Tag Archives: parenthood

Maybe I CAN Wait

Yesterday I got into the elevator and there was a young woman in there with her newborn baby girl.

Me: “Awww how old is she?”

Woman: “Almost a month.”

Me: “She’s adorable.”

Woman: “Thank you. How far along are you?”

Me: “A few weeks to go! I can’t WAIT to not be pregnant!”

And then the woman’s tired, weary eyes grew wide and essentially this is the scene that unfolded:

tumblr_m5zs81MTXB1qivvmho1_50042.giftumblr_m5zs81MTXB1qivvmho2_50041.gif2fNQ.gifAdam-Sandler-Wants-You-To-Cherish-Being-Young-In-Billy-Madison.giftenor.gif

Well This Derailed Quickly

Eric decided to add a little friendly fun to this pregnancy experience (as his role has mainly consisted of fetching me things and being the human crane that lifts me from couch/bed/uber/toilet) by starting a family Baby Pool. The instructions were as follows:

babypool1.jpg

IMG_0609.jpg

Here’s what has happened so far:

1. Dad became instantly confused by the Venmo situation. He doesn’t know how to use it and asked that somebody show him. My uncle, trying to be helpful, suggested “download it. It’s pretty self explanatory from there.” I am certain he lost Dad at “download.”

2. Mom remained silent on the Venmo topic but I already know she’s confused, because the last time I was home the following conversation took place:

Mom: “I need you to show me how to buy Venmo.”

Me: “You mean download Venmo?”

Mom: “No, I know how to download things, thank you very much. But I need you to show me how to buy it.”

Me: “But you don’t buy it, you download it.”

Mom: “I know that.”

Me: “Ok…”

Mom: “Ok.”

And then nothing happened.

3. My mother-in-law texted separately with her own Venmo questions, but I’m still not quite sure where we stand on me being allowed to make fun of her on my blog, so I’m just going to let that one marinate.

4. Zack sent in his due date guess for August 28th, despite Eric and I sending these follow-up emails beforehand:

IMG_0605.jpeg

So either Zack doesn’t read our emails, or he is banking on me being induced the 26th and laboring for 48+ hours. Either way– fuck you, man.

5. Jeremy hasn’t given even the slightest indication that he has read the emails or plans to participate (or is alive). This might be because Eric called him poor (in highlighted font), or it’s simply Jeremy being Jeremy. I’m banking on the latter. He’s pretty fucking aware that he’s poor.

6. In a shocking turn of events, nothing from Steph. We know she read the email and text conversations because Andrew has been actively responding while in her presence, but we imagine that she is this exact level of interested img_2021-6.

7. My 3-year-old nephew The Boog, however, was the first to submit his entry. He thinks the baby will be born on August 10, at 10pm, weighing 10 pounds and measuring 10 inches. He also insisted on paying $10. We tried to explain to him that the entry fee is $5 (and that numbers other than 10 exist), but he told us to keep the 10 and cover Uncle Jeremy’s entry, who he heard is poor.

8. As for our niece, we have been informed that she has some follow-up questions for me and Eric, as she would like to collect a bit more information before entering her submission. She is 3.

So bottom line we only have 2 submissions so far, as this whole fun baby pool idea has derailed into a bit of a shitshow and likely won’t actually come to fruition. To be clear, this post, which I will link to Facebook and tag every single family member in, is not at all a passive-aggressive attempt to spur everyone into action. Because I’m above that.

Really.

TenderVigorousEsok.gif

Bonehead Decisions

Yesterday Eric and I went to the hospital for our 36-week growth scan (a thorough, more in-depth ultrasound to track baby’s growth/health, generally performed every 4-6 weeks in pregnancy). After the hell parade that was Sunday, we* were pretty anxious about what this scan might reveal.

*we = I . Eric doesn’t scare easily. See “marrying me” as evidence.

The first thing the technician said before performing the scan was “So, now that you’re 36 weeks and 3 days along, baby should definitely be in the head-down position, preparing for delivery.”

“Funny you should say that,” I countered. “Because we ended up in the hospital on Sunday due to contractions, nausea, and shortness of breath, only to learn through a quick ultrasound that baby flipped to breech, even though she’s been head down since week 30.”

“Ugh,” said the technician. “What a little stinker.”

I immediately liked her, and wondered if she’d be interested in nannying my child as a side-gig.

