nesting
I’m a little embarrassed to admit the wild hunt I had for a place to change diapers. It all started with a source-less photo on Pinterest of a changing pad in a shallow basket with handles. After several hours of fruitless querying DJ and I decided that this was a thing that did not exist. I’m fairly stubborn, though. I spent my spare time for days looking at image results for various types of basket. Eventually I discovered that the one in the sourceless photo is a Nantucket Shaker basket, made on a mold in China and at that time only available through a single eBay listing. Oh, and it cost the world.
I might have even paid the world for it after the obsessive search, except it only came in one size and that size was much too large. Still stubborn, I went looking for custom basket weavers. Several days and many e-mails later I found Theressa at Creatively Woven. She shared my enthusiasm for the idea immediately, but explained that a molded basket actually does cost the world for a reason. She offered to do something similar with her usual technique and a custom cut solid wood base. Handmade takes a while, so I waited. We exchanged e-mails every now and then so the wait didn’t seem so long.
Oh, it was worth the wait. The very custom basket arrived last week, and even with oversized shipping it was only about half the world. Then it took me a few days to make a changing pad and sew a few showercap-style flannel covers. My sister pointed out that this is a place where Very Bad Things will happen and a fancy place to change diapers is probably foolish. She may be right, but I’m excusing my foolishness as first-time mom naivete because I really love how it turned out. Now all I need is that baby.
(The empty/missing frames are for maternity/baby pictures. Kim of Bowtie Photography spent an afternoon after Christmas dealing with my smug gestating self, but that’s a different story.)
On Monday I had my hair cut, and a woman in the waiting area absolutely insisted that I’m carrying twins. At least, if not triplets. People are not used to seeing full-term pregnancies in the wild, I think. And let’s be honest, this one is not small.
On Tuesday, wearing a fitted shirt, I stood up from my desk and caught my side view in the dark window. I was shocked. This is Wednesday’s side view, much the same as Tuesday’s. 38 weeks.
I am reading about infant sleep habits. I am rolling over in bed by cradling my belly and moving it from one side to the other, feeling the squish at the apex where her little body compresses mine. I am rubbing her back when she has the hiccups. I am taking new prenatal vitamins; the prescription ones taste and smell unbearably like fish and I can no longer tolerate them. I am parking in a reserved space at work and hearing the surprise in my boss’ voice every morning. I am breathing again, now that she’s moved away from my lungs. I am nesting, but not cleaning much of anything. I am contemplating the end of this and the beginning of that and already wistful for all of it.
more for the littles
Last weekend I finished the gift baby sweater, just in time for this weekend’s baby shower. I’m not entirely happy with the crochet edging, but that’s my own fault. I have never actually learned to crochet and it shows. After several mediocre attempts I decided it had that made-with-love look and left it alone. I do a lot of “yay, look what I made! put it on the fridge with a gold star!” but they aren’t all home runs. Even when I really want a gold star for effort.
As long as I’m complaining, I wish I’d done better with the lighting in that photo. The story there is that I was awake at 3:30 with heartburn, Braxton-Hicks, and a touch of carpal tunnel. So while it wasn’t the best light to take pictures I’m claiming a gold star for effort.
The little striped pants are not made by me but bought from Gymboree like a normal person. Apparently the babies who don’t wear pink or blue wear a lot of yellow and green, which is convenient for matching. DJ’s contribution to the package is a black onesie with “n00b” printed on the front. I get that this is slang relevant to his IT professional brother, but I still think it’s funny how clear it is who chose what.
I am really enjoying tiny girl clothes. A little bit of shopping, a lot of making. Did I ever mention wanting to dress this little girl like a very fancy Dickensian urchin? Not full-time, but often – as long as she’ll allow it. Well, this thing is that thing.
I knit this little dress a while ago and just got around to making a smock to layer under it. People with babies know it’s ridiculous to spend hours and hours knitting handwash-only alpaca for a baby. It is, and I can’t really defend that. But it’s so fun. The smock underneath is at least cotton and washable even if made from a hard-to-obtain French pattern. (Those Citronille patterns are excellent, though. Elegant and simple.)
This baby enterprise has not made me any more reasonable about my projects, I think that’s unfortunately obvious.
tropes and emperors
My family has had a great time buying Christmas and birthday gifts for DJ. They all get so excited about finding the right thing to make him happy. This, among other things, makes me think I’ve done a good job choosing my baby’s daddy.
We watch Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant. I’m not sure why, although I think the two are excellent cautionary tales. Several times an episode one of the young women will say something about hoping an experience will change the baby’s father in a positive way, and I inevitably yell back at the television Choose your babydaddies wisely! The young men don’t seem to change, on the whole. The decent ones seem decent, if immature. The awful ones stay awful. The women get sad around the edges. I don’t think any of them change much outside of life experience. I don’t think anyone changes much, not without a great deal of effort.
DJ would always have been a good father. Even if we’d had the worst luck as teenagers. Even if we’d had unfortunate timing as struggling twenty-somethings. In our thirties it might not always be easy – but let’s say easier. I think you can tell a lot about parenting potential long before there’s a baby. Or an embryo. The trope about how a man treats his mother is telling. Also the one about waitstaff. But what you really want to know is how he treats you, and that’s more than romance and holidays. Several winters ago I noticed that my windshield was always mysteriously clear after snowstorms. DJ shrugged and said he was waiting for his car to warm up anyway. He thinks his best qualities are the acceptable minimum.
