Things I've learned in the last two weeks:

1. Babies show no respect for the fact that diapers and wipes are expensive and will soil clean accoutrements with malicious glee. Read: They poop. A lot more than you'd expect. And just when you think they're done, they roll around in it like a mischievous sprite romping through the poop-filled forest.

2. Babies are covert, tricky little devils, who will scream the moment you think it's safe to transfer them from arms to bassinet. If you are not careful, baby's eyes will snap open to catch you in the act and paralyze you with outrage. Her once darling mouth will contort in an attempt to form the word, "TRAITOR!" as her legs jerk like a wired epileptic. There is no stopping it-- here it comes!-- THE WAIL OF DOOM! There is no escape.

3. Husbands come standard with a button only babies can access which is triggered by the smell of a poopy diaper. In event of poop, husband will wretch, writhe, and run from oozing, cooing, pooping machine.

4. Husbands are also wired to be highly efficient swaddlers. Perhaps it is all those college days of burrito-making. Whatever the case, baby has no chance of moving any appendage after being subjected to a 3:00 AM swaddle!

5. Just when you have had enough of the incessant feeding, the diapering, the rocking, and the screaming, and are considering sending baby back where she came from, she will fall asleep in your arms and her tiny wrinkles and sleepy squeaks will melt your heart. This is just enough to keep you sane for the next round of feeding, diapering, rocking, and so on.

:)

I love you, Fable Elaine.

Let me first preface this blog by stating that all names have been omitted out of respect for the offenders. That is just how cool I am.

And also, let me start off by saying that there's no way to write this blog without being offensive myself; consider it pay back for ten months of suffering countless infractions upon my mental and physical space. (I'm kidding, of course...) Really, though. Please take what I'm about to write with enough gravity that it prompts some introspection, but not so seriously that I find sugar in my gas tank tomorrow morning.

Having said that, commence the reading!

Never having been one to want children or even watch TLC's ''A Baby Story," I had no previous inkling that a subculture thrives in this country which is naked to the untrained eye. Members of it lack identifying markings like bizarre eye makeup or boys who wear girl pants, so you'd never know this subculture exists-- but it does. It consists of pregnant women and
everyone.
else.

When I say, "everyone else," I'm referring to women who live on the other side of the Great Pregnancy Divide; women who have birthed themselves. (No, no, no! Not women who have given birth to themselves-- women who have themselves given birth! Although if I ever met someone who fell into the former category I can promise you that I would have blogged about it sooner...) Anyway. Moving on.

The world of pregnancy is populated largely by women who have already been there/done that and want to impart all their special knowledge onto you, the unsuspecting gestate-or. What I mean to say is this: Once you get pregnant, everybody and her mother (literally) wants to give you a piece of her mind. And they all want to know the gritty details of your pregnancy experience.

So listen up, my fertile but not-yet-impregnated friends: Once word gets out that you're nurturing a little uterine creature, you will be treated to a 10-month long buffet of unsolicited advice and awkward questions. FROM PEOPLE YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW. We're not just talking about your BFF here. We're talking about complete and total strangers providing you with a smorgasbord of information you did not need to know. And the ice cream bar is closed. You can help yourself to okra, though. There's plenty of that.

Suddenly you will discover things about your landlady, your internet service provider, your Aunt Trixie, and all your coworkers that normal people wouldn't open up about without an Irish Car Bomb or two in their systems.

You will learn that Judy from Accounting had a 26-hour labor and was, in fact, trampled on by a bull in the middle of it.

You will learn that Lia Sophia Party Girl got pregnant with a honeymoon baby when she forgot to take the pill.

And you will nod sympathetically as Jessica, the new mom of twins, pours out her heart to you regarding the gory details of her third bout with mastitis.

Of course, all of these anecdotes are meant to ultimately inform you of some vital fact about pregnancy and life post-baby. But you've got to sit through hours and hours of stories before you finally get to the moral, which is A) that you're never going to sleep again. ever. Or B) that your stretch marks will fade with time, or C) that you can never be ready for this baby, no matter how hard you try.

And really, that's great. I mean, if you've pushed a living being out of your teeny tiny lady parts and lived to tell about it, you deserve a medal and infinite bragging rights. I have the utmost respect for women who have carried, nurtured, and delivered new humans into this world. You did 15 hours of laboring? Why yes, I can spare 15 minutes to listen to you talk about the healing of your C-section scar.

