Bump Books

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People who know me probably know I enjoy reading. So, of course, when I found out I was growing a human inside me, I decided to read up on this new (to me) subject. 

The first bump book I got was one that was recommended by someone I was in a class with, while she was pregnant, and I was not. It was The Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy. I was underwhelmed. The book didn't have all the factual info I was hoping for, and it felt like it was trying too hard to be cute. For example, every time the author talked about how you're pregnant for nine months, she put (ten) after. Exactly like that. Every time. Which might have been cute or funny the first time, but it's not even accurate. 40 weeks does not equal 10 months... it equals 9 months and 1 week. And you're not even pregnant when the doctor starts counting; it's 40 weeks from the start of your last period, and for the most part you're not fertile until about 2 weeks after that. Sorry if that's too graphic or too technical for anyone, but I really needed to get it off my chest. Speaking of which, the other ongoing theme that annoyed me throughout this book was the references to the "titty fairy" and how small-breasted women were always so excited to have their boobs grow during pregnancy. I miss having small boobs. A lot. When I went shopping for new bras and the saleswoman wanted me to try on a DDD cup, I literally started crying. Which was probably partly due to my raging preggo hormones, but still. Stop trying to tell me I should be excited about needing to wear a bra 24/7 or risk permanently damaging myself.

I wish I had gotten the second book first. I actually started reading Expecting Better before I finished reading The Girlfriends Guide, and finished it first. Expecting Better is the pregnancy book I would have written if a) I hadn't finished grad school recently enough that the thought of reading another research paper makes me want to puke, b) I hadn't finished grad school long enough ago that my access to the university library has been revoked, and c) a brilliant author named Emily Oster hadn't written it already. This book cites actual research that's been done by actual researchers on the various things you're told to do (or mostly not do) while pregnant. And then... she doesn't tell you what to do. Oster assumes that pregnant women are real people with brains and can make their own decisions when given actual information and data instead of just rules. It's a freaking miracle, and I would recommend this book not only to anyone who is pregnant, but to anyone who has ever thought about whether or not growing a human is something they might be interested in. 

Are there any other pregnancy books you would recommend? Or baby books, since I should probably start reading up on what to do when you have a small human in front of you and not just inside you?

The day I wanted to hit an old lady

Today, I am 6 months pregnant. At least, the doctor has declared that with 2-3% certainty that I will give birth in exactly 3 months (October 18th, in case anyone's counting). Which, as far as I can tell, makes today as good a day as any to share some of the... colorful? surprising? shit-tacular? things I have heard from people (mostly, but not all, strangers) about the now very obvious fact that I am growing a human.

When I was 11 weeks pregnant, a coworker said "I can see you've already lost your waistline." I was too shocked to say anything in return (plus, I was wearing a uniform at the time, which will disappear anyone's waistline faster than you can say "man pants"), but I did manage to flip her a double bird.

More recently, a grocery store employee called me a watermelon smuggler. I hadn't slept well the night before, so all she got was a blank stare until my hubby explained to me what the hell she was talking about. And by then we were out of the produce section.

Another woman asked me when I was due. Because I was in a (relatively) good mood, I leaned my shoulders back, put a hand on either side of my belly, and responded with a question of my own: "how could you tell?" I don't know why that made her uncomfortable, but it did.

This past weekend was my personal favorite (so far; I'm sure I'll need to do a follow-up between now and mid-October). At an event held by a community group I belong to, an old lady came up to me after our group leader made a speech identifying all the group members. She said, "When the leader said you were the 'member at large' I almost started laughing out loud." I wanted to hit her.

Now, you may be wondering: what is the moral of this collection of stories? There are probably several. For starters, people can be super insensitive. And men don't give a shit about how pregnant women look, only other women do. I'm sure there are others, but I'll leave those to your imagination. It's time for me to brush my teeth and try to fall asleep while being smacked around by, apparently, a watermelon I stole from the grocery store.

Backsplash

While my hubby does the majority of the sanding on our upstairs floors (prepping for a baby room), I've been feeling kinda useless. That's our big project at the moment, and I may or may not have broken my sander (we do a lot of sanding). So I decided that instead of sitting around reading baby books, I'd start my own home improvement project. Which I may or may not finish first (especially since I'm only doing part of the project for now--I'll explain later).  

Our kitchen isn't ready for a baby. Most of our cabinets don't even have doors, much less baby proof latches. But before we do cabinet doors, I want to cover up the dingy off-white paint and replace the ugly backsplash. I thought the backsplash was tacky (it's tiles that have clearly been painted various colors at various times). 

But I was in no way prepared for what was underneath. 

Who the hell thought this was a good idea? The red and checkers and hearts appear to have been hand painted (which is impressive, if appalling). The teacups and kitchen-y stuff is (gasp) wallpaper or something else glued on. So now, I'll be spending my afternoon soaking and scraping wallpaper behind the range. Maybe I should've been more satisfied feeling unproductive...

