someday, we'll get out of the house again.

Over a screening of America's Next Top Model:

Tyra (x4): Congratulations, you're still in the running toward becoming America's Next Top Model.
K: I can only hope this will be America's Last Top Model.
M: Actually, I was hoping it would be followed up with America's Next Topless Model.

interlopers.

It's a little embarrassing when the cable guy shows up unannounced (it was a follow-up to yesterday's scheduled appointment, not a set-up for some weird pregnant triple-X adventure, although he did bring an assistant along this time) and you're having a nutritious afternoon snack of Goldfish and Gatorade (nothing like making the baby come out orange) and there's a wadded up comforter on the couch from where you took a nap earlier and you haven't brushed your teeth.

It's another thing all together when he comes in and looks around and says, "so, Ebay sales not going well, huh?"

the unbearable cuteness of being.

If you thought babies were cute, you should see their clothes.

If you thought their clothes were cute, you should see them after they've been laundered.

Thanks to the ongoing generosity of our extended family, we've begun assembling the baby's image, including wardrobe and accessories, and while I don't think the baby will care if it comes home in a three-piece Baby Lauren ensemble, I can't deny that I'm a little impressed that my child will be dressed more fashionably than either of its parents.

Unfortunately, thanks to the continuously improving ultrasound technology, I think it is a lot less common to wait until the baby is born to discover its sex. We decided that we would wait to find out at the birth, even though the ultrasound technician could have told us a few months ago.

This increased likelihood of already knowing the sex results in an industry-wide shortage of gender-neutral clothing for newborns. Again, I know that the baby doesn't care, but this means we have a growing pile of yellow duck clothing along with plenty of the poop-endangered white.

Ducks: the gender neutral gamebird. Who knew?

And the subsequent conclusion, you can put a girl in blue, but you can't put a boy in pink. Actually, you can't put a girl in blue if you are bothered by strangers asking, "What's his name?" Putting a boy in yellow may cause a similar problem. My mother is appalled that we've put a airplane-oriented bedroom set on the registry, and has offered to hand tie pink ribbons to it should the baby turn out to be a girl.

In summary: I have completely revamped my standards on gender-neutrality as applied to children under 3 months old. I am ashamed, as a woman who tends to prefer men's jeans, but then, I have boobs to clear up any uncertainty.

...and another thing.

I'm so tired of everybody telling me how hard this is going to be. It's a discussion I can't win -- I understand that I have absolutely no concept of the realities of childbirth or childbearing, and I express that, and yet everyone feels compelled to chirp up with some inane comment letting me know that it will be so much worse than anything I can possibly dream up.

My mission as a mother will include making soon-to-be mothers feel confident and capable by regaling them with stories about how things really ain't so bad. Why do we insist, as a society, that children make our lives a living hell? Why not tell stories of the wonderful parts of parenting, and not just the horror stories?

...of course, that's if they've already made it through the power-puking stage.

not giving up.

I'd like to thank my husband for not pointing out the obvious, that my switch to all elastic-waisted pants, all the time, is a clear violation of one of my life philosophies: To wear sweatpants in public is to have given up on life.

Expect this to be the first of many philosophies I'm forced to revise thanks to the presence of a child.

alarming.

I'm startled to discover that our birthing class teacher was right: Poop Labor actually may precede Actual Labor.

But for the woman in our class who winced and cried out, "They're going to wash your butt?" when told that the nurses would probably come into the room and wash her butt, I am particularly concerned. This is the same woman who stood up at the end of the vaginal birth video and announced, "I'm ready to go," while all of the other couples hugged and the women tried not to cry.

Good luck, Heather and Jon!

update: She's here!

martha by rem.

I hate hearing other people's dreams, but I'll subject you to this:

I was at my high school reunion. I was pregnant. I couldn't drink, but I was hopped up on Benadryl. I asked my friend Jim if he was still writing screenplays, but he said he'd given it up. He seemed to have a sinus headache, so I gave him a couple of my Benadryl and I said I'd hear the rest of the story later.

We all went outside to ride in this gigantic tobaggan, but I couldn't because I was pregnant. There was a terrible accident with the tobaggan exploding wood all over this tunnel. I ran into the tunnel to try to help. I think everyone was fine, but we had to be careful not to let the brakes start a fire or burn anyone.

I carried a little kid up the hill because he wanted to see his cousin. I spoke to some of the other kids' parents. Martha Stewart was there. She asked if I could help her find the bathroom. She wore a red suit. We went into the bathroom and she sat down on the sink. She'd been having a sinus headache of her own.

I asked her the best way to make my own diaper bag. I told her that I didn't have a sewing machine, but that I knew how to sew. She said that I owed it to myself and my family to get a sewing machine that could "cruise along at eleven."

Then Martha and I were chased inside by some angry reunion organizers that were upset to find we weren't helping with the cleanup. Martha and I retaliated by pulling down the skirt of a woman named Beaches, while we chanted, "Beaches, Beaches, we saw your Breeches!"