Breast Abscess

Get that shit checked out but pronto. Six hours in the emergency room overnight is a less than restful experience, especially when you are trying your almighty best to keep your baby out of the hospital and away from germs and sickies.

On the plus side, the Percocet took the edge off.

Baby Steps

Today marks the end of day two of being at home along with the baby. True, husband has come home both days to see his little girl and to kick his shoes off, put his business-socked feet up and watch a little crappy daytime reality tv (I know, redundant), but still, this has been two days of full, 100 percent responsibility for another life for more than two hours.

Yesterday, I had goals. Call the doctor about my trip to the emergency room to have the abscess that had set up shop in my right boob taken care of, call my midwife to let her know the same story, walk around the neighborhood once and pick up my prescription of Percocet. Check, check, check and check.

Today, the adventure for the day was to get to afore-mentioned doctor's office, making it the first car trip with me and baby on our own. The preparation was intense. In an effort to keep the vocalizations ("Why am I in this damn car seat again you know how I hate it why is this blanket hanging over the car seat so I can't see a thing you know I want to be fed right now and I am making a poopy diaper as we speak unnnnnnn..." (that's the pooping sound)) down, baby had third breakfast right before we left the house.

Plan was to give her a bottle with the breast milk that I have only days ago started pumping. Get bottle out of fridge, run hot water to warm it up...remember that the one with the boobs shouldn't give the bottle to avoid confusion and isn't breastfeeding hard enough anyway without confusion, so back goes bottle into fridge, shirt comes off over the head, bra comes off, baby comes to boob and she eats. Baby usually eats for five to six minutes at a time, so I'm thinking we have time. Yeah.

For the first time in a while, she eats for close to ten minutes, meaning I make the call to settle for peeking in the leg of her diaper to see if a changing is needed and skip the outfit change all together. She's five and a half weeks old, Eau de breast milk is IN this season.

Finally she's buckled into her car seat. As she expresses the appropriate amount of displeasure at her current lot in life, I sherpa myself up with a diaper bag, purse and car seat and head out to to the car. Being baby's first trip in the Beetle, I'm not prepared for the leaning forward past vertical position that the passenger seat has to be in in order to make room for the car seat. I take this as another sign that I will never, ever get my old life back.

Drive to doctor's office was fairly uneventful - took advantage of new baby-ness to call the doctor's office and let them know I was running late because this was the first time I'd traveled on my own with the kid.

Doctor's office visit also fairly uneventful - got another shot of lidocaine so that they could pull this "wick" (tape-like piece of cotton gauze) out of me and put another one in to keep soaking up the shit that abscesses when you have an abscess. Great news, we know this hurts like a son of a bitch but please pull it out a little bit each day and your boob will heal behind it as you go.

Drive home fairly uneventful as well.

Get in the door of the house, the dog has pulled stuff down off the counters and the table, I see the breast pump boob part on the ground, baby is fussing to eat, so I go to my default mode and cry. Get baby out of car seat, take her upstairs to eat, see that I forgot to put up the gate on the stairs so the dog has also pulled down my basket that I carry with me for breastfeeding, dirty laundry from the hamper, condoms (I know, hopeful) from the nightstand, the Twilight Turtle from the table and dirty baby mitts from the baby laundry basket. Default mode now is pissed off.

After a quiet but very pointed "bad dog!", I get her (the baby, not the dog) changed and fed. While feeding it becomes clear that someone needs to changed again, so we change again and then feed again.

When all that is done I know I should pick up the stuff the dog has strewn all over the house but that would entail putting baby down and putting bra and shirt on so instead I wait for hubster to get home so he too can see that awful awfulness perpetrated by our dog and make me feel better by agreeing that the dog is so bad and knows better. And maybe he'll pick it up.

Battle of the Bulge

There comes a point in everyone's life where they are given cause to take a step back and reflect on their own "deal" - their life, their mission, their relationships, the direction of those relationships - and make a true turning point decision.

