You must be this tall to ride this ride

I started this school year being one of 4 women who are expecting (and when I say "expecting", I'm sure we all know I'm talking about having a baby and not some other weird thing like, expecting to have pasta for dinner or something...although, pasta for dinner does sound pretty good. Sorry, I need to focus. Back to my story). The first woman, Megan, was due in September, the next woman, Rachel, is due in November, Heidi is due in January, and I am due in February. This situation created a special bond between us  as we shared our stories with each other and talked excitedly about the movements of our mini tenants(or, at least I think it brought us all a little closer. Screw them if they don't feel the same way!). As Megan's due date approached, I found myself checking the parking lot each day to see if she had made it in to work or if there would be a message on the office white board announcing her absence and reporting the birth her baby. Finally, the day came when her car wasn't in the parking lot. I excitedly entered the building and saw the message that she had, in fact, had a beautiful baby girl. I happily smiled and talked about the happy event with my coworkers.

And that's when it happened. As I sat there thinking about Megan and her family's newest little member, it occured to me that now there are only 3 of us still waiting to have babies. Suddenly, I was overcome with that same sense of fear...nay, TERROR, that I had at the end of my first ultrasound. Have I not told that story? Ok, here it goes. We had our first ultrasound relatively early on in the pregnancy with the purpose being, essentially, to verify that it appears to be a viable pregnancy and not something else (e.g. an ectopic pregnancy or bad tuna). In that first appointment, the tech happily showed us the first images of our little bundle who, at that time, just looked like my breakfast or some other thing that was sitting in my belly region. The only reason I actually believed that what she was showing me was actually another person and not the remnants of a bagel was that this little lump of grey matter had a distinct hearbeat. That really made it clear to me that there is, in fact, another person in there. As Nicole and I walked down the hall to head out of the hospital I felt my first wave of terror emanating from the all too real issue that this heartbeat was going to grow into a mini-me that was then going to make its grand entrance via my...my...oh, it even pains me to say it...my vagina, my hoochie, my choch, my pooter, my...perhaps I should stop there as I have many other names for it, but I'm not sure what the age group is that's reading this out there. So, yes, the terror set in at that point for the first time in my pregnancy. As that realization slapped me in the face like a dead fish wrapped around a cinder block, I actually froze in my tracks which caused Nicole to turn around and worriedly ask what was the matter. When I explained the birthing process and how that thought was now directly responsible for contorting my facial features, she was so supportive with a reply of "It's a little late to think about that now, isn't it" and capped off this ever so comforting statement with small chuckle. Funny, but that moment also marked the first wave of hormones rushing through me as I felt the overwhelming urge to punch her square in the gut. In what would be the first moment of many, I restrained myself and, instead, simply resumed walking to the car.

Now, with Megan having had her baby, I was again hit with that wave of terror. Only this time, it was a bit more intense and as I looked around at my co-workers, I spotted that same look of terror fueled by realization in Rachel, the poor sap who's next on the list to have a very tiny person mistake the most sensitive parts of her anatomy for an emergency exit. In my sudden shell shocked state, I went up to her and tried to explain what I was feeling which is what I will do for you all now. Essentially, it kind of feels like going to an amusement park and being super mega excited to ride a new rollercoaster. You wait in line and talk with your friends about how awesome it's going to be and everyone gets more excited by the minute, and then, as your turn gets closer and you can actually see people getting into the cars, hear the clicks and clacks of the ride, and the screams from the poor saps at the top of the first crest, you suddenly realize you HATE rollercoasters and that they scare the crap out of you (which I hear actually happens during childbirth!). As you stand in line surrounded by all these other people who have already been on the ride before and, for some reason yet unknown to me, have actually voluntarily gotten in line to ride it again, you try to figure out your exit strategy..."Maybe I can fake being sick and I can't go on the ride" or "Maybe I can fake being too short to qualify for the ride" and then you see the faces of those around you and you know they are thinking, "Just suck it up and get on the ride! Stop being a pansy!" The only problem is all of these people who have already gone on the ride are LYING!!!! They maybe liked how they felt after they got off of the ride, but when they were being dropped from 5 stories in the air, none of them can tell me they didn't feel sick and weren't trying to figure out how to get the hell off the ride in one piece! So, as I'm sure Megan is now enjoying the after effects of the ride, I am still trying to figure out how to fake being too short to ride the coaster. I'm a little worried, though, because I don't think I can pull that one off. I just hope the poor sap who has to sit next to me during the ride (Nicole) is prepared for my kicking, crying, screaming, digging my nails into the safety restraints (aka her hands, arms, or any other part of her body I may be able to grab on to...she may need some personal protective equipment like from a bomb squad or something), and potential return to booting. Hmmm...Perhaps she should wear a rain poncho...

Quilt shop...

