Origin of the term Sugar Mamma

SUGAR.
I made my near-weekly (that's right) trip to the doctor, this time for a glucose screen. Had to layoff the sugar for "just a few days," which was like laying off the crack for "just a few days." (Meanwhile, Kevin, my dealer, buys a Vanilla Frappaccino, and when I scowl, he says "Come on, you can have just one sip." Bastard.)

Then I drink a sickeningly sweet orange-sodaish thing on an empty stomach to get my blood sugar soaring. Then they take another three vials of blood.

And now the Interweb tells me there was a jelly bean option!? Whether I passed I don't know, but I can go back to eating fudge again daily...at least for now. :)

SUGAR. MAMA.
We spent another trillion hours shopping this weekend at places brimming with fat (OK, pregnant) women and screaming kids. I think this is part of the parental initiation: can you handle the pain of being bumped into more than 200 times a minute amidst the relentless, earpiercing whines...without inflicting a similar pain on others?

We bought the fetus some furniture...because every 8 pound human needs a bedroom set, right? I suspect in the last month we've spent more on the Invisible One than we did on our last two trips to Europe. I'm not entirely sure because doing the math makes me a little queasy. Instead of morning sickness with pregnancy, I get money sickness.

Many things we've bought are designed to last until she's 18 (ok, maybe not the car seat), and perhaps I'll turn out to be a stingy mamma, so hopefully Lyric already knows to be excited about Her Brand...New... (said in gameshow host voice):

CAR! (Maybe we'll keep it long enough for her to drive when she's 16?), complete with baby-barf-resistant seat coating.




A crib that turns into a toddler bed and then into a fullsize-bed and its matching combination dresser/ changing table/ hutch thingie. Both are made from radiata pine (a softwood that acts like hardwood) and in antique black, of course! Heck, who knew we are so hip? Dammit. Next thing you know, every kid in preschool will be named Lyric or Harmony. (And the boys: Fret and Bassline.)

This lovely hard plasticy gray/red/black car seat.
(No all-black version available for this ubersafe brand, sadly. But it's still kinda cute and the little blanket is so very soft.)





To make space for the baby crap, er, stuff, we sold the 20-year-old hand-me-down sofa and loveseat (cat dander, rips, dust, and assorted sticky stuff included free of charge), and my poor little futon. We replaced them all with this more compact, black sleeper sofa (made from anti-babybarf microfiber) for the visiting relatives, and a matching chair (in lieu of the standard, overpriced mommy-glider, which everyone seems to want to toss after the baby is no longer cuddly) for me. Space is the highest premium in San Francisco, and in our apartment. Lyric's main function thusfar seems to be making us do and buy grown-up things. (Did I mention I now own a crockpot?) No fair!


and our favorite, the highchair that turns into a toddler chair and then a little kid chair and then and adult-chair. I sent this pic of it to my mum-in-law, who said only "Um, what is that exactly?"

Oh, Mrs. McCarthy....it's awesomeness, that's what it is.

Truthfully, the the spendathon has been so disconcerting mainly because what we really, really, really want to buy is a flat,, but each time we save some money...Lyric happens. We are getting a few hand-me-downs and avoiding non-necessities, but my months of research indicate that for an extra $100 here and there, you get kid stuff that lasts a lifetime instead of it heading for a landfill in two years.

Still, it means we might not be traveling again in 2007, except perhaps at Christmas time to see the families. Sigh. She'd better be really cute.

Airbrushed Spartan abs

We saw 300 this weekend and it was, to be totally inarticulate and non film-criticy: pretty awesome.

War battles in the only way I can tolerate (comic book style gore, torture-free), the right amount of offbeat humor, superbly airbrushed men's abs, a nice dose of history, and a king who adored his hot and ever-wise wife. But then, I've had thing for Spartans since I first read about them in 5th grade.



Now Kevin calls me The Spartan Queen and he wants to do more sit-ups. Whatever you say, sweetie.

Happy Molotov's Cocktail Day!

Today is the five-year anniversary of the day Anita and I met my husband and his outta-towner best friend, by chance, in Molotov's, a dive bar in the lower Haight. I guess you all know what happened next: We flirted, got hammered, I blew him off 117 times, we got drunk another 430 times, and now we are happily married, staying home to watch 24 and Battlestar Galactica, and I'm carrying our multicelled mash-up in my belly.

Oh, and in between there somewhere, I realized he wasn't just hot and in love with me...he's also the sweetest, kindest, uber-supportive, funniest, most loving person I know. Bonus: He's still really, really hot and in love with me. And for quite long time now, I too am doting and totally in love. (Note: He doesn't read my blog; don't tell on me.)

I'm so happy.

Pregnancy rule #6: Where not to shop

Tuesday, 10am:
I'm 6 months pregnant and just learned at the doctor's offie that I've gained 25 lb. I just ate a chicken salad sandwich for Second Breakfast, and am feeling about the size of a duplex. I realize I need to buy bigger pants. Again. Bigger than last time.

Tuesday, 11am:
I take a break from work to walk to the nearby Dancewear shop for a new pair of black yoga pants, the lower half of my daily Pregnancy Uniform. (The upper half consists of a rotating selection of trendy blouses I found one day on Haight Street. The most memorable quote that day from the 22-year-old in the fitting room across from me: "Oh my GOD! These shirts make me look TOTALLY pregnant....that is SO cool.")



I had to upsize to the medium-size yoga pants 3 months ago. And now I upsize again. I believe this would be referred to as supersizing, but I humbly ask that you don't go there.

