to use is "happy accident" but still. My point is: its a little like asking someone if their boobs are real or how much they paid for their apartment. Its fine if they volunteer the info but dude, don't ask, no matter how much you're dying to settle a bet. Exercise a little restraint. Or, as my mother would put it: show some class.

Breaking News

I'm lousy with breaking news -- even the good kind -- to people. Its not a skill I ever developed. I handle these kinds of earnest moments awkwardly, and it leaves people wondering whether I'm fucking with them or what. Its a little like Molly Ringwald in that movie "For Keeps" (God I love that flick), when she says, "Pass the salt. I'm pregnant."

Which is my news, incidentally. I'm preggo. Knocked up. In the family way. Bun in the oven and all that.

I figured I should mention it since I'm in my third trimester and eventually, if all goes well, I will just be blogging about a Terza, and you'll be like, "What? Who's this new character? What the hell?" And then I'd have to backtrack and explain, yeah, I was totally pregnant there for the better part of a year and now I have a new baby and I just neglected to mention the whole thing. What can I say? I'm a wierdo.

So, yes, big news. New baby.

And since I've had this conversation a few times since my belly popped a while back, I can anticipate your next question. We know the gender and its a . . . lady baby. I put it that way because I like the image of her in pearls and a Chanel suit in my uterus, a real lady. Though I can't imagine where she'd get THAT from, since I curse like a sailor and Seconda still likes to show the world her underwear when she hangs upside down by her knees on the monkey bars. Who knows what this little critter will be like? Its kind of the fun of the enterprise, after all, the mystery which gets ever closer to being revealed.

So, prepare yourselves for some pregnancy blogging. Since I've kept the news under wraps for so long, I've got a LOT of complaining to make up for -- tons and tons. Gird your loins, people.

Hot Milk

I distinctly remember being about 7-8 months pregnant with Primo and deciding to put on a garter belt. Clearly I was having a crisis of confidence, a plummeting of self-esteem and I figured the thing to remedy it was get sexy looking. No faster way to feel sexy than a garter belt. EXCEPT when you are 7-8 months pregnant. Then its just ridiculous.

Of course the thing didn't fit on my waist. What waist? I had a baby where my waist should be. If only I had known about Hot Milk Maternity Lingerie.

A preggo friend of mine just told me about it and I think its such a great idea. I found many things about being pregnant totally sucky-- the five months of unrelenting nausea and vomiting, the sciatica pain, the back pain, difficultly sleeping, But I, for one, LOVED my pregnant body. I felt like I never looked better. Of course, when you upchuck several times a day for months, that happens. Not that I'm recommending it.

In any event, seven years too late, I've found a place to get a maternity garter belt. Cool.

Smelling Salts

Since I know the saga of my packing is of extreme interest to everyone out there, I will continue it today by sharing with you the fact that the other night, I packed until I passed out.

I actually fainted.

First I should mention that I am prone to fainting, as is my mother. I mean, it doesn’t happen all the time, but every so often, say once every three years or so, I’ll faint. There is always a cause – I say this in case you’re concerned I am the victim of a rare, undiagnosed disease, which is precisely what I would assume.

The first time David was privy to one of my fainting spells was right after we’d moved in together in LA and I slammed the car door onto my finger. I said to David, “I am going to faint.” And then I did, right to the floor – a slow fall, thank goodness, because he didn’t make the slightest effort to catch me whatsoever.

“Why didn’t you CATCH me for God’s sake,” I shrieked afterwards, “I told you I was going to faint.”

“But you’re such a drama queen I didn’t think you would actually DO it,” was his reply.

I absolutely loathe being called a drama queen, as every drama queen does. So I told him, “Look, in the future, if

I ever say that I am going to pass out, I really truly mean it and I’d appreciate it if you would save me from slamming my bones to the hard and unforgiving earth,”

And to think he considers me histrionic. . .

Another fainting spell of note occurred when I was about 10 weeks pregnant with Primo, right in the middle of the very worst, most ravaging, awful phase of my morning sickness. I was throwing up 2, 3 times a day, and couldn’t keep anything down at all, so I actually lost weight in my first trimester. I was skinnier pregnant than not pregnant. So I got on the subway to go to my temp job and I’d already thrown up once or twice that morning and by the time I got to Wall Street I wasn’t feeling too perky. By Park Place I was in bad shape. And when the train pulled into Chambers Street I remember thinking, “Get off the train Nicole, it’s your stop,” but I couldn’t move my legs.

Then I fainted. David wasn’t there, which was probably for the best because had he neglected to catch me then, when I bore the seed of his son, I think I would have performed a criminal act on him. Some other nice people caught me though, and offered me a seat and then I got off the subway and ate a donut from a cart on the street and then I threw up. Ah, pregnancy.

So this weekend, on Friday night, I was packing like it was closing time, which it was, considering the movers were coming at 8 AM the next morning. I hadn’t eaten much and drank almost nothing because I was in the packing ZONE where all that mattered was accumulating filled boxes labeled with my deranged handwriting. It occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling altogether too strong and as I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water, I had that old familiar light-headed feeling. I happened to be just passing the sofa where David sat, resting. He’d been taking furniture apart all day so I can’t call him a slacker but he was, at that particular moment, sitting on his ass. And that is when I fainted.

“What happened to you?” he asked me.

“I PASSED OUT!” I cried, as a huge surge of self pity rolled over me, “FROM FATIGUE!!!!!!!!!!!”

And then I cried a little bit in self pity and insisted on laying on the floor until David brought me a glass of orange juice, for my blood sugar.

“There’s none left,” he called from the kitchen.

“YOU FINISHED THE ORANGE JUICE!” I shouted, although I was too weak to get off the floor, “And here I am FAINTING????”

It was kind of divine, I have to admit, a spectacular demonstration of my martyrdom. And really, that’s what marriage is all about.