That time has come.

First, some background:

I have a (several?) clogged milk ducts in one of my boobs. This happened once before in the other boob and it developed into a low-grade breast infection that landed me with a fever and directions to take echinacea and vitamin C to fight the infection, make and eat a shittake mushroom soup made with (ancient Chinese medicine) astragalus root and a clove of garlic added each time you dish up. Also, nurse the baby with her nose and chin pointed toward the blockage as much as possible and apply castor oil with heat before taking a warm shower and massaging the oil in. Worked. Plugged ducts became unplugged, lah dee dah and off we go.

Because I am not one who likes to keep a good thing to herself, a week ago there's another lump, this time in the other boob. Shit. Only a slight fever this time that I'm able to knock out pretty quickly, but the lump, on the other hand, is hanging around. I've done the soup, the castor oil, the echinacea, vitamin C and now I'm taking a lecithin supplement to make the ducts "slippery." Babe is feeding with her nose pointing toward the blockage every night when she feeds side-lying.

Here we come back to the point - the time for pause.

The midwife said that I can also have dear hubster...nurse...because he is easier to manuever around and I can tell him if he's hitting the right spot. I love LOVE my midwives - I will cry when I have my last appointment with them - and the following should in no way reflect on how much they mean to my life.

We have been all for the natural, traditional way of doing things during this pregnancy and, for the most part, during this baby's life. Homeopathic rather than western medicine, no medical intervention, hospital birth, etc.

However, and this is a big however for me personally, when all is said and done I love my husband for more than just his hippie tendencies (luckily, not bathing is not among them) and I want him to love me back for the same reasons. Hence, the reason I will continue to wear a bra during the day even though I'm breastfeeding and why I will not ask him to nurse on me. My relationship with my daughter is vitally important to me, but my relationship with my husband is sacred, in big part because it allows my strong relationship with my daughter to grow and flourish. I want to be able to return to that relationship with him at some point.

Feminism is...

Following up to the last post, the end of this article has a pretty nifty, short description of feminism: Drunk on Not Working.

Baby Addiction

Hi, I'm a new mom and I have a baby addiction.

Hi, new mom.

It started out innocently enough - the first few days after she was born I was uncomfortable going anywhere (in my own house) that was far from her, for fear she would start to scream and need to be fed immediately.

It turned into a nervous internal voice waking me up to turn on her little SnuggleNest light to make sure she was a) still breathing; and b) not gagging on her own spit up.

Now, it's gotten to the point where yesterday, when hubster took a nap upstairs with said baby and left me downstairs, I made food, cleaned some stuff up and then had no idea what I should be doing.

For me, this is different than the idea of baby as narcotic (see this great article sent to me by another new mom friend: Katie Roiphe: My Newborn Is Like a Narcotic. This isn't necessarily something pleasurable - it just is.

The article got me thinking. Yeah, I call myself a feminist and have done so for a long time (feminism - the other f word). Yeah, I'm taking a significant chunk of time off from work, more than I have taken since I started working some decade and a half ago. Yeah, my plans after that aren't even firm enough to be called plans, just ideas about what life could be like if this, this and this happened.

So, yeah, a lot of which which I'd based my personal sense of strong and female on in the past has been twisted into a new form of my life. I haven't yet gotten friendly enough with this new life to figure out why it is uniquely female and inherently strong.

Right now, my baby addiction is functional - I need to do things for this baby to make sure it lives and grows and thrives and bonds with me. When I'm not there, I worry I'm losing those chances to build that deep bond and trust that will benefit both me and this child as she grows. I know, and I hope, that soon that addiction will change into something more like the pleasure high from a narcotic.

Brown chicken brown cow

There is a little miniature bed that has taken a place of honor between me and my husband's pillows. In said little miniature bed is a little miniature person who is squirmy, grunty, kicky and wants to be fed from the boob every three to five hours at night. Said person also has a toilet attached to her bum so she can go whenever she needs to, but the toilet does need to be replaced when it gets full, so middle of the night booty calls have taken on an entirely new and not as fun meaning.

