No baby yet

I've made a decision. I am not going to cut the umbilical cord. I figure that this way, my son will always be about a foot or so from me since he's already a mama's boy.

This will make for some interesting-looking pants.

Happy Giving Birth-day!

So back in November, the radiologist told me that April 29th would be my due date. These past few months, it's seemed like a date too far to imagine ever arriving. And now my due date's here. I don't think today's the day though. I'm not having any contractions, not even the Braxton-Hicks ones.

If my son goes past his due date, will this be indicative of the rest of his life? Will he forget to return library books or videos? Will he call me up at all hours of the night because he missed a credit card payment? This is not looking good.

Mike says that our son's just being courteous because today's also the first day of the NFL draft. He should just make an appearance in case one of the teams calls. That's a phone call you don't want to miss, even in utero. Mike says that even if Nathan's drafted from the womb, he won't be able to play the first year since he'd be breast-fed every quarter. And we're not sure of his 40-time, but we definitely know he's a kicker.

I still say it's time for an eviction notice.

Gravity is a cruel mistress

I love the feeling of weightlessness while swimming laps. However, when I step out of the pool, gravity says, "Come back down to earth, fatty."

What if my water breaks in the pool? Will I know what's happened? Will they have to drain the pool?

a wee request in the wee hours

Me: I had a dream.

Mike: Would this be the dream where you let me sleep for 45 more minutes?

Me: No! I dreamt that the bar down the street was also a brothel and you kept hanging around there and so when I went there you came out of the room and looked at me and said, "Would you like some coffee? I'll get you some coffee."

Mike: I do enough bad stuff in my real life. Keep me out of your dreams.

[pause]

Me: So don't sleep with hookers, okay? OKAY?

stay at home, mom

Whenever a date pops up for a movie release, I think, "Dear Lord, I'm going to have a baby by then." The doctor gave me my due date after my first ultra-sound and back then it seemed like April 29th was so far in the future. And now I can say I'm due on Saturday. This big-floppy-donkey-dong Saturday. I didn't give birth on Thursday as predicted by Mike's co-worker and I didn't give birth today like Mike's sister said I would. This pregnancy is wrapping up and I'm going to miss some things like the kicks and rolls that poke against my belly. I am not going to miss the numbness in my swollen sausage fingers, my hamhock ankles, shortness of breath, or my Hitchcock-like shadow.

We're in a countdown, folks.

I almost went into a seizure over this one

Mom: "Let's go to dinner! It's TGF!"

Me: Yeah! Thank God Friday!

gush from my cha-cha

According to my doctor, I am dilated to one centimeter. I consider this progress. My mother says the time is near because my face is shiny. I'd like to depend on more scientific indicators like roundhouse-kick-contractions or the river of amniotic fluid which will likely gush from my cha-cha at a most inopportune time, like when I'm in line for scratch tickets and Steel Reserve.

My peeps

Thanks to the awesomeness of my dear friend Abigail, I have the following photos from my baby shower to present:


I'm pregnant in this one. Can you tell?


My mother.


Representing the 670!


This is Abigail. I've known her since we were in 4th grade, eating McDonald's and going to the library to "study." She's always been this good-looking, btw.

Some like it hot

In the nine days that my mother has been here, I've busied myself at work during the bulk of the day. My mother has busied herself with re-arranging our house so it functions according to her standards. She prompts me with harmless lessons about cleaning the iron before I use it and what settings to use on different fabrics. Apparently, she thinks I use only one setting: hot.

Whenever she pops up with how-to's and you-should's I nod and agree with what she says and thank her for showing me how to fold the blankets and clean the bedding. She's also very proud of the mending she's performed on my husband's pants. She sticks her hand in the pant leg like a puppet coming to life and raises her cross-stitches to the light like it's mined-gold. She describes her technique in very detailed, technical terms, i.e., "You go like this and then you go like this." You know what I do when my pants need mending? I buy new pants. My mother, however, insists that we buy patches and quarter-yards of fabric to piece together pants that end up looking like a big quilt anyway.

This morning she vetoed my sweater because it's too tight. Of course it's too tight. I'm 38 weeks pregnant. Everything is too tight. You know what isn't too tight? Bedsheets.

Dear Target: move your bedding to the maternity section so we can all be happy.

Sincerely, Me.

I haven't called Jenny yet.

I guess it's safe to say that the only way I'll lose weight now is to give birth.

No speak English

What's funny is that whenever we've been to Target, my mother suddenly wants something and asks one of the employees who then immediately turns to me with that quizzical "What did she say?" look.