Ok, so some of you read about the quilt shop hop trip last weekend that I went on with Nicole, her mom, and some of her mom's friends. I believe that those of you reading this are fully aware of how I feel about shopping and quilt shopping...Well, ok, first, it's a misnomer because we weren't actually shopping for quilts, we were shopping for materials to make quilts with. Now, one of the reasons I am not a fan of the pastime known as shopping is that there are plenty of other activities I'd rather be doing. One, for example, involves very hot pokers and my eyes. Another reason is that I am extremely cheap and do NOT like spending money and what I came to learn rather quickly was that the process of making a quilt is a timely and costly one. So, while I can appreciate the beauty of the end product, it costs much more to get to that end product than one might think. Another reason I am not a shopper is that I am notoriously bad about matching colors. Now, women are not typically color blind and, while I can see colors just fine, I certainly did not inherit the gene that allows me to tell which colors match. So, when I have to go shopping for clothes, for example, I am likely to buy whatever is on the manequin because then at least I know it matches. Does anyone remember Garanimals? It was this company that made clothes for kids and had color coded animal tickets on every item and all you had to do was match the color coded animal tag to see what outfits went together. Unfortunately, they don't make those anymore, but I would spend a FORTUNE for someone to bring those back...not only for kids, but also for adults. And, I'm sure the unsuspecting independent contractor taking over my body would also appreciate those so that he (or she) can rest assured that his clothes match.



Ok, ok, ok. I have digressed. Back to the reason involving color matching. Part of the allure, I think, of quilt shopping is that the avid quilters head into each shop with a pattern for a specific item they want to make and then they have to find the materials they want to use for that pattern. Now, I don't know how familiar many of you are with quilts, but they are fairly intricate involving many colors and patterns. So, while Nicole and the other quilters are anxiously sifting through material and trying to come up with matching fabrics, I am desperately seeking out the free snacks in every shop because I know that, if Nicole asks me for help in picking out a fabric, she will sorely regret that decision once she gets to the final product and says, "Whoa. Uh...nice choice of colors, Jen. Thanks for helping. In fact, you did such a nice job, you don't have to help me pick out fabric ever again!" Wow. That is kind of my own little quilt fantasy happening there, isn't it. Anyway, you can well imagine that a whole day of looking at fabric and then trying to match the colors into a final product that I just can't even picture in my head takes its toll on a person. Thank goodness for the plethora of free snacks. And, yet, if Nicole were to ask me to go with her again, I would. Why? Because I'm a sucker and that's what you do for the people you love. At least, that's what I hear.

To quilt or not to quilt

Hi everyone. This is Nicole. At the request of my good friend, Meredith, I will be contributing guest spots to the blog every now and then. I am just warning you...I'm not as funny as Jen, so please read this with low expectations and no one will be disappointed. So far, this whole pregnancy journey for me has been filled with mixed emotions. For example, happy, worried, holy crap, I'm going to be a mom, will everything be ok, and think of all the things we can buy! As you know, Jen hates shopping...any kind of shopping. So, today, we took my mom and two of her good friends on a shop hop...a quilt shop hop. Yes, I said quilt shop. That's right, I'm gay and I like to quilt which has caused my DICO score to plummet (more on that to come in another post). As some of you already know, I LOVE to shop. Any kind of shopping. Malls. Outlets. Craft stores. If it's got a sales sign, I'm there. Now, for those of you that don't know what a shop hop is, you travel around CT and go from quilt shop to quilt shop looking at a variety of patterns, materials, books, machines, gadgets, and anything else you could possibly need to make any type of quilt, wall hanging, bag, pillow case, apron, and virtually anything you can imagine. My mom, her friends, and I all had a blast and Jen...well, Jen drove. Thanks, Jen. Most of us rated the shops based on the quality and variety of the patterns available while Jen rated the shops based on the quality of the free snacks available. Each time we entered a new shop, we would get our passports stamped, get our free strips of material, and excitedly start looking through the bolts of fabric to make our projects sing. Jen seemed to disappear almost immediately in each store and would later be found critiquing the cookies, granola bars, chocolates, and other treats she had found tucked away in each store. She usually did not surface until she found the food and, once she did, she was gone for a while. By our 6th shop and 6 hours into the trip, she was desperate for some Tums, which my mother had actually packed with Jen in mind.

With my new quilt treasures in hand and some other material I had found before, I am aiming to make a quilt for our little one on the way. As a beginner quilter, I am still not very good at judging the amount of material I need to make a baby quilt, and, as my mother has informed me, I have already bought enough to make a queen sized quilt, curtains, a bed skirt, baby bumpers, and a few other things. Oops. I hope the baby likes Classic Pooh because he/she is going to have tons of things in his/her room made with that material right through his/her college years. So, with all of this material and all of these projects ahead of me, I will be spending a lot of time in our craft room making all sorts of doo dads. I will keep you posted on my progress and maybe I'll post some pictures. And with that I say, quilt on, my friends. Quilt on.

Oh boy (or girl)...