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve been using the term ‘bozo,’ but stinker works too.”

“Alright, well let’s see what Stinker’s up to today.”

She placed the ultrasound wand on my belly and immediately determined that baby had, somewhere in the past 36 hours, flipped back to head-down (the correct position).

“Oh, thank god,” I sighed, followed quickly by, “Fucking…seriously, though?”

My initial interpretation of this behavior was that this baby is exactly like Eric– an energetic bunny hellbent on filling her day with activities, despite the person sharing space with her being in NO MOOD.

giphy.gif

A true Lerman baby, by contrast, would have found a cozy spot at week 6 and not moved a muscle until she was tugged out with forceps, suction, and a blowhorn at week 43. But this kid has been kicking, jabbing, and playing my ribs like a xylophone for months now. Activities!!!!!!!!!! 52a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb imgres-252a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb imgres-252a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bbimgres-2

Textbook Eric.

But upon further contemplation I realized this late-in-the-game-flip-trick was maybe less a display of restless hyperactivity and more indicative of chronic indecisiveness. A sudden, crippling fear that she was doing everything horribly wrong, and attempting to change course when it made absolutely no rational sense to do so. Or perhaps it was just straight-up bitchery performed for her own amusement. All clearly traits of her mother. img_1179-1

Terrifying realization that my daughter might be exactly like me aside, I was relieved that our little gremlin found her way back home because no breech = no automatic c-section, which, sure, might still happen anyway, but at least now it’s not a set inevitable. (Side note: after listening to several women in the throes of excruciating labor on Sunday, a c-section did actually start to sound appealing. But in general I have a rule about avoiding knives to my body if/when possible. Nose job at age 15 aside, of course. That was obviously necessary, according to my mother.)

Then, suddenly, something dawned on me, and I quickly formed a medical hypothesis about Sunday’s trauma that no doctor had offered up, because apparently in this pregnancy it is up to me, with my BA in Sociology, to accurately diagnose all health conditions with no help from the people who attended 7+ years of medical school (see: Hypothyroidism section of this post for further evidence of how I am smarter than all doctors everywhere my own best advocate.)

So I presented my hypothesis to the technician: “Wait, so– on Sunday they chalked my nausea, contractions and difficulty breathing up to dehydration or something I ate. But is it possible I got sick because of her breech position? Because honestly everything felt different and so uncomfortable for that one day, even the way I was able to move and lay, and I think maybe it was because she flipped to breech so quickly?”

“Oh, that’s absolutely possible,” replied the technician/my future nanny/new best friend. “At this stage in pregnancy all of your organs have shifted up, and there’s not much space left in there. So when baby flipped and pressed her head against all those organs, it definitely could have made you sick.”

tenor.gif

What exactly did I know? That this was ALL HER FAULT– NOT MINE! The doctors kept trying to tell me I’m not drinking enough water (literally impossible– I’m blogging this from the porcelain whiz palace, because I live here now) or that I “shouldn’t have eaten that chicken salad” when in reality I drink 20 vats of water a day (as something had to replace the wine) and Gracie Mews Diner would NEVER hurt me.

No, Sunday’s disaster was the result of baby’s choice, not mine, and to be honest I am slightly resentful that I had to take the heat for HER poor decision.

Although I suppose, in the end, this is exactly what parenthood is– begrudgingly accepting responsiblity for your kid’s bonehead choices.

And fine. I accept that. I guess I was just kind of hoping the boneheadedness would hold off until toddlerhood. Or, at the very least, birth.

Anyway, she heard all this so here she is trying to give me the finger.

IMG_0602.jpg

I’m sure she’ll have that down by the time I meet her.

 

 

She’ll Be Nothing If Not Resourceful

Our kid will be born knowing exactly how to get her home cleaned (call 1-800-Steamer), book a car to the airport (666-6666) and who to call should she find herself needing to file a lawsuit (Cellino and Barnes, injury attorneys), as these are Eric’s go-to jingles when I tell him to sing to the baby.

And I gotta say, at first I rolled my eyes (particularly when he followed one of these “lullabies” with a lecture-warning about the gender pay gap), but then I was like you know what? That information is WAY more practical than knowing the detailed comings and goings of Mary’s lamb (and if I can avoid having to eventually break the news that nobody ACTUALLY has a lamb, and that if they do, they’re probably going to eat it with some mint jelly at some point– yes, even Mary– then great).