Here are a few requests which I've translated with a loud and enunciated, "MY MOTHER IS LOOKING FOR...":

-a sandwich crust cutter

-a Thermos

-Cotton balls

-Gerber Scalp Treatment

-Candles

-Niagra starch spray, with the yellow cap

And because I've frequented Target so often with mama-san, I had to decline my invitation to join the dinner with China's President Hu at Bill and Melinda Gates' home.

I missed out on the guinea fowl but they all missed out on hearing me rap a la Jay-Z, "Jigga-What? Jigga-Hu?"

"Am I in labor or do I really need to pee?" and other potential titles for my autobiography

So now that my baby shower's over and I've already scheduled my last day at work, I keep thinking, "What if I give birth right now?"

"How about now?"

"How about now?"

"Okay, we're passing the hospital. Now's a good time."

"Any minute now. Any freaking minute."

The afterparty is at my body

Thank you to everyone who came to my baby shower! If you took pictures, please send them to me because I forgot that I had both my camera and video cam with me.

I never got any damn cereal!

My brother George called yesterday to speak to my mother. I thought it was best to give him the same treatment he gave me when she visited him in Hawaii.

George: Ramona.

Me: (in a high-pitched voice) Georgie-koong. (Note: this is my mom's pet name for him and my one sure-fire weapon to irritate him.)

George: Let me speak to Mom.

Me: She's not here. She doesn't want to speak to you. Ever. Ha ha! How does that feel George?

--

Here's a list of acts of brotherly love which I never reciprocated:

-Making me lick a nine-volt battery

-Forcing me to address him as, "Sir, Lieutenant, sir."

-Calling me Mona Chow-Chow Mona throughout my formative years

-Holding the phone up to my face and saying in an uncensored instruction, "Tell him you're busy."

-Telling my sister I needed $20 for cereal to which she asked me why I didn't ask her and in turn incited my response, "I never got any damn cereal!"

The Chamorro method of shipping

My sister in Phoenix called me this morning asking me if I knew anyone flying in tonight from Phoenix who would also deliver the package of party favors for tomorrow�s baby shower. This is the Chamorro method of shipment. Find someone, anyone, flying to your destination and kindly request that they schlep your cooler of fish, plastic bags of ice keke and lemon powder or in my sister's case, a box of overdue party favors. I'm sure shortly after the Postal Service reached Saipan, there were Chamorros willing to bypass that in favor of a cheaper routing system.

"Oh, I thought mom would have gotten into a fight with Uncle Frank and then fly over to Arizona�"

I don't know what makes my sister bank on family violence, but I don't believe her excuse. She's known for a month about this party and my mother's been here since Monday. Everyone knows that. More people are calling my mother than me and my mother hasn't given birth since 1983. In any case, my mother will be receiving a box by tomorrow and will have to promptly pay for the delivery.

Even if that's what my sister assumed, it's in poor taste to assume at all. You know what assuming does. It makes an ass out of u and Ming. Poor Ming. Poor Chinese guy.

Commerce and Catholicism

I started a new job this week. It's called Taking My Mother to Every Department Store Before Friday Because No Stores Will Be Open on Good Friday.

My mother said that we should stop into Wal-Mart quickly but then it turned into an $400 baby bonaza, complete with her making me choose which kind of sanitary napkins I want post-partum. I didn't even think this was a choice. According to her, I'll need to "protect" myself for about a month post-partum. I've been living without my period now since August, and I like the change. Though I vaguely remember reading this on babycenter.com, I agreed and insisted that if we're going to do it, we should do it all the way. "I want the largest kotex you can find." I explained with a "name in lights" sweeping hand gesture. "The largest, Mother. And I don't want anything with a frou-frou name like Serenity. I need something solid like Fort Knox. Do they sell Fort Knox?�

She pointed to my cell phone and said, "Call Bobbie!"

My mother has this habit that whenever I tell her something funny, I must repeat it immediately to a family member and remember it so when she pokes me and says, "Tell fan the story about the Chinese restaurant!" I don't have to scour my brain through the file I've entitled, "What in the holy hell is my mother talking about." I must also repeat my anecdote or remark with the same gusto and enthusiasm that originally generated laughter. I'm used to this, though. When I was younger, my mom was so impressed with my British accent that she made me record the answering machine message in a stupid, faux, "Ello! We're not heeeah raight nohhhw," leaving me to run like Pavlov's dog to answer the phone before it picked up and humiliated me.

Anyway.

I lost steam somewhere in the infant section when my mom dashed about the aisles and flashed packages of baby wipes (Tangent: Why do they make them with Shea butter? What, is my son going to model? Lube up?) and disposable nipple pads. I found an empty shelf and plopped my fat pregnant self down while my mother loaded up the cart. I was resigned to just sit there until I gave birth in the infant section of Wal-Mart, somewhere between the baby bumpers and baby monitors. Didn�t Natalie Portman make a movie about giving birth in Wal-Mart? I could make the news.

a conversation with my brother

George: Is mom there?

