Oh god.

So it turns out that people make things called "Diaper Cakes," which are apparently diapers and shit rolled up into the shape of a baby. WTF?

Naturally, Regretsy is all over this. Behold their hilarious take:

http://www.regretsy.com/2013/01/24/flashback-suffocakes/

In which I confide my darkest fears (aka I hope my baby doesn't come out all f*cked up and sh!t)

And now, the entry I’ve been putting off writing, the one I where I address one of my biggest fears about this baby, and about motherhood in general.

When I was about 20 weeks pregnant, I was offered an amniocentesis test. I declined, because these tests carry about a 1 in 200 chance of miscarriage. I had a miscarriage just before I got pregnant with this baby, and it was awful. I won’t go into the details of the experience, or how badly my case was mishandled by my (now former) doctor. I do remember I was on deadline with the magazine, and I felt terrible cramps, and I knew immediately what was happening because I’d been somewhat prepared for it (though my dumb doctor told me that it was possible that there had been a mistake in the lab and my hcg results weren’t accurate, so of course I’d gotten my hopes up). I went to the bathroom and saw bright red blood and knew at once that it was over.

After the longest 10-minute subway ride in history, I went home, crawled into bed, and cried gasping sobs while my husband held me. The next day, I got it together, more or less. I didn’t go to work, and I more or less stayed in bed because of the physical pain, but I didn’t spend the entire day crying. I resolved that as soon as I could, I was going to try and get pregnant again.

It’s a good thing I did, because I got my period after only three weeks and conceived my baby about 10 days later. I spent the first 12 weeks basically living like a monk the moment I found out I was pregnant and freaking out at every little ache, pain and twinge. I turned down the offer of a CVS test at 12 weeks (it basically screens for the same things as amnio, but catches them earlier; it makes it easier to terminate, if you find something wrong, since it’s earlier, but it carries a higher risk of miscarriage). Then I was offered a series of blood tests, one in the first trimester and one in the second, that would give my odds of having a baby with Down Syndrome or Trisomy X. I also had what’s called a nuchal translucency screening, which tells you within 90% accuracy if your baby’s neck is abnormally sized (I think it’s the neck; it’s been awhile). This somehow can be a predictor of potential abnormalities.

My nuchal came back normal and my blood tests showed pretty low odds, much lower than the 1 in 200 chance of miscarriage with amniocentesis, so I decided to skip that procedure. And then try to forget about the possibilities ever since.

Look, I know there are worse things than having a child with Down syndrome. From what I understand, most parents struggle with it at first but then come around to say that they have learned more from their Down syndrome children than they ever could have thought possible. Many children with Down syndrome grow up to be happy, healthy, productive adults who vastly enrich the lives of those around them. Like, for example, John Franklin Stephens, the Special Olympics athlete who wrote Ann Coulter an open letter after she sent hateful tweets about Obama using the word “retard.” Go read the letter here (and have some tissues handy). Okay, now that you’re back--isn’t that amazing? Who wouldn’t want a son like that?

But here’s the thing: the life expectancy. I just finished re-reading “Operating Instructions,” Anne Lamott’s book about her son’s first year, and in it she basically says that she wishes all these awesome things for her kid, then realizes she doesn’t give a shit about any of it--the only thing she really wants is for him to outlive her. That is the only thing any parent truly wants. And with Down syndrome, the life expectancy is shorter, though it is much longer than it used to be. So that’s part of it. But I’d be lying if I said I also just don’t feel like I’m ready for those kinds of challenges. The fact is, I don’t know whether my child has it or not. I won’t know that until he or she is born.

And even if he or she doesn’t have it, there is a chance something else could happen--autism, behavior disorders, or something far more pedestrian that still falls outside the scope of what society deems “normal.” There is a book that came out recently, “Oddly Normal,” that talks about this (the author’s son is gay and attempted suicide at 13 despite having the love and full support of his parents). I haven’t read it, but it’s sparked a lot of articles about what can happen when your kid turns out to be something other than so-called normal.