Needless to say, the level of intimacy in the bedroom has taken on a National Geographic indigenous feel, with milky boobs being the extent of the excitement these days and even then, only one of us is excited (one guess: the grunty one).

Lies and the lying liars who tell them

Disclaimer: This is going to be a really scattered post. I haven't posted anything in a while and this topic has been bubbling around in my head for a few weeks. Also, over at http://www.glossolaliac.typepad.com/ there is a much more well thought out post about this. Read the article. Share it with your friends. And for god's sake, help a mama out. Any mama.

Thank you to Al Franken for the title.

Or, maybe more appropriately, this post should be called "Why didn't anyone ever tell me, and why isn't it in the books, just how f'ing hard this will be?"

I was scared about what to do, I had/have a rush of hormones flooding through my body as the pregnancy hormones peter out and the breastfeeding/mama hormones rush in to fill the space, breastfeeding is H.A.R.D. and hurt like hell (my nipples were bruised and cracked, dark red and purple for about a week), I'm healing from essentially running a marathon and, in my case, a tear, and, on top of all that, there is this small, squirmy, little being sleeping in the middle of my bed that cries to be fed on my poor boobs, that makes messy diapers and keeps me and my husband up and away from the life we used to know.

That's the stuff nobody tells you.

Really, I'm almost indignant about it. I feel that, if you have ever had a child before, it is your job, nay, your DUTY, to be realistic with all new moms from then on out. None of this "aren't you just LOVING it?" bull shit.

And, for that matter, what's with the baby books that barely even address the "baby blues" or postpartum depression? How about a little reassurance that postpartum depression is the far, far end of the spectrum and that no, you probably aren't going to go that far down the path. But yes, you will have crazy thoughts about what the hell are you doing and why did you get yourself into this.

Acknowledge the difficulty, acknowledge the darkness out loud so that new moms don't go into their own heads and start to get scared about the thoughts in their heads. We can help each other out if we are honest about what the time period immediately after birth is really like for new mamas.

New mamas are truly doing something extraordinary and we owe all of them the straight dope on the post-pregnancy experience.

It's only by talking about it, by bringing light onto an all too common state of mind, that we can make it less scary and lonely for the millions of women who experience it.

Baby Girl

She's here.

She was born on Sunday, August 2, 2009 at 9:42 a.m.

She weighed in at 8 lbs. 3 oz. and was 20 inches from top to bottom.

She came into this world in a beautiful birth at home, in a birth tub, in her mom and dad's bedroom.

I am sure that more will follow, but I didn't want this incredibly momentous event to go undocumented for too long. Believe me, the delay is only due to the tough adjustment to our new schedule.

Nothing to Write About

I just complained to hubby dearest that I had nothing to write about, because who wants to hear about what I'm thinking about?

No one, that's who. But I'm writing it anyway so suck it.

I mean, who wants to hear about how the dog's incessant, unfounded whining to go outside in this crazy heat is driving me crazy, as is his nonstop private parts licking, and how the cat won't stop stealing his bed which just leads to more whining.

I don't even want to hear about that stuff.

And who wants to hear about how I REALLY want to go buy some new clothes because I am so majorly over the two skirts, one pair of yoga pants and two shirts I have that are actually suitable to wear in public (and the yoga pants only make the list because by public I mean at prenatal yoga class). Or how I am a teensy bit concerned that the non-maternity tops I've been stretching over my belly are actually now ruined for good. Also, I am tired of flip flops and low-heeled sandals.