Me: No, Mom's not here. She won't be here until Monday.

George: Tell her I called.

Me: May I tell her what this is regarding?

George: No.

Me: Can I tell her you're a half-dork, then?

George: No.

Me: Can I tell her you're a full-dork?

George: You know your baby is going to look like me.

Yum in the Tum

Mike and I went to dinner at the best place to eat ever: Eats Market Cafe in West Seattle.


Spinach ravioli with sauteed mushrooms, garlic and lemon, topped with freshly grated parmesan.


Pan seared salmon with a warm lemon risotto cake and a cool cucumber mint salad. That can of Welch's grape soda belonged to my "Purple Cow": grape soda and a scoop of homemade ice cream. What pregnant woman doesn't love ice cream?

I've been pregnant for nine months now and have never had a meal so satisfying.


See? Two satisfied customers.

Pictures from our Baby-Moon

Mike and I went to Ocean Shores a few weeks ago to get in a last vacation before Nathan arrives. I wish it had lived up to the name I gave it, Ocean Whores, but sadly no. It was a beach town filled with senior citizens, but very slutty and nasty senior citizens I must say.


Will our son go to Harvard or ITT Tech? It rests on Mike...


ITT Tech it is!


Mike: Let's feed it some bread!
Me: No! Don't feed it bread. Then it'll come back here expecting bread.
Mike: (Pauses) Oh I know! Let's feed it meat loaf!

Yes, dear readers. My husband, who has a master's degree, tried to feed this animal meatloaf, though we all know that deers do not eat meat. But you should have seen the look on his face--the excitement, the joyous possibility that maybe, just maybe, this woodland creature would accept his offering. And when the animal sniffed the two lumps Mike had thrown down, it moved its head away in rejection.





Our balcony provided a great view.

is it time?

I'm grateful whenever my schedule synchs up with my husband's and we can both go to the doctor's. However, at the last appointment I forgot that it was the oh-so-fun "let's check your cervix" time. Sure it had the potential for hot medical-faux-lesbian-action, but in reality it was three adults not looking at my downtown bonaza with me hoping to God that I wouldn't get ticklish and start laughing because God hates me and would allow a moment like that to happen in front of my husband and a trained medical professional.

But Mike put it best: "It was like she was pulling a rabbit out of a hat."

--

I don't think I've exploited my pregnancy enough. I'm not talking about those pretty-pregger websites and their paying customers (though I could have been working it), I haven't been in the news at all. You know what adding "Pregnant woman" does to a headline? Just looking at today's listing on seattletimes.com, there is some magic to be had. For example:

-"Microsoft envisions phones acting like pregnant woman PCs"

-"Scientists say global warming inevitable, but pregnant woman disasters aren't"

-"Iran test fires another pregnant woman missle"

--

I also used a hula hoop the other day. It got stuck. I am now using it as a belt and hanging bed sheets off of it for some snazzy springtime skirts. Sexy!

you did this to me

my body's too bellylicious

my body's too bellylicious
Originally uploaded by kirida.

They held a baby shower for me at work. The flash didn't go off but I think my belly's illuminated enough. Geez I'm huge.

My boss is a really sweet woman who has been supportive throughout my entire pregnancy. She laughs at my jokes, even the silly ones. She orchestrated the entire soiree and even made sure there was cake! In case you were wondering, it's dark chocolate with a white chocolate and caramel filling.

I ate most of it, because the baby wanted it.

To this day, I sleep with one eye open

I attended Saipan Preschool and Daycare, an institution run by my aunt and uncle and held in a building adjacent to their home. Though my aunt and uncle were/are very loving, sweet people, the teachers were not. It was the Saipan version of Annie, only we weren�t waiting to be adopted by bald billionaires. What I remember most is naptime and the sight of small bodies on the floor like sticks.

A woman walked around the room with a thin pointer stick and tapped (sometimes whacked) our bottoms, announcing in a monotonous voice, �Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!� I don't know what parenting method dictates beating a child to sleep, but that and the worst lullaby have remained in the African regions of my brain.

I envied those kids who actually did sleep and envied more those children whose parents picked them up early. I stared out the mesh screened windows willing each passing car to be my escape home.

I don't remember how my father or mother arrived, but I imagine that when they appeared, I rocketed myself into their arms, each and every time.

(Tangent: The woman's daughter once ate a yellow crayon. I remember how she held her daughter�s mouth in her hand to pry it open and there were yellow bits of wax stuck to her tongue and lodged between her teeth. I have seen [and consumed] many a strange food, but sometimes I wonder what made that little girl look at a crayola crayon and think, "Yum!")