But a few months into your pregnancy, friends, you will find that the stories become more graphic and the questions become more frequent. Oh, and the comments about your physique become as common as your countless bathroom trips.

At about month six, I started noticing the change. Strangers went from politely asking how I was feeling to practically demanding much more personal information. "Are you having morning sickness?" turned into, "So. How effaced are you?" PSA: Apparently the correct response to that question is not spitting out a little bit of your soup.

And, just like that, quicker than you can say "Lamaze," a lid was lifted on Pandora's Awkward Question/Comment box. It was in literally one day that people started popping out of the woodwork to inquire about the 411 on my mucous plug. Almost overnight I was being called on to give a State of the Cervix address to people I hardly even knew.

"In today's news, I am 2 centimeters dilated and 40% effaced. And sometimes I pee when I laugh. Stay tuned for more updates from my lady parts!"

Now, I'm kind of slow to process things emotionally. One might say that while intellectually, I'm a fully upgraded Mac (WITH Snow Leopard), emotionally I'm a clunky old telegraph receiver with missing keys. It takes me a while to compute a message. So, initially when people started asking me these questions, I didn't exactly react. I nodded my head when prompted, gave bumbling answers, and went back to my cubicle feeling dirtier than when I'd left it. If I were a bit quicker emotionally, I probably would have posted this blog sooner. Instead, here I am, pregnant to the gills and just now sorting this out.

And here's what I have to say: After almost ten months of, "No, I haven't barfed this morning, thankyouverymuch" and "Why yes, I am experiencing more fluid there..." I've come to realize--

There are boundaries, people!
Pregnant women are not public property!

You can't just waltz right up to an expecting mother and say the first thing that pops into your head! You don't have the right to know if I'm as open as a pencil eraser or a nickel!

And because the perpetrators of these verbal offenses are generally women and mothers, I'll make this very clear: Just because you've been on your back with your feet in stirrups giving the gift of life does NOT give you an all-access pass to my pregnancy. I mean that with extreme respect. But think about it, people. When you were 23 and looking the prospect of labor and delivery in the face, how would you have felt if some veritable stranger had marched up to you and loud-whispered, "So, have you had your bloody show?" Think about it before you react. Just remember what it was like to be in my shoes...

Ask yourself how the younger you would have felt the 90th time someone said, "Girl, you're about to POP!"

Or how about, "I know a really good cure for stretch marks you're probably going to need..."

And then proceeded to fire an arsenal of totally out of the blue questions at you! All the while, you're tired, achey, and mentally sluggish. You just don't have the weaponry to fight back...

At the end of the day, the point is this: I know you're eager to share your experiences with new moms. I think that's beautiful. Birth is truly a unifying experience, and one of the few areas where I see women banding together as a sisterhood. I would never, ever want to detract from that.

But if it's not okay to ask a woman about her *downstairs* before she's pregnant, it's not okay to do it just because she's ordering Chipotle for two. Before you launch into a diatribe about your third-degree tear or immense blood loss, consider the feelings of the newly pregnant woman across from you. She's had at most nine short months to get used to the idea of birthing a human being. Does she really need to be subjected to the Inquisition? I think not.

If you're curious about the current goings-on of her pregnancy, here's my advice: Speak softly. Don't ambush her in the kitchen. For the love of God, don't stop her when she's clearly on the way to the bathroom. And instead of pointedly asking about her dilation, why don't you try something like this on for size: So, have you made any progress?

There. Isn't that discrete?

Anyway. It's 6:34 in the morning and I'm 39 weeks, 1 day pregnant. I've been awake since 4:00 thinking about this blog while cleaning my kitchen and paring down a seven pound pork shoulder to fit in my crock pot. I've taken out the trash, replaced empty Kleenex boxes, and cleaned out the fridge. That's a day in my life.

Oh, and for the record, did I mention that I'm having a heck of a time with these Braxton Hicks contractions? Oh, yeah. There's that.

See, we'll volunteer the information when the time is right.

Happy Saturday to you all. :)

I follow this woman's blog:

www.whenoctoberfalls.blogspot.com

She found out early on in her pregnancy that there was a very good chance she would lose her baby. Nonetheless, she lived joyfully, thanking God for every moment her baby was living.

She just lost her baby.

As if I weren't a gigantic crying mess already.