No one except maybe occasionally me wants to hear about my made up schedule of wake up, take homeopathic tabs, get up, maybe go on a walk, putter around, maybe make smoothies while hubster gets ready for work, take my iron and orange juice, say goodbye to hubster, explain to the dog that he doesn't need to lie next to the door because hubster isn't coming home in twenty minutes, clean up the smoothie-making materials, drink said smoothie, fill up water bottle, play a game on the computer, make some toast and refill water bottle, check email and other necessary Web sites, check the pet's water bowls, pee (for what will seem like the tenth time already), shuffle around papers on the table and counter, balance checkbook, glance at the clock to see if it is time for lunch, realize it isn't and try to think of something to write on this blog...

Yawn. Maybe a nap will help wile away the hours.

One good thing about today is that it is Thursday, so hubster won't have to go into the office tomorrow and I will have someone around to talk to who actually speaks English, rather than trying to get some sort of meaningful conversation out of the furry, four-legged members of our family.

You Know What's a Good Movie?

Rachel Getting Married. Now that is a quality flick.

Punting

Not that I like to necessarily call it this, but last night my husband characterized our decision to put both last names on the baby's birth certificate as "punting." Which, essentially, it is. Once they're both on there, we can figure it out later, or let the kiddo figure it out. No pressure or anything (although Jacobsen is obviously a much more less-abnormal last name than Demerice - just sayin').

I think it was a good decision. One of the best, you might say.

Working from home and other things we do to prepare for birth

I started working from home yesterday. It's kind of nice, but at the same time it sucks because my co-workers still at the office aren't attuned to the ways of pregnancy, so it feels like they think I can once again do everything now that I am at home and can, theoretically, work in my pajamas (if I stayed in my pajamas all day I would also stay in bed - not getting dressed makes me feel like a worthless member of society).

In reality, I can't do anymore than I could when I was at the office in uncomfortable clothes; now I just am able to try and get more than six hours of sleep a night and I can walk around all uncomfortable like in my flip flops and eat little mini snacks all day.

On the plus side, working from home has seriously helped my timing - there are some things I do every day. Some of these are specifically for my health and have nothing to do with baby, some have everything to do with baby.

For example: for the last I don't know how many years, we've made smoothies in the morning for breakfast. I swear these smoothies are a huge contributor to my overall good health, both before and during this pregnancy. They're made with plain, nonfat organic yogurt (I don't want my milk tainted with chemicals and don't want to drink a cow's milk that has been, either), a mix of frozen berries (we buy them by the two bagfuls at Costco), a banana, lean whey protein powder, ground flax seed and now black strap molasses (for the iron).

I also take, twice a day, an herbal liquid iron supplement, along with an iron tincture made with yellow dock to help the iron absorb (both are not so yummy so I shoot them with orange juice - vitamin C also helps absorption). Calcium inhibits iron absorption so I have to time the iron to be on an empty stomach (for maximum effectiveness) and to not eat for a while afterward. They say wait an hour but I can't do that, so I usually call it good at about 45 minutes. The iron supplement stays in the fridge so I didn't bring that to work with me - too many questions when people see it in the communal fridge.

Two times a day I take three little homeopathic tabs made up of arnica and some other stuff that I can't spell or pronounce. It's friendly name is EZ-Birth and it's from Canada. They taste like sugar (delicious!) and I just let them dissolve under my tongue. Can't take these when I have just had orange juice or brushed my teeth, or eaten or drank anything else that is strong and will overpower the teeny bits of magic herbs in the tabs, so that's 15 minutes on either side.

I'm also drinking 2 - 3 cups a day of pregnancy tea, which has raspberry leaf, chamomile flowers, nettle leaf, dandelion leaf, oat straw and peppermint. Good for your uterus, I'm told. It's tasty. No cross-contamination issues here, although if I drink it later in the evening it becomes good for peeing.

Also, vitamins, 3 times a day. Not a big deal, I just have to remember to take them.

And evening primrose oil. Not to go into detail, but suffice it to say it's not going in my mouth, so no timing issues here, although I've found some times are better than others.