Anyway, this is all very heavy. It’s too much to think about right now. Because I am a horrible person, I have to admit this also reminds me of this.

I'm stiiiiiiiiiiiill pregnant

Sigh. Went to the doctor yesterday. Still stuck at 2 cm dilated, 80% effaced. She's talking about inducing me if I haven't had the baby next week.

This is so not what I wanted to happen.

Also--kid--WTF? Does my uterus have a little sofa inside, and a flat-screen, and a mini-fridge with some snacks and beverages? Why do you want to stay in there so badly? I promise it's not so bad out here. We're cool, your parents-to-be. You'll like us. Okay, it's true, your nursery is a little WT right now what with the boxes and stuff everywhere and the lack of curtains and the fact that we haven't built the crib yet, but you won't need it right away anyway.

There is a part of me that thinks I should be slightly relieved--I will get the chance to actually complete most everything I wanted to get done. But on the other hand--I have all the grace and agility of Shamu. When I roll over onto my side, away from the nightstand, I have to get my husband to reach over me if I need something from it, because it's that much of a production to roll from side to side. Also, commuting suuuuuuuuucks. People have not been offering me seats. I saw a small opening yesterday, so I sat down, but there wasn't quite enough room for me and the lady I sat next to. Rather than offer her seat, she gave me the side eye!

(But later she gave money to the world's most annoying panhandler, a 20-something douche who said he was staying with friends in Brooklyn and wanted to scrounge up "just a few bucks so we can get a couple of $5 Little Caesar's pizza." I rarely give money to panhandlers, mostly because I never know if I'm doing more harm than good and I'd rather give to food banks and soup kitchens. But when I do give money, it tends to be to young mothers, or old people, or people who generally look like they could use it, not young Brooklyn hipsters. GAH. But I digress. Anyway, the point of that story was really to point out how much this lady sucked.)

So yeah, I am ready to be done with work, and with being uncomfortable. But I also wouldn't mind a few days to get stuff done and also spend quality time with my husband. I just REALLY don't want to have to be induced. I just feel like all roads lead to a C-section in modern delivery rooms these days, and I desperately do not want to have one. 

Snooki

So this weekend--and I'm not proud of this--I caught a few minutes of "Snooki and JWOWW." In this particular episode, Snooki was going through her baby loot and discovered that JWOWW had given her these test strips that you can dip into your breast milk to see if there is any booze in it (so, for instance, you can determine whether you need to feed your baby stored breast milk instead if you had a drink too close to feeding time).

At first I thought, "Good god, those girls are so trashy." Then I thought, "Hmm. Do they work?"

Almost at the finish line...

I have a cold now. Which is super awesome when you're pregnant. You get the added bonus of peeing yourself a little bit every time you sneeze.

For as much as I bitch about being pregnant, though, I have to admit there are things I am going to miss about it. One of them is feeling the baby move inside me. This sounds loopy, but it makes me a little sad to know I will never be this close to my baby again.

I'm 39 1/2 weeks. At my last appointment, my doctor said she didn't think I'd make it to my due date, but now I'm starting to feel like I might. I kind of want to have the baby already, partly--and I'm ashamed to admit this--because I don't want to go to work this week. Last week was so fucking brutal. Not that having a newborn isn't going to be 1,000 times as brutal. But I'm burned out, and I feel like a different kind of brutality would be better than what I've been dealing with lately in the office.

Also, I keep getting Europe's "The Final Countdown" stuck in my head. So it would also be nice not to have to deal with that anymore. 

So I had another tear-filled, hormone-fueled emotional meltdown.

After a really long and stressful week of staying in the office late at night (and working during the previous weekend), I accomplished very little at home and then promptly woke up sick on Thursday. I had to go to work anyway to finish up the issue of the magazine. I got to leave early, but of course as soon as I got home I tackled the nursery. And that's when the waterworks came, because I still have so much to do and the room doesn't even look like a room where a baby would hang out and I just need someone to give me some fucking time to do these things!