And why does baby need intricate knowledge of Miss Muffet’s breakfast ingredients? Particularly since they consist of curds and whey, two words our kid will use approximately zero times in her life. If Miss Muff wants to go ahead and slip some bacon and tots into that bowl and pair it with a bloody, then I’ll consider getting on board with a lesson on how to brunch like a boss. But until then, her sad little Amish meal is a waste of everyone’s time.

And don’t get me started on the old woman who lives in a shoe. It’s called homelessness and I’m not about to suggest to baby that there’s anything whimsical about not having her own apartment.

So this led me to rethink my daily singing of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to my belly. Like, does she really need a song to inform her that stars twinkle? No. She’ll look up one night and get the point (and if not, at some point while in the Outer Banks, Uncle Zack will explain it to her in a weed-induced, hours-long oral disseration that she will understand approximately 2% of).  So I’m keeping the melody but replacing the lyrics with directions on how to avoid subway rats, and a reminder to clean her toothpaste spit from the sink before leaving the bathroom, because no one wants to see that shit. I also threw in a stanza about how to get money from her maternal grandparents without actually asking for it, but making it seem like it was their idea to offer. The song ends with specific instructions for Facebook and Venmo privacy settings, because that shit gets confusing and BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING, BABY GIRL.

Bottom line, songs are great but let’s not waste baby’s time. If I had spent less hours getting intimately acquainted with every single fucking animal on Old McDonald’s farm (zebras, mom? No. Now you’re just tired and everyone is getting dumber) and more time learning how to embellish a résumé when the only “job expereince” you’ve had is camp counselor and SDT Pledge Master, I probably would have had less of a nervous breakdown at age 26.

From here on out, no more impractical ditties. If baby wants a soothing song, she’s going to learn a useful life skill in the process.

So twinkle, twinkle, baby girl. Tie your hair back before you hurl.

breastfeeding

I AM the best

Eric (last night): “Sooo…I know we’re still unpacking, but can I play golf tomorrow morning at 8am?”

Me: “Of course, that’s fine!”

Eric: “…and also at 1pm? My friend just invited me to play at his club.”

Me: “Sure babe, whatever you want!”

Eric: “You’re the best.” (rolls over, goes to sleep with smile on face)

Me: (Opens laptop. Logs golf hours to be paid back in diaper duty, on secret excel sheet created day after taking pregnancy test, to be presented to Eric during labor).

img_1292-1

 

My Pregnancy Journey is Less a Magical Beard Ride and More a Slow Death Trek on the Oregon Trail

I’ve gotten a lot of comments from friends saying that they expected more coverage of my pregnancy journey on the blog. This phrase, “pregnancy journey,” always makes me laugh.  To me, the word “journey” has a positive connotation, conjuring up images of a whimsical venture full of magic and wonderment, much like the beard ride Mio enjoys in one of my favorite childhood movies of all time, The Land of Faraway:

All I wanted was for a giant floating face to declare “Grab hold my beard!” and I’d be whisked away on an awe-filled, excitement-laden adventure.

So imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the pregnancy journey is no magical beard ride set to the delightful sing-song lyrics “Flying through the garden, garden of the roses!”

No. Fuck that. There are zero roses and not one oversized beard to grab on this helltrek.

For me, pregnancy has been more like the journey of the Oregon Trial– painfully slow, riddled with various disease, characterized by constant dehydration with a desperate search for the next water source, never quite sure when the diarrhea will strike, and with an overall looming sense of “Oh, so THIS is how I die.” All set to the soundtrack of Weird Al’s “I’m Fat.”

Much like an optimistic fur trapper of the 1830s, I set out on my journey as a bundle of excitement and nerves, only to find myself quickly acquiring various diseases that would put proverbial dead oxen in front of my wagon and test my will to go on.

Below I will detail the ailments I acquired on my journey because, well, you’ve wondered why I haven’t been posting more and THIS IS WHY.

No Yellow Fever or Dysentery, per se (although the chronic diarrhea that marked my entire first trimester had me googling “is Dysentery still a thing people get?” from the Cascabel Taqueria toilet. And before you say, “Well of course you had diarrhea, Emily, you were eating tacos!”, I was not. Cascabel Taqueria happens to be centrally located between most of my tutoring clients, and thus the not-exactly-public bathroom I ran to when danger struck between sessions. The first few times I actually pretended to be a patron and that I’d have a drink at the bar right after I “used the bathroom real quick- thanks!” By my 5th visit, the hostess took one look at me and said, “I’m sorry, the bathroom is for patrons only” to which I replied “I am pregnant, I am ashamed, and I’m sorry,” to which she replied, “Oh, come this way, hon,” and actually escorted me to the private stall. One time she even gave me a seltzer afterward. I don’t know much about heaven but I do know there is an extra special spot up there reserved for Consuela of Cascabel.)

