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Tonight’s the big night – we’re announcing our impending parenthood to the family. We wanted to give people something for the announcement, but nothing pastel-y and babies-r-us, because that’s just not our style. We contemplated making T-shirts with “Grandpa” or “Grandma” on the front, and “April 2006” on the back, but honestly – who would wear that? I mean, except to paint in or something? So ultimately we decided to make a faux movie poster – you know, for our latest “production.” GET IT?!?! Yeah, we slay ourselves. Anyway, here’s a sneak preview:

I gotta tell you, sometimes it RULES being married to a graphic designer.

So the NYT had this op-ed piece earlier in the week about a new trend in Western parenting: the diaper free baby. Apparently, there’s a growing group of parents who aim to be “free by three,” meaning, no more nappies after three weeks. You heard me. Weeks. The author explains:

In this case, parents watch for the kind of fussiness, squirming and funny faces that come before a baby urinates or has a bowel movement. Caretakers should also pay attention to any daily routines that the baby follows, like urinating after feedings or when waking up. At that point, it’s a simple matter of holding the baby on the pot, and pretty soon he or she connects the toilet with its function, and the pattern is set.

Hmmm … not having been an actual parent per se, I guess I’m not fully qualified to assess the merits of this method. But I did help to raise five younger brothers and sisters, and I gotta say I’m a tad bit suspicious that it would be a “simple” matter to read the signals and get the kid to the pot before multiple, upholstery destroying accidents happen. Especially when you’re sleep-deprived and struggling to even get dressed before suppertime. Of course, this may just be my ingrained ethnocentrism:

Most babies and toddlers around the world, and throughout human history, have never worn diapers. For instance, in places like China, India and Kenya, children wear split pants or run around naked from the waist down. When it’s clear that they have to go, they can squat or be held over the right hole in a matter of seconds.

Yeah … but … it’s not that I’m a huge fan of diapers or anything; I mean, they’re essentially gross objects, no denying. And I know that the widespread use of disposable diapers has led to children being potty trained later and later (which is one reason why we still haven’t decided whether we’ll use cloth or not) … but three weeks? I mean, forget what the kid is capable of – I’m not sure I’ll even be fully conscious yet at three weeks. Plus, I’m basically a lazy person: I don’t know that I have the discipline to be that vigilant all the time! And it’s not like potty training them that early makes them walk any earlier or anything – I mean you’re still stuck carying them back and forth whenever they have to go, right?

So overall: Meh. But I’d love to hear from anyone who has experience with it. Anyone know any stories?

ME: Hon, I’m feeling some pressure here. We know an awful lot of people with UNUSUALLY cute babies.* What if Hoss doesn’t measure up?

MR. SQUAB: (giving me a gentle hug) Oh, you don’t have to worry about that … because THERE’S NOOOO WAAAAAY our kid is going to be cute!

ME: What?!?!

MR. SQUAB: (prancing around the room making neanderthal noises and drooling in imitation of our future child)

ME: Pseudonymous H. Squab! YOU were a cute baby, and *I* was a cute baby. We ARE SO going to have a cute baby!!

MR. SQUAB: Well, what are you worried about, then?

*This is a simple fact. Maybe it’s something in the water, but most of the babies we know could easily work for Gerber.

Most expectant parents I know have a name for their baby in utero. When I was a fetus I was called “Oscar”; friends have called their almost-babies Lentil, Appleseed, even Arby (because that’s all the mom wanted to eat!). So almost three years ago, when we found out we were expecting, we had a name, too. Mr. Squab had always joked that he wanted to name our first child “Hoss” (yes, as in Bonanza), so as a compromise, we called the pre-baby Hoss. We thought it was kind of funny.