To the left of your screen, you can see the first internet pictures of the squatter living in my uterus. This picture was taken at our 18 week level 2 ultrasound where they can essentially see EVERYTHING. When I say everything, I mean they could see the various lobes and ventricles in the brain, the spine, the kidneys, the bladder, all the bones, the lips, etc. Essentially, the purpose of this appointment is to make sure that everything is developing as it should and to identify any issues that may be present. So, this picture that you see was taken at the very beginning of the appointment while this little person (gender to remain a mystery until it pokes its bottom half out of my womanly parts, but for purposes of conversation, we shall call it "he") was laying on his back. So, the tech was chatting and measuring bone length, checking brain development, eye sockets, etc. when he suddenly decides to roll over. Oh, how cute. Sure, but now, we can't get a good shot of his heart b/c his spine is casting a shadow over the area they need to examine. So, the tech, being a very patient woman, decides she will do all of her other measurements first and then come back to the heart. Now, his hands are going and his legs are going, but he's not really feeling like rolling over again, so the tech decides to call in a doctor to see if the doctor can get him to be more cooperative. Great, my kid is already being oppositional. So, the doc comes in and starts tapping my belly a bit. Nothing. So, he taps a bit harder. Nothing. So, now he decides he really needs to demonstrate what he has been doing with his gym membership and starts using my belly as his own personal puching bag to get the kid to roll over...and...VOILA!! The kid sticks his ass in the air, essentially mooning the doc, and goes back to laying on his belly. With that, the doc realizes he is not going to get my underdeveloped child to cooperative and my child has successfully won his first power struggle with an adult. If this is a sign of things to come, God help us all.

The Three Fs

It's been a while since I've posted a new blog and I'm sorry about that, but I do have things to share. Some things I have shared that many people would prefer I didn't, but that brings me to today's rant.

As many of you probably already know about me, me and my digestive system have a long and troubled history. Being the overly stressed psycho that I am, I began developing ulcers and other random stomach issues way back in elementary school. I thought, that by this time in my life, I had pretty much learned to manage all the crazy symptoms my body would share with me, but I had forgotten about one family curse that was still hunting me down. You see, each time I would go to the doctor with a stomach pain complaint, the first question I would be asked was, "Have you ever had your gallbladder checked?" Now, to most of you reading this that may seem like an ordinary question, but to me and the other Andrades out there, that's a fully loaded question because that is the curse that comes with being an Andrade. Someday, somehow, when you least expect it some little sac of green fluid in your belly, which is completely useless I might add, is going to come back and bite you. So, each time I was asked the dreaded gallbladder question, I cringed hoping that I would be the one to dodge the Andrade curse (for those keeping track at home, of the 10 Andrades in my immediate family, I believe only 3 of us still have our gallbladders and the only other two, besides myself, are my younger cousins Mark and Alex (keep alert, boys, the clock is ticking!)

Why do I bring on this rant now? Well, it appears that something in my digestive system has decided that it does not appreciate sharing its space with my new tenant and, as my tenant has relocated many of the other long term residents of Digestive Arms (that's what I'm calling the huge tract of land (please note the Monty Python reference) that the little man (or woman) has taken over), I believe those residents are teed off and are protesting outside of City Hall. While my issues are on the left side of my body and not at all the correct location for my gallbladder, my doctor has informed me that my gallbladder may be the medical equivalent of a ventriloquist throwing its bile around different areas of my body to throw off investigators. If it could only use its powers for good!!! So, it's either my gallbladder, my pancreas (which could be in kahoots with my gallbladder - those bastards), or my liver. While I can understand why my liver and pancreas would have wanted to start a revolution against me while I was in college, at this point in my life, they are living large and have nothing to beef about other than being relocated temporarily. So, I essentially have to wait and see what my docs have to say about my pissed off body and hopefully they can steer me back to the light.

Now, I realize many of you may be saying, "Geez, Jen. That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?" To that I reply, NO!! It is NOT melodramatic and let me tell you why. Every time I eat, I get, what I affectionately refer to as, Pitchfork Man, working his magic in my gut which is making eating a highly unpleasant prospect for me. That, in and of itself, is a tragedy for me. But what makes it infinitely worse at this point in time is that this is FAIR SEASON!!! Which means that all of the wonderful fairs and food festivals are about to kick off and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ENJOY FAIR SEASON IF I CAN'T EAT TONS OF FRIED CRAP AND OTHER STUFF THAT IS ABSOLUTELY NO GOOD FOR ME?!?!?!?!!? OH THE AGONY OF IT ALL!!!!! I swear that as soon as this kid is born, he/she is in for a time out RIGHT OUT OF THE GATE!!!

Oh, and for those of you who may be wondering what the title of this entry refers to, it is generally the rule of thumb used by medical and lay people alike to diagnose a gallbladder issue...forty, fat, and - the thing some of you wish I would stop sharing - ...I'll leave that one to your imaginations*.

*Be grateful this post is not brought to you in smell-o-vision. (smell-o-vision? is that possible?)