Oh hai, I'm just pregnant, k?
From my Wordpress blog:
This is a carryover from The Good Life, where I blog about all things non-baby (vegetarian/vegan recipes, politics, news, the environment, rants and raves, etc…). I decided, for the sake of those who don’t have children and who would probably puke formula-esque eew on their shirts if they had to babysit, to curtail the pregnancy babble to a separate space. You’re welcome!
Depending on the extent of sleep deprivation and PPD, I’ll try to keep this blog alive after the birth of the Peanut…but no guarantees.
And now, I suppose you’re wondering about when all of this baby stuff is supposed to happen, and who I’m popping out into the world. Well, the medical establishment (AKA Geisinger) says we should see the little bugger on January 1, 2011. That’s quite silly, though, since a “due date” is more like a “median date” of a “due window” of two weeks on either side. So, for your calendars, just sketch us in for the end of December or the beginning of January.
To be honest, I’ve got a different date - a “due goal” if you will. According to a Harvard study the average length of a first pregnancy, in an uncomplicated and healthy situation, is actually 41 and 1/7th weeks. Er, 41 weeks and 1 day. In other words, eight days after the date the hospital or doctor will generally give you (which tends to be a 40-weeks-out date). Which puts us at…JANUARY 9, 2011.
And you know what’s spiffy, marvelous, serendipitous, and completely apropos about that date? It’s the birth date of my other husband, Mr. James Patrick Page. Yes, the man behind my childhood longing to have been born in 1950, the man responsible for my current taste in music (only second in influence to my father and his excellent record collection), the man whose representation I have tattooed on my left rib cage…and he’s sexy, to boot.
Oh hi, I’m just here in my scarf, looking sexy. And you?
*Sigh*
Those white and silver waves of beautiful British locks…I have no doubt that my son will look nearly precisely like Jimmy Page, especially back in the heyday of Zeppelin
WHOOSH - that was the sound of greatness flying over your head.
And HOW, you may ask, do we know that Mr. Peanut is, in fact, a MISTER Peanut? Well, he wanted us to know! At our 20-week “anatomy scan” or “anomaly scan” or “what-the-heck-is-that thing?” scan, AKA an ultrasound, he thwarted our best intentions to NOT know his sex. Ever the fidgeter, Mr. Peanut was in the midst of one of his trademark high kick/arm flail combos when he spun around and gave us the full frontal view. And WHAM - we were the parents of a son. Either that or she possesses a third leg protruding from between her hip sockets.
For now, I’ll save the sordid pregnancy complaints and whining for further posts. I think you’ve met Mr. Peanut and me enough for now
But wait! What pregnancy blog would be complete without a nifty tracker/calculator/thing-a-ma-jig?