When I went in for my 12 week checkup with Hoss, I had been spotting fairly consistently, so my OB decided to do an ultrasound, just to check on everything. Never having seen an ultrasound before, we had no idea what it was supposed to look like; but the concerned look on our doctor’s face communicated everything we needed to know. “I’ll need you to get this confirmed at the hospital, but I’m nearly positive that what you have is a molar pregnancy,” she said. A what? I’d never even heard of such a thing. Was this some kind of birth defect? Did this make me at risk for a troubled pregancy? No, the doctor explained: a molar pregnancy meant that the egg had been empty of genetic material at fertilization; the body thinks it’s pregnant, but there’s no viable fetus, just a placental growth. They’re very rare, and no one knows exactly what causes them. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

We were devastated, of course. It happened so suddenly, so without warning. I was scheduled for a D&C, and we were told that we wouldn’t even be able to try to conceive again for up to a year. The worst part was telling all our family and friends. We’d sent out a joyous message only weeks earlier to nearly everyone we knew; now the pity and sympathy, while heartfelt, was almost too much to bear. I tried to tell my parents over the phone and had to hand the phone to Mr. S.; I was crying too hard to talk.

Fortunately, time, as the saying goes, heals all wounds. Slowly, we got our senses of humor back; Mr. S. even joked about what kind of cards people should send in our situation. (“I mean, it’s not like Hallmark makes cards like that. I know, you could get a birthday card, only cross out the ‘congratulations’ and write ‘sorry for your loss.'” Mr. S. has what you might call a sick sense of humor.) We started trying again; I tried to stop wincing when friends let us know they were expecting and I couldn’t even seem to ovulate on a regular schedule. And then, just when we were beginning to believe that I’d never get knocked up until I quit my job/finished my dissertation/lost weight/went on a month-long spa retreat – lo, and behold: there were two lines on the pregnancy test.

This time, we’ve been cautious. We’ve told a few close friends, but we’ve waited on telling family and colleagues until after my 12 week check up (which happens this Thursday.) With the molar pregancy in my history, I’ve already had two ultrasounds – and there’s a real live fetus in there this time, heartbeat and all. Still, it’s hard to trust that this one won’t disappear like the last – with no warning, all of a sudden. Every time I spot at all, I’m sure it means I’m miscarrying; every twinge or bout of nausea is cause for overwhelming anxiety – Mr. Squab has his hands full just reassuring me that things will be ok. But slowly, as the weeks progress, I’m beginning to let myself look forward, to imagine having the actual baby, watching him or her grow into toddlerhood and childhood. I try not to hope too much – don’t want to jinx it! – but maybe, I think, this time it’s for real. Giving this one a name, at any rate, has been easy: true to form, Mr. Squab immediately dubbed it Hoss II – The Quickening.

Because I have friends who get me things like this when I’ve had a hard week:

and these to welcome the new baby:

Isn’t that nice?

Whew. Looks like we’re ok so far. Went to the doctor’s office this morning and heard a nice, strong heartbeat, loud and clear. I was so relieved I just about started bawling right there in the examination room. Stupid hormones. The whole episode, of course, makes me feel like a totally high maintenance, nervous-nelly first time mother … which I hate. I’m not used to feeling high maintenance! And I’m not normally easily spooked! But I see the bright red bleeding and it just freaks me right the hell out. Fortunately my doctor was very reassuring that I’d done the right thing by calling and coming in. Now I’m going to take some Tylenol for my pounding headache and watch Cagney and Lacey reruns until I fall asleep.

So, I’m bleeding. Not a lot, but I am. This is really scary. I had some spotting around week 8; it went away pretty quickly and the ultrasound I had right afterwards showed a fetus with a heartbeat and all … so I’m trying to tell myself that’s what’s happening again, and it will all be fine. It’s not working very well. Here are the reasons it could all be fine: 1) I’m not bleeding heavily, just lightly, and I’m not having intense cramps or anything; 2) I have a fibroid, and I hear sometimes those can cause spotting with no danger to the pregnancy; 3) I have an appointment with my OB/Gyn tomorrow morning, so I should know what’s going on, good or bad, at that point; 4) Once a heartbeat has been detected, the risk of miscarriage goes down by about 90%.

These are the things I keep telling myself. It’s probably fine, it’s probably fine.

I’ll keep you posted.