All in all, we do so much to keep these babies inside all warm and nestley (not the chocolate) and then - boom! 37 weeks hits and it's all you can do to get the baby out. It makes me SO grateful to have chosen the traditional, non-medical path of care, though. If I was doing all this with chemically based, non-natural products I would probably be pretty sick and, even worse, would be sending all those chemicals to my baby.

With this regimen, the most unnatural thing I'm taking is probably the plastic of the little cup that I use to measure out the iron supplement.

What's in a name?

So last night we made a very important decision.

The baby's last name will be Demerice Jacobsen. Put it all on the birth certificate and then we can sort out the logistics later.

Yesterday

Yesterday was July 7. My husband's birthday.

Also, yesterday marked 37 weeks of pregnancy.

For a good portion of my life, for over a decade, one of the goals I've had for every day has been, "Do not have a baby today."

For the first time, that changed yesterday. Yesterday was the go ahead date, the date where this whole game changed.

What's that feeling in my belly? On July 6, the answer was "hope it's just a practice contraction." Today? "Hey, maybe the baby's on the way!"

Last night I laid in bed trying to envision the birth, putting good images in my head.

Instead, I ended up thinking about how we need to clean the bedroom and move the storage chest thing out and the bed over so that the tub can go in, and when we move the bed over we need to also move over the wall hangings above the bed because I have this thing with symmetry and I would not be happy having to look at wall hangings that weren't hanging centered over the bed and we should also take this opportunity to dust the floor trim and actually vacuum all the way to the walls and where will the dog go during the birth and will our families just give us 72 hours to get used to each other and our new little family and for me to heal before they barge in and where am I supposed to get this food that we should stock up on and why is our freezer so small.

So maybe the visualizations aren't what I need to be doing right now.

Fences are Good Neighbors

It should be known that I love animals. I'm a softy for them and am constantly thinking of new ways to convince my husband that we can adopt just one more cat and/or dog. Usually, it's the cat and/or dog with heart trouble or three legs or is 90 percent blind ("but I can help them find what they need!").

So...

My neighbor is an ass. Quite honestly. Almost so much he is a donkey. Or a burro (although, truth be told, I kind of want a donkey-slash-burro and should maybe not say such mean things about those kind, gentle animals). But we did build an entire fence just to not have to be subjected to the audio and visual yickiness from next door.

He has roommates (which I thought didn't happen past the age of 30) and they throw loud parties and leave their empties on the back porch (again, not past 30?). One of the old roommates had a dog - a female German Shepherd - who was made to stay outside, like, all the time.

Eventually roommate #1 goes away. Much rejoicing that there is no longer a sad, lonely puppy crying next to my house.

But along comes new roommate. New roommate ALSO brings with him a dog, this time a long-haired little dachshund with the sweetest little yip; we'll call her Enid (although her real name is so much more cute). Enid is tied to a stake in the middle of the yard all day long. Sometimes he doesn't bring her in at night, so it turns into 24+ hours that dear, adorable little Enid is staked in the yard (if he doesn't want other dogs in the house, WHY KEEP GETTING DOG-OWNING ROOMMATES?).

Enid yips when people are outside at the house, either leaving in their car or driving into the driveway. They ignore her. Enid yips because she is freakin' bored and has no shelter and has empty food and water bowls. They ignore her.

Enid likes us. We'll go over when no one is there to give her a biscuit or two. We toss her toys back within reach of her tie-out. I cry when someone comes home and I see her get so excited and wag her short little tail so hard it looks like it will launch her into the air, but they only ignore her or she gets a pat and her bowl gets moved out of the hot sun. This literally just happened and is why I'm sitting here angrily banging on the keyboard, sniffling and wiping my eyes).

My dog gets a biscuit every time he actually eats all the food we put into his bowl (it doesn't happen all the time). He gets fresh, cold water every single day. He has a basket of toys on the ground that he knows he can go to at anytime if he wants something to chew on. He has a cat to chase around, He gets a walk almost every single day and gets to take trips to the dog park several times a month.