The paradox of choice

On any given day, I maybe remember 5% of what I learned in college. Recently, one thing that popped back into my brain from some forgotten corner was a concept called the paradox of choice. The idea behind this is that the more options we have when making a decision, the less satisfied we will be with the decision we ultimately make. 

The examples my professor used were peanut butter and jeans. The example that I experienced that brought it into my head was car seats. Regardless, the idea is the same: if you only have a few options, you're going to be satisfied that the one you pick is good enough. If you have a lot of options, you're not going to be satisfied unless you pick one that is perfect. Babies R Us has easily 30 car seats in the store, and 2,000 online. How the hell am I (or anyone else) supposed to know which one is the best, most perfect car seat out of 2,000? There is literally no way. 

What is the solution here? For peanut butter and jeans, I would usually just go for it. For car seats, I'm going to do more research and hope for the best. 

Time-out

Last night, I realized I needed a time-out from being pregnant. I wasn't going to do anything crazy, but I was feeling tired of just "being pregnant." It seems like as soon as you start growing another person, everyone stops being able to see you as doing or being anything else. I was at a party recently and one of my friends introduced me to several different people as "she's pregnant." Seriously. I know she meant well and was just being excited, but I was kinda hurt. I didn't stop having a name or an identity when I started being pregnant. So last night, I put down the pregnancy books and the baby registry and did something just for me. Something I haven't done in a long time. 

What I really wanted to do was sit in a hot bath and read a trashy romance novel while sipping a glass of wine, but like I said, I wasn't going to do anything crazy. I settled for sitting on the couch and reading a trashy romance novel while sipping a bottle of water (and getting up frequently to pee). I stayed up late to finish reading it, which I haven't done since Twilight (embarrassing, but true). Even though I was using my belly as a book stand, I wasnt focused on being pregnant. I was focused on the ridiculous plot of the inconsequential story. And I enjoyed every damn minute of it. 

To all the other pregnant mamas out there, don't forget to take time to keep being you. You deserve it. 

Pretzel cravings

The cravings gods are smiling on me today. Mama wants pretzels, which means mama has to make pretzels (or drive an hour to the nearest mall for a warm, chewy soft pretzel). I found a recipe that called for a cup of milk and, lo and behold, we had almost exactly a cup of milk left. Woohoo! Pretzels, here we come!

First, I warmed my milk in the microwave to 110 degrees, give or take. I poured it into the bowl of my stand mixer with the sugar and yeast and left it alone until the yeast activated. Somehow I resisted the urge to stand over it Harry Potter style and repeat "activate!" over and over until the yeasties complied... 

Once the yeasties were ready, I added the flour and salt and plugged in my stand mixer. Thanks to the kick-ass mixer my mommy got me for Christmas last year (after I called her in a panic on Thanksgiving when my old mixer crapped out after 8 years), the dough was mixed and kneaded and pulling away from the sides like a good little dough in no time. 

I oiled up the dough ball, put it back in the bowl with a warm towel to keep the yeasties happy and multiplying, and watched an episode of Property Brothers while the yeasties did their thing. After one full Property Brothers (an hour), I checked on my dough ball, and it was fluffy and ready to go. 

I boiled some water and baking soda to dip my dough in (did you know that's how pretzels become pretzel-y?) and started rolling my dough into cute little pretzel shapes. 

After a few rolls falling apart on me, I said "screw it; mama wants pretzels!" and decided I didn't give a rat's ass how they looked as long as they tasted nice and pretzel-y. So I switched to plopping balls of dough in my baking soda water and tossing them on my baking sheet. They came out tasting exactly how I wanted them, even if they weren't necessarily food blog pretty. 

The moral of the story here is that if you have the patience, make your pretzels whatever shape makes you happy. If you want a quick pretzel fix, do as I do and know that they will taste just as good. 

Preggo piña colada

Being preggo is uncomfortable. Being hot is uncomfortable. Being preggo in record-breaking heat? Yep, also uncomfortable. But not necessarily unbearable. So what's the secret to survival here?

A comfy chair, a camera, and a hummingbird feeder. And a preggo-friendly piña colada. Step one, obviously, is to make the piña colada, which is easier than you might imagine. All you need are three ingredients, four if you're not preggo and want to add rum, you jerk.

Add equal parts of coconut milk and pineapple juice to a blender (1/3 cup or so is a perfect serving size) and enough ice cubes to cover the liquid (6-8 ish). Blend until smooth. Pour into your favorite honeymoon souvenir cup and enjoy, preferably while sitting in a comfy chair with a camera and a nice view, like of a hummingbird feeder. 

Who knows what could happen next? You might even end up with a few share-worthy hummingbird photos. 

How else do you beat the heat?