This past weekend Mr. Squab and I drove up to my dad and stepmom’s house, a little more than an hour northwest of where we live. It’s a trip we make pretty frequently – maybe one or two times a month – just to keep in touch and hang out. (Mr. Squab’s grandma lives in the same town, so we usually see her, too.) We had planned to get there at noon, but owing to my usual lack of ability to get the hell out of bed, we didn’t even get on the road until 12:15. As we were in a bit of a rush leaving the house and had NO GROCERIES, Mr. S. suggested we pick something up to eat on the way there. OK, I thought. I can do that. I can wait a little bit to eat. Uh-huh. Sure. As those of you who’ve been through this before will know, if there’s one thing that’s probably NOT a good idea when you’re in the throes of first trimester illitude, it’s waiting to eat. Because the fetus, it gets cranky. And a cranky fetus = a nauseated mommy.

What sucks about first trimester nausea is, the only thing that will make you feel less sick is the stuff that makes you feel sick in the first place. This makes me a true joy to go out to eat with (asshole).* As we drove down the freeway while I frantically sucked on a ginger altoid, Mr. S. made suggestion after suggestion to tempt my queasy palate. “How about Wendy’s? Arby’s? Do you want a burger? Salad? Fast-food or a sit down place?” My responses to each option ranged from “ehhhh” to pained looks and a waving-away motion with my hand. Finally we settled on Culvers, which for those of you outside the midwest is kind of like a fast food place with a diner menu. Gorge rising, I ordered a grilled ham and swiss on rye and a chocolate malt – a meal that under normal circumstances would rate high on the squabometer of goodness. Tried the malt: no good. (When I’m not pregnant I could LIVE off chocolate malts. Seriously. For me not to like one is like … it’s like a harbinger of the mommy apocalypse or something.) Gave said malt to Mr. Squab. Started nibbling on the ham and cheese, which was deemed minimally acceptable by the tyrannical fetus.

It was at this point that the cute little family came in. A tired-looking mom with a little girl who was maybe five, and a little boy about three. The children were freaking adorable: round and squat and smiling. Also active: the little boy, in particular, kept getting down from his chair to go investigate various parts of the restaurant. Once the mother had the kids settled, she began making mini trips back and forth to the table to get napkins, straws, ketchup, etc., leaving the little girl to watch the little boy for the two seconds she was gone. The little boy stayed fairly preoccupied with the many things he could play with on the table: a vase with artificial flowers in it, the ceramic sugar packet holder, his straw wrapper, the salt shaker and then, oh rapture unconfined, he found the pepper shaker. He was very very interested in the pepper shaker. First he scrutinized it closely. Then, he held it up to his little nose and experienced the piquant aroma. THEN, and this is almost the best part, he licked the top of the pepper shaker. Licked it! And not only did he lick it, he LIKED it. To top it all off, and this IS the best part, he poured a line of pepper onto the bare table, and LICKED IT ALL UP!! This kid, he had awesome pepper-related powers.

But here’s the funny part: as soon as I saw that kid licking the pepper shaker, I (of course) started hooting with laughter, and as soon as I started laughing, the nausea started to go right away. Just watching that little pepper fiend sneak his spice of choice before his mom could come back and take it away made me feel about 100% better. Clearly, my future kid is already developing a fine sense of humor, but what will I do the next time this happens if there are no pepper-eating kids around? Anyone know any good jokes?

*The “asshole” is in reference to a family joke, namely: A new assistant professor at Harvard is striding purposefully down the hallway when he’s stopped by a janitor. “Hey, can you tell me where the library’s at?” the janitor asks. “Sir,” the professor replies, “here at Harvard we do not end our questions in prepositions.” “OK,” responds the janitor, “Can you tell me where the library’s at, asshole?” My family’s taste in jokes runs to the nerdy.

This blog was started in the 10th week of my first-and-a-half* pregancy, as an outlet for me to write and think about more personal matters than I cover elsewhere. So this is where I’ll bitch about morning sickness (sucks!), inter-vaginal ultrasounds (suuuuuuuuck!), pre-parenting anxiety (what if I suck?!) and other maternal/familial matters. Since I’m not *only* an expectant mother, however, but also a highly opinionated, politically aware, feminist bleeding-heart-liberal expectant mother, you can expect some nods to the outside world as well. Now here’s a joke:

Q: What do you call a fish with three eyes?

A: FIIISH.

HA! hahahahaha! Yep. Pregnancy retardation has already kicked right in.

*More on this later, probably.

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