We should be thanked for being such good pet parents (both have been "socially customized," both have regular vet appointments and are licensed...) and the roommate should not get to have a dog. As it is, we both get to have dogs.

That doesn't seem fair to the dog.

Or to the neighbors, who think they should get to take the dog and let the dog come live with them because they would clearly be much better, loving pet parents.

Prequel

In two weeks, if I go into labor, my midwives will say, "okay, cool, so let's have a baby."

TWO WEEKS.

Two.

We'd better get some diapers.

The List Goes On

Bought a new laundry basket today and started gathering supplies in it for the home birth. I know it's a bit early, but I need something to fixate on.

You do buy a home birth kit but there are things not in the kit that you need to have ready to go. Most of them I get - maxi pads, extra set of sheets (with a handy dandy diagram to show you how to make your bed for the big day), towels, washcloths, sitz bath, crock pot to keep washcloths warm, so on and so forth.

The one I don't get is a cookie sheet. If someone plans on making me cookies during this process then I am VERY happy. If not, what is it for?

My guess is an implement tray.

Although I'd prefer there be cookies on it.

Early Morning Companionship

Couldn't sleep worth a darn last night. Water was giving me heartburn and then, when I finally started sawing logs, my child-to-be decides if I'm not ready to give birth, the precious little one is finding it's own way out. Apparently that route was through my side.

After about 30 minutes of pushing little feet and/or hands back in, I threw in the towel and got up out of bed around 4:30 AM, hoping to let my hubster sleep longer.

Swaying, rocking, swinging my arms from side to side all seemed to work for a time and then the tunneling would begin again.

Too early to grab said sleepy husband out of bed to go with me on a walk with the dog, I zipped up my jacket, put on my watch (because then I can actually see myself getting more and more slow) and headed out the door.

Chinook and I made it halfway through the first lap when we were joined by Mr. Braxton and Mr. Hicks (kidding - thanks to Wikipedia I know it's just one guy).

After picking that weirdo up, we were, utterly inexplicably, joined by Sacha Baron Cohen singing the "I Like to Move It" song from Madagascar. But only four lines over and over again.

So off the merry band of us went, Chinook and I doing a brisk 20-minute mile, cheered on by Braxton-Hicks and the king of lemurs.

Jicama and other oddities

Currently, my baby is the size of a large jicama.

WTF?

Thanks, BabyCenter weekly emails, for forcing me to learn about fringe veggies.

Musings of a 32+ Weeks Pregnant Woman

This may just be the increase in hormones racing through my body and playing their little game of change and preparation on all the important innards and outtards of my body (read: brain, heart, lungs, uterus, skin, hair, nails and so on) but I feel ridiculously out of my normal alignment today.

Yesterday, I heard the fantastic, amazing news that a friend, someone whom I respect and has been an enormously supportive and wonderful person during my pregnancy, gave birth to her first child (http://glossolaliac.typepad.com/). Maybe the hormones can also be blamed for feeling so close to this person, or maybe I actually CAN be friends with girls (there's a thought), but I was so overwhelmed with the news and so damn happy for them that the only place my happiness could go was out my eyes.

How weird is it to cry for someone else's joy when yours is just around the corner?

Today I read her birth story, which set off a whole new wave of weepiness. My husband and I had been planning on birthing at a birth center, not at home, but over the last week we've discussed with each other and our midwives the idea that maybe we do want to have a home birth. After reading the aforementioned birth story, and reading the stories of others who have recently given birth, I'm having a very difficult time imagining this birth taking place anywhere BUT our house.

Yeah, so we do have a lot of work to do at the ol' homestead before it would be ready (mainly making the backyard look pretty so I don't see turned up soil while breathing through my eighth hour of labor), but a home birth is feeling more and more like the only way that this was ever going to happen anyway so why fight fate?