So here’s a sampling of my ailments, in order experienced. Some of them I’ve mentioned in previous posts, others I have not. But there’s something truly delightful (re: horrifying) about seeing them all listed in one place:

Standard 1st Trimester Bullshit

None of these are particularly unique or interesting so I’m just throwing all of them into this hellparade-I-never-want-to-think-about-again category and moving on– nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, exhaustion, food aversion, increased sense of smell (this includes the heightened odor of things that already smelled bad, like the subway, and sudden gag reflex in response to formerly benign or even pleasant smells, like your husband’s head), caffeine withdrawal, excessive drooling (yup, a thing), frequent urination, dehydration, restless leg syndrome, your own heightened body odor (this one gets increasingly fun the more your partner chooses to be honest about it).

I have nothing interesting to say about any of these things other than when they are happening all at once, you straight up want to die, and if you don’t, well, fuck you, Mary Poppins.  

Perinatal Depression

Now, depression is nothing new for me, of course. I’ve been suffering bouts of depression since my teenage years, but let me tell you, perinatal depression is a very special breed of the illness, where you take the standard guilt, shame, self-loathing and hopelessness, and add to it a creature-fetus that you are not only responsible for, but societally expected to care for and be excited about. If you’ve ever suffered from depression, you know that caring for things becomes extremely difficult and the notion of being EXCITED about something is not only impossible, it’s literally not even a notion you can understand in theory. So the fact that you sort of wish you were dead but you have this thing you SHOULD be excited about just compounds those feelings of guilt, self-loathing, and hopelessness and sprinkles in a bit of “You are going to be a terrible mom, wtf were you thinking?” (that thought usually hits JUST as you’ve mustered the energy to get out of bed and brush your teeth, and sends you right back to the safety of your under-washed, tear-and-snot stained sheets.)

Luckily, for me, the depression lifted shortly after trimester 1. I expect it to be back in full force once the baby comes, but I plan to greet Postpartum Depression in the delivery room with a huge bottle of Prozac, a copy of Brooke Shields’ “Down Came the Rain” and my therapist on FaceTime, so at least that one I’ll be prepared for. The Perinatal came as quite a surprise. I knew it was common to feel physically shitty during pregnancy, but I was really caught of guard by the frighteningly dark nature of my thoughts. I kind of expected the “miracle” of conception to guard me from notions of despair and hopelessness. Cue Depression’s “Got ya again!” shoulder shimmy.

Evil-Laugh-GIF-Image-Download-30.gif

Hypothyroidism

This one’s fun. So you know that whole shitstorm category of Trimester 1 symptoms listed above? Since they’re all pretty common, and most of them are exactly what one would feel if their thyroid just decided to up and die, hypothyroidism is commonly misdiagnosed or just missed altogether, but it’s a fairly common ailment acquired during pregnancy (which, bonus– then NEVER GOES AWAY! 52a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb.png). I pretty much had to diagnose myself, my main symptom being an EXTREME intolerance to cold. I’ve always been temperature sensitive (a polite way of saying I am either sweating like Rocky in round 12 or freezing like Rocky…in The Rockies? Whatever the point is I get cold.) I mentioned to my doctor that the cold felt literally painful, to which he replied “Well, it’s January,” to which I replied, giphy.gif, so he agreed to test my thyroid levels. And, as suspected, and because I apparently have to do all the medical work around here, I did, in fact have hypothyroidism, a condition that very commonly exists in women but remains “underlying” until a stressful event, such as sharing organs with a parasite, brings it to the surface. Once surfaced, however, it typically never goes away, which isn’t exactly ideal but the good news is that it’s a pretty simple fix– a daily dose of Synthroid, a medication with virtually no side effects– will pretty much entirely fix the problem. The downside is that it takes about 2 months to kick in, and when you’re feeling like the eye of a shitnado, that can feel like a really. fucking. long. time.