Anyway, I started wailing to my husband, who pointed out that we have accomplished a superhuman amount in a short time. And it's true, we have. There's just still so much to do. And I would not have been crying if I weren't so very, very pregnant and uncomfortable and worn out.

Man, I really hope I don't go all Brooke Shields after the baby is born. My doctor told me that prior to having the baby, I should make an appointment with a therapist, just so I have someone on speed dial in case I do suffer from postpartum depression. It's actually excellent advice, and of course I haven't done it because I have no fucking time. 

A stressy rant

So I’m 39 weeks pregnant, 2 centimeters dilated, 80% effaced, and 100% miserable.

I’m at the point where I have to ask my husband to tie my shoes. It HURTS to bend over; I pretty much can’t do it anymore.

And I’m learning that, ironically, the more pregnant you are, the less likely people are to give you a seat on the subway. I’m back to having to ask people. They make eye contact and then look away, so I have to say something. When I do, that usually works, but not always (there was the one guy who said no, anyway).

And don’t get me started on young white guys with their digital devices. Twice in the last week I’ve had a woman or older dude give up their seat because the perfectly able-bodied young man sitting next to them had his face buried in a phone, playing a game. A freaking CELL PHONE GAME. Grow the fuck up, guys! Have some consideration for people on this planet who are not you! Stop being douche bags!

Goddammit, if I raise a son, he’s not going to pull that bullshit.

And of course I’m working until the last second, and we’re on deadline so I’m putting in crazy long hours, which leaves me no time at home to do vitally important shit like figure out how my carseat works or put my crib together or hang the curtains in the nursery (and buy curtain rods to do so). I really hope emotional stress does not have a negative impact on babies, because if it does, this kid is gonna be pretty fucked up.

Also: I recently met a couple who had a baby seven weeks ago. I asked how it's going. "Oh, her mother is retired, so she's been staying with us the whole time. If we didn't have her, I don't know HOW we'd doooooooo it."

Well, my mother still works, so no one's moving in with us. We're on our own. Thanks for making me panic about that, too, asshats.

But now for the bright side: I get to meet my baby soon!!!!!!!

The doctor says I probably won't make it to my Jan. 24 due date. This is terrifying, but terribly exciting at the same time. I want to meet this little person who's taking up real estate and wriggling his or her little butt in my belly all day long! 

Screw you Marissa Mayer!

You know who can suck it? Marissa fucking Mayer, that's who.

Because of her "I'm going to drop a baby out of my vagina and then run back to my office immediately after" approach to combining career and motherhood, there is all this fucking pressure on regular working girls to do the same. I have been asked by no fewer than three people in my office if I'm planning on working through my FEDERALLY PROTECTED maternity leave, and when I say no, the immediate reply is, "Well, Marissa Mayer did it!" Followed by a weak laugh. Weak because they're not really joking.

Now, I understand why she made the decision she made. When you are the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, your job is your life, and you really don't have much of a choice about that. Her spouse will probably pick up more of the childcare, and she'll have a swat team of nannies and round-the-clock childcare professionals to help her out, and her kid will probably fine and I'm sure she'll be a great mom, etc. And it's probably not her fault that she unwittingly set this new standard. But she did. (Though screw her for saying publicly that having a new baby was "not that hard." Say that to women who have kids, work full time and DON'T have the resources that she does.)

The problem is that managers now expect this of all women. I actually pointed out to one of these people that my pay packet is nowhere near hers, and this person shrugged their shoulders.

Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh ugh. Discrimination is alive and fucking well.

The worst part is that I'm not even asking for special privileges. And I'm working my usual 60-hour weeks right up until I have the baby. I just want 12 GODDAMNED WEEKS to feed my baby, keep him/her alive, and bond with my infant. That is ALL I am asking. That is NOT too much.

Okay, now that that rant is over...

We're still unpacking, but the move is over. It was a clusterfuck, but it's done, and the place is coming together, and we're painting the nursery and we've ordered the furniture and I did a crapload of baby laundry this weekend, so I'm feeling better on the preparation front. And we looooooove the apartment. And our new neighborhood. It feels very family-centric but also very real and very Brooklyn. Yay!