At the same time, I wonder, "can I actually do this?" Birthing at home seems so much more personal and...close than birthing anywhere else and I don't know if my shyness, my concern of making others feel uncomfortable to be around me, my worry about looking unprepared or like I didn't do the right thing, makes me a good candidate for home birth. I like my midwives a lot and I love their attitude toward birth, but they haven't seen me naked or sitting on the toilet.

And then there are the silly thoughts that my house won't be ready for people to be in it - there will be dog hair on the carpet and under the fridge, the cat box will smell, our fridge will need to be cleaned, our pictures are dusty, we haven't even been able to get the living room how we want it yet (decorating, furniture, etc.).

So that's where I am right now. I'm so freaking excited I can't stand it, but there are lot of other things that are pulling my focus between now and then. I wish I had all this time to focus on and prepare myself for the birth.

The Short List

We learned our lesson very early on - do not tell anyone, including your family, the names you are thinking of naming your child. It's not their decision and their input will not be helpful.

So, to that end, we have developed a short list of names, are vetting them in our own way and will announce our pick soon after it's owner is born.

And no, we will not give you even a teeny tiny hint.

Your Doubtfulness Makes Me Even More Stubborn

Just so you know, the more I feel like you doubt that this will be a natural birth, the stronger my conviction that it indeed will be.

Each day I get closer to my baby's day of birth, the stronger my conviction that:

1. My body can do this.
2. Woman have been doing this for thousands of years with significantly less and worse health care than I have had my entire life.
3. A hospital birth will take away from me everything that I am looking forward to with this birth.
4. My husband will be the perfect partner for me in this new experience and together we will make it through strong and healthy.
5. The majority of reasons that people end up with medical interventions can be easily avoided by not starting down a medical path in the first place.
6. Birth was not meant to be confined on it's back with an i.v. in a hospital bed in a cold room with strangers moving in and out.
7. This is the way it was meant to be.

So step off.

Stop the crazy

Somali pirates vs. the U.S. Navy (good old-fashioned, get along 'lil doggy, pride-raisin' ass whoopin')

Iran and nukes

North Korea and nukes

Kim Jong-il ('nuff said)

Sunday School teacher murders eight-year old

Pissy (and apparently unstable) father of five murders all his children

Chill the f*** out. Everyone. Now.

A Situation Comedy About Office Life

I've decided the material is ripe for me to write a situational comedy about life in an office. Cubicles, smelly microwaves, bans on perfume, incompetent staff, it's all there. I just have to write it down.

For example: People eat microwave popcorn (Blast O' Butter, from the smell of it) for breakfast, lunch, afternoon pick me up and pre-drive home snack. If you hate the smell of microwave popcorn, you go talk to the HR folks about it.

Although...plot turn - the HR folks have been banned from making popcorn on their own floor, due to the vocal complaints of one astute sniffer. They now must hike down one floor to get their toxic food-flavoring fix.

What's an office worker to do?

This is truly an award-winning idea; I cannot believe no one has thought of this yet.

The Transition

Maybe this happens for every soon-to-be mama, but it seems to me there has a come a point where my main focus has gone from protecting with ferocity what I see as my news, my excitement, my prerogative, beyond the decision of the type of birth I want to experience to those all-important, myriad choices of what I will actually do once this little person is here.

Now that people don't need to be told I am expecting my first child, now that the evidence of said arrival is, well, evident anytime you see me, my attention has turned to much more daunting preparations. How long will I breastfeed? Am I jiving with this attachment mothering idea? Am I already setting myself, my husband and my baby up for failure because I don't plan on having them (the baby) sleep in my bed or in one of those bed-attaching crib thingies? How can I make my traditional office job fit in around the edges of the work I actually want to be doing for the next half decade or so? If it doesn't, can I leave it without it being called "dropping out?"

Additionally, how can I shield myself and my family from the ever-increasing outside expectations of how this pregnancy and birth experience will be when those same outside forces also happen to be related to me? How do I express what I want, and is it okay to want what I want when everyone else seems to want something different?

A lot of questions for too early on a Saturday morning from one very exasperated yet hopeful mum.