I’ve been telling people that this pregnancy is like being a Roman emperor without the bloodshed. DJ has found a million ways to make my life easier, from changing our sheets by himself to bringing me water while I recline on the sofa. He’s read as much as I have about baby having and raising. He’s doing a good job of making me feel the most important without making the grandmas feel unimportant.
There’s that other trope about showing your daughter you love her by being good to her mother. I have, in my life, found the opposite to be true as well. So, really. Choose your babydaddies wisely. They don’t change much.
mini and mini
About a year ago I sent the picture below to the lady squad, asking if I was thin enough to wear a black sequined minidress on New Year’s Eve. (The surrounding mess is exactly what my bedroom and closet look like when I’m trying on outfits. Sorry mom, at thirty I’m still a messy kid who loves playing in her closet.)
Almost exactly a year later I was trying to decide if I could get away with wearing a non-maternity sweater to work and snapped the photo below. Baby house at thirty three weeks, four chins hidden by the flash.
Perspective. Now I think that minidress looks pretty good, and wouldn’t I love to have those legs back. I mean, I still have them. Somewhere. Haven’t seen them in a while.
the kindness of strangers
About a month ago I started knitting a little cardigan for my future niece or nephew. DJ’s brother and his wife are expecting their first baby ten days after our due date. (Which means it’s anyone’s guess which baby comes first.) They’ve decided to wait for the delivery room surprise, so I made the impractical choice to knit in white with leaf-green trim. But machine washable, bleachable, and dry-able. And it will be apologetically wrapped with a gift card for their registry, since I know a tiny white baby sweater is both impractical and self-indulgent.
I was happily knitting along until I realized that I was definitely going to run out of yarn. By a lot. That’s what I get for using a free pattern, I suppose. I didn’t start worrying until I found out the yarn is backordered until the end of December, a week before the baby shower. Not good.
Slightly desperate, I went to Ravelry and searched for the same yarn, same dye lot. Ravelry has a feature where you can browse other knitters’ “stashes,” and I found two matches. I sent messages asking to buy whatever remnants they had left, and both replied. One wasn’t sure she actually had any yarn left, but said she would look as soon as she finished moving. The other said she had most of a ball, and I was welcome to it. She didn’t reply to my offer to pay for the yarn and shipping, but a few days later an envelope showed up in my mailbox. It was a people are nice moment.
new sensations
I am, with some margin of error, about 75% through being a baby house. The last few weeks have seemed especially fast. I love feeling her move around. Recently I’ve been able to identify body parts – a tiny butt pushing against my ribs or a miniature foot exploring out to the side. She still gets very quiet when DJ tries to feel her moving. He does have a calming effect, I hope it works as well a few months from now.
I’ve been very happily pregnant so far. If anything, I think I’ve been more cheerful than usual. DJ and I rarely argue under any circumstances, but it still almost seems odd to me that we haven’t had one of those tense conversations this entire pregnancy. DJ is relieved that I haven’t turned angry or prone to sobbing. My family might disagree. They’ve been trouble, but that’s about what I was expecting. Last week I had an anxiety attack during one particularly bad day (self-diagnosed, but the feeling is always the same). I have to find better ways to handle those situations. They are expert boundary-pushers, so it’s frustrating.
I don’t know if it’s indicative of my energy levels, but I still cannot be bothered to brush my hair before taking pictures. So ignore my hair, and here’s a peek at the nursery. All told it probably took 30 hours to stencil the walls, but I love how it looks. DJ’s parents bought our crib, and DJ went through the dad rite of passage of assembling it. I love how he is about these things. He makes all kinds of frustrated noises while referring back and forth to the instructions, but at the end he is so obviously pleased with himself.
I have yet to make the bedskirt or buy any bedding. Next weekend my mother in law is hosting an enormous baby shower for us, but everyone is so excited about this GIRL that I suspect we will end up with about 100 pink onesies. We’ll see. I don’t really mind all the clothes, honestly. They are pretty cute. But we are going to have one enormous shopping trip once we sort out what we still need.
Here’s the little lady, just about to attempt cramming her entire fist in her mouth. I’m not sure whose profile she has. My overbite, maybe. I’m fairly sure I saw some chubby cheeks, too.
This is what’s happening with the nursery right now. Shiny shiny and about half finished. Two quarts of Martha Stewart Precious Metals paint (tin and bone) plus one 10 ounce container of the Metallic accent paint in Vintage Gold = shimmery champagne. The Home Depot guy was very curious about what exactly I was trying to do. I explained, but his eyes glazed over a little when I mentioned a stencil. Too bad, because I think this is a pretty good not-wallpaper.
22 weeks: cognitive dissonance
Enough people have told me I would regret not taking pictures that I tried. I am always weird about myself in pictures; I don’t look anything like I think I do. Not better or worse, just different. Pregnancy is widening the gap, so to speak. These are like looking at someone else completely. That person badly needs a haircut and probably didn’t get the focus right on the self-timer.
(Also, that person just came home from a small conference where she won science Bingo and brought home a shirt that says “Mass Spec/tacular.” Which will be worn proudly, belly-tight or not.)
I’ve tried to have DJ take pictures of me, but that’s worse. I get all self-conscious and make even dumber faces than usual.
This is how I really feel about standing in the empty nursery taking pictures of myself:
This one is especially awkward and I may not do it again. But now you know that I like to fold the panel of my maternity pants down so I don’t feel like I’m wearing a full-body scuba suit. And for the moment my belly button is still IN where it belongs. It’s getting scary, though.