But anyway, yeah. Add “endocrinologist” to my growing list of docs I will have to see forever. At least he’s entertaining, and I imagine he will continue to be a featured character on this blog, as everything that comes out of his mouth is completely offensive and absurd, but in that adorable “It’s ok because you’re about 300 years old and might literally die as we sit here” kind of way.

Factor 11 Deficiency

This one is really not that big a deal, just kind of falls under the category of “ADD IT TO THE GODDAMN LIST.” When we first learned of the pregnancy, we immediately had genetic testing done (note: learn from our mistake and try to do this BEFORE you get pregnant– there’s no reason to have to worry about the small possibility of over 817 uncommon but possibly deadly ailments you could pass to your baby while your morning-sick head is in a toilet). Through this testing, we learned that I am a carrier of 3 rare diseases (imgres-1.jpgimgres-1.jpgimgres-1.jpg!!!). One, called Usher Syndrome Type 2A, would result in a perfectly normal, healthy baby at birth, but then somewhere around early childhood the kid would lose her hearing and go completely blind (imgres-2.jpg!). The other, Phenylalanine Hydroxylase Deficiency, can POSSIBLY be controlled and effects minimized with a very strict diet from birth, but will still most likely result in severe brain damage (imgres-2.jpgimgres-2.jpg!!).  The last was Factor 11 Deficiency, a blood disease that can lead to severe, excessive bleeding or potentially fatal blood clotting (imgres-2.jpgimgres-2.jpgimgres-2.jpg!!!). Now, the good news is that NONE of these diseases will be inherited by the baby as long as Eric is not a carrier of them as well (if he were, the baby would then have a 25% chance of actively having the disease). As it turns out (discovered three excruciatingly long weeks later), Eric is a carrier of nothing, which actually came as a surprise to us seeing as though he has Type 1 Diabetes, a raging case of Childlike Optimism, and Obsessive Corgi Disorder.

Side note: My favorite part of the genetic testing experience was my Mom hearing about all these terrible diseases and exclaiming, “WHERE did you get all this horrible stuff?!” Well, it’s genetic testing, so….YOU?!

Sometimes I just can not.

Anyway, this was all good news in the end, as our child will be safe from these rare monster diseases I carry, and being a carrier has virtually no effect on me– except, as it turns out, for the Factor 11 Deficiency. In SOME cases, even carriers can have symptoms, but, as a trip to the hematologist (more doctors!) confirmed, I have never had any history of excessive bleeding or clotting, so the chances of this affecting me during labor or later in life are slim to non-existent. There were a brief few days there where I thought I was not going to be allowed to have an epidural, but it turns out I can, so BRING ON THE BIG ASS NEEDLE AND ALLLLLLLLL THE DRUGS PLEASE! I have already devised a plan to arrive at the hospital with a huge platter of cookies for the anesthesiologist, because in case there’s any last-minute controversy over whether or not I’m allowed an epidural, I want that motherfucker on my side.

Gestational Diabetes

Ah, diabetes. Not just for spouses anymore! When I first met Eric, a Type 1 diabetic diagnosed at age 6, I had absolutely no idea what having diabetes meant, nor the slightest clue how to manage it. I sort of knew it had to do with sugar, but the extent of my knowledge on diabetic sugar management was, “So, like, you can have a SLICE of sheet cake, you just can’t eat the WHOLE sheet cake in one sitting like I do?” (He would later explain, to my horror and disappointment, that eating an entire sheet cake in one sitting is bad for ANYONE).

The one fun thing about pregnancy is being able to eat pretty much whatever the fuck you want, because you feel like shit and it’s your only comfort, and if someone tries to lecture you, you can just bark “I’m eating for two!” (not actually a thing), throw something against a wall, or just start crying. Any of those methods work for getting said person to back the fuck off and let you continue eating your bowl of GGMM cereal (that’s a pregnancy breakfast I invented. It’s Golden Grahams and M&Ms together in one bowl, with milk. It’s just like the very common practice of mixing two cereals, except one of the cereals is chocolate in a candy-coated sugar shell and not at all, by any stretch of the imagination, a cereal.)

So you get about 2 months of being able to delightfully indulge in all the crap you want (because the first 3 months you were too nauseated to subsist on anything but melba toast) and then at week 28 you take a glucose test. The doctor gives you a drink with 50 grams of sugar and tests your blood sugar levels 1 hour after consumption. If it’s under 140, you technically pass and can skip out of the office on your merry non-diabetic way. If it’s over 140, you have to take the more extensive 3-hour glucose test to determine if you have gestational diabetes.