Tuesday 11:15am
It has taken me, huff, wheeze, 15 minutes to walk two, puff, blocks. I had to rest twice. I feel like one of those 450 lb. people in TV shows who can't walk across the room without almost having a heart attack. I reach the shop and have to rest against the outside of the door for another 3 or 4 minutes and try not to pass out. (Apparently, this isn't abnormal...something about having 50% more blood to pump through my heart.)

FREEZE! This is where, in the movie, the frame would freeze or the camera angle would switch to the look of horror on the shopgirls faces as I swing the door open and almost fall inside. But alas, you are stuck with my point of view. And here is what I saw:

Many young women, all between 19 and 22 years old, all 5'9", all 104 lb. And all built like the dancers they are. Lithe and waifish, yet with rock-hard thighs on legs that ended right under their full and perky breasts. One leggie thing was trying on a sweater with only tights...no pants...because well, who needs pants when you have an ass that holds up your sweater?

And what they saw? That would be me, (see 10AM entry above), waddling up to the counter, red faced, sweating, and wearing my most tentlike blouse. I could ask, without humiliation: "Can you point me in right direction? I need some plain black yoga pants...size LARGE, please."

They stared blankly (trying to hide their pity?), so I whip out my only weapon.

"I'm six months pregnant!" and then sadly, I think their pity only grew.

P.S. I wanted to add, "And before I was pregnant, I too was 5'9", 104 lb, and 22 years old with slim dancer thighs!" But well, um, yeah...before I just wasn't pregnant.

No fruit for you!

In the 21st century, you don't just procreate, gestate and deliver (perhaps accompanied by unsolicited advice from your mother, mother in law, siblings, coworkers, and myriad other all-too-willing experts.) That was old school.

In the 21st century, you go through pregnancy twice: once in real life, once virtually.

Exhibit A: You're reading it.

Exhibit B: Babycenter.com, babyuniverse.com, babyzone, babygaga (ew), americanbaby.com, ebay.baby.com, etc, etc.

Most of those sites are just a way to entice the uninitiated (like me) into buying more crap, I mean, "expanding our layette," so little Lyric can slide right out in June as a well-dressed, well-accessorized little Consumer before the doctor even gets to give her a good slap on the butt.

That said, I subscribe to Babycenter.com, the modern mamma's alternative to What to Expect When You're Expecting, the favorite reader of all those so-20th-Century moms. (I read both of course).

I'm on week 25 of their weekly emails telling me what the fetus looks like (currently: 13 inches, 1.5 lb., furry, wrinkly, and slimy. That description won't be differing much for the next few months, I suspect. Though as previously noted, I'm thankful to learn she's traded in her flippers for toes.)

The weekly emails have, however, become a little boring since Fetal Lyric got all her human features. Prior to week 20, she was always a fruit. Or a nut. Or other yummy (organic, I'm sure) edible. And I liked it.

In week 5, tiny Lyric was but a sesame seed. Then she became a lentil. And then a rasberry (that was week 7 when supposedly her tail fell off. Where did it go?).

Week 8, she was just a kidney bean, and in week 9, a yummy grape. Week 10, she was a kumquat! (That's right, and no, I've never had one either. But here's a tree of them for you.)


Week 11: Lyric the fig (newton)! My little figgy. And in week 12, she became what I considered the big breakthru fruit: The Lime. I'm thinking key lime. Mmmmh...pie.

Then, oddly, in week 13, she had an off week as a jumbo shrimp, which was a little gross. But then she went right back to being plump and juicy as a lemon. And then....an avocado (no, it's not a vegetable just because you would never, ever bite into one.)

In week 17, things started to get off track. They told me she was like an onion. Sweet vidalia? Yellow? White? They didn't say. And then a zucchini...which is kind of cute, though I think butternut squash might have been a better editorial choice. Or how about a banana?

And that was it. At week 20, my weekly emailers withdrew the fruit analogies, the vegetable and seafood analogies, and that was that. Now I hear about how she's hairy and slimy and well, gross. No reference to the fruit cessation, nothing. No apples or oranges? Canteloupes or Corn? Bueller?

And now I have a whole basketful of fruits I can't eat without feeling, well, a little nostalgic for the good old days.

Monkeys and tigers and pandas, oh my!

I thought baby tigers hugging monkeys was one of the cutest things ever.

(I know they are orangutans, but the four syllable word messed up my prose flow. And, did you notice there's no "g" at the end of orangutan? I just learned that.)

But then I watched Panda Kindergarten and frankly, almost died of cute.



If I couldn't have a baby, I'd get a panda. A bowl of pandas.

Sensible shoes and the slap-free zone

The Lyrically induced trade-offs so far:

OUT: Black, leather, lace-up, thigh-high boots with four-inch heels
IN: Flat, comfy sensible shoes.

OUT: Tiny, two-seat beater Honda with removable roof.
IN: Four-door, fully warranteed, compact sedan.

OUT: A variety of low-rise, size 2 sexy jeans
IN: The same black stretchy yoga pants every. single. day.

But the biggest sacrifice? Not getting to slap my landlord senseless for suddenly trying to raise our rent by 10%, coincidentally a few weeks after my telling her I'm pregnant.

(Note: I'm not withholding the much-needed bitch-slap for fear the baby will get hurt. It's for fear I won't have anywhere to live that's this reasonably priced in San Francisco when Lyric arrives in a few months.)

Seriously, I'm so pissed I want to go beat that woman with my kick-ass, four-inch heel boots...since I'm not otherwise using them at the moment.