I got a motherfucking 138.

“Wahoo– you passed! Good for you!” was my first thought, as I poured myself another bowl of GGMM. But then the doctor called and said that 138 is pretty borderline and raises slight concerns, so I better do the 3-hour test just in case. This was a huge wakeup call, enough for me to stop mid-shovel and put down my spoon.

So I could go get a bigger spoon.

As far as I was concerned, a 138 was a passing grade.

The 3 hour test is a blast. First you fast for 12 hours. Fun for ANYONE, but particularly fun for someone who has a human living in her. Then, at the ripe hour of 8:00am, you drink 8 ounces of what can only be described as lukewarm liquid shit (orange flavor!) that contains 100 grams of sugar. Your blood is drawn right before you drink (to determine your “fasting blood sugar”), and then once every hour for the next 3 hours. “But what do you do during those 3 hours?” you ask. Oh, you sit in the waiting room starving and hating everyone, including yourself. And if you’re lucky, like me, you watch a woman go into what looks like extremely painful labor 5 FEET AWAY FROM YOU, which just gives you more to look forward to.

So just like the first test, this one came back pretty borderline, but it was determined that yes, I do technically have gestational diabetes. If 2 of your 4 blood sugar readings are too high, you are diagnosed. For the record, 2 of my readings were perfectly fine, one was 4 points too high, and one was ONE MOTHERFUCKING POINT TOO HIGH.

So I’m a diabetic. (Eric gets annoyed when I say this, because I’m totally not, but it’s my ailment and I’ll phrase it as dramatically as I damn well please). I don’t need insulin or anything, I just have to control my diet– no added sugars and a reasonable limiting of carbs, or at the very least a sensible carb-to-protein balance. Basically no eating of blatantly terrible shit that will spike my sugar and take my body hours to regulate. I check my sugar 4 times a day (easy peasy, as thanks to Eric we have about 10 meters and 3 million testing strips in our household) and as long as it’s in range (which it completely has been), I’m totally fine, and so is baby. And odds are, this condition goes away right after birth, as it is caused by hormones in the placenta slowing down my insulin production (one friend asked, “Wait, diabetes? Is this something you can blame on Eric?” Unfortunately, no. His having Type 1 Diabetes and me having Gestational Diabetes are entirely unrelated, just coincidental, and if anything, his having diabetes has actually made all this easier for me, as I am already overly armed with the equipment and knowledge to care for myself. I’ll probably still blame him, though.)

So again, not the end of the world, just a fun little extra pregnancy perk that robs me of my one enjoyable lifeline: unabashed eating. I suppose in the end this is GOOD for me? Because I’m guessing that, pregnancy or not, a daily dose of GGMM cereal is still going straight to my ass. And from what I hear, your ass does not magically deflate when the baby comes out.  (What’s that? Neither does your stomach? SHUT UP, I’M HANGING ON BY A THREAD HERE.)

And lastly,

Standard 3rd Trimester Bullshit:

Nora Ephron once said, “If pregnancy were a book, they would cut the last two chapters.”

Amen, my sassy soul sister. Much like Trimester 1, there is nothing particularly interesting about Trimester 3, just a lot of back pain, shortness of breath, indigestion, waddling, groaning, general slowing down and constantly questioning how your mother did this FOUR FUCKING TIMES, and wondering if you should call her more (you don’t, though).

Trimester 2 was actually at times enjoyable– I did have a rush of energy and was able to get to the gym every day for a substantial workout. Now I waddle up there and pray that the one back-supported cycling machine is not being used by the 90-year-old lady in 12C, because I have literally no other options for exercise other than cruising that bad boy for 20 minutes at level 0.

So no, my pregnancy has not been a magical beard ride. It’s been a long, slow, disease-ridden trek on the Oregon Trail. But the good news is that those who survived the Oregon Trail eventually made it to the paradise of Willamette Valley (thanks, Google), where they lived an idyllic life and all their hopes and expectations came to fruition.

Oh, what’s that? Life was still really fucking hard once they got there, with no guarantee of safety, comfort, prosperity or happiness? In fact, the adjustment to life in an entirely new place, under entirely new circumstances and with no creature comforts of their old life, was almost too much for some of them to bear?

Cool.

oregon.jpg