Goodbye (but not really)

It's been a great run while it lasted, and I have truly enjoyed my time writing here and talking with you fabulous people. Thank you so much for all the comments and emails you've sent my way over the months, you've helped me through a thousand dark parenting moments and you've made the bright moments even brighter.

This will be my last ClubMom update, but I hope you will come read my parenting-related entries at ParentDish, where I'll be posting several times a week from here on out. See you there!

Bad Santa

I've been posting here less frequently lately, not because I don't enjoy sharing my every fleeting thought with you (because I do, embarrassingly enough), but because December is just kicking. My. Ass. I'm ready for some serious downtime, which is great timing because have I mentioned I'm having a baby in less than two months?

Anyway, I have a new all-things-parenting blogging gig in the works, and I hope you'll come visit me at my new location. I don't think I have the green light to announce it quite yet, but I should be able to post the new info soon. I'm looking forward to keeping my thrilling narrative going, because hey, we're just getting to the GOOD part of the story! Where the author has a newborn and a toddler at the SAME TIME and totally loses her mind ALTOGETHER!

Er, I mean, "faces adversity and rises to the occasion". Yeah.

In the meantime, I've posted this photo elsewhere and it just keeps cracking me up: behold, it's yours truly with what surely has to be the World's Creepiest Santa.

Ha! Oh, it's just so disturbing. The eyes! THE EYES.

I haven't had any desire to try and do the Santa-lap photo with Riley, even though I assume most Santas these days are far more photogenic—mostly because Riley hasn't shown a lot of interest in Santa as a General Concept yet. What about you, did you take your kids to see Santa this year? And if so, did he look anything like the guy in my photo? Because holy CRAP.

No, the ultrasound said there was JUST ONE

I was in my doctor's office this morning for a regular OB appointment when a man who works behind the front desk—a lispy, aging-pretty-boy whom I've always found to be slightly bitchy—exclaimed over my appearance: "Look at you! You're getting so big!"

What does a person say to that, when they're 31 weeks pregnant? Other than "No shit, Sherlock", I mean. I nodded vaguely and smiled. "When are you due?" he asked.

"Early February," I said, and that's when he said. It.

"Just one in there then?"

As opposed to six or seven wriggling fetuses, which could clearly be the only explanation for my MONSTROUS GIRTH? I've heard of people saying this sort of thing but come ON. It's not like this guy works at Men's Wearhouse, he presumably sees pregnant women all the time. And while I may have rounded out a little bit somewhat a whole lot recently, come ON. COME ON.

The thing that thankfully made this little Hallmark Moment officially funny as hell, instead of embarrassing and, you know, a little hurtful, was the woman sitting nearby who heard the whole exchange, shot her eyebrows somewhere up in the stratosphere at his comment, and leaned in to me to say, "Girl, he craaaaaaaazy."

Stay-Puft

In the last few weeks I've noticed that my wedding rings have been getting harder and harder to get on and off, and after a particularly vigorous removal process several days ago that had me briefly wondering if I was just going to have to yank my finger out of its socket, or what, I haven't put them back on.

I had hoped to avoid the too-puffy-for-rings pregnancy syndrome this time around because unlike when I was nearing the final stretch with Riley it's not the dead of summer. Therefore, my ankles should remain normal-sized and my rings should go the distance, right? Well, WRONG, apparently. I also noticed the other day when I took off my socks that I had a repulsive elastic-ribbed indentation circling the flesh on my ankle, so . . . oh well, Michelin Man resemblance, here I come.

Anyway, I thought I'd ask what you did when your rings got too tight, assuming this happened to you. Did you wear them on a chain as a necklace? Forgo them altogether and flirt shamelessly with grocery clerks? Or what?

PS: I have a post up at Work It, Mom with some holiday gift ideas for kids (that hopefully do not suck). Stop by and tell me what you're getting your own kids this year, I'm nosy as hell interested.

Typed with dry mouth

I think it's time to confess that I am officially COMPLETELY TERRIFIED about having this baby, and what life is going to be like after the first week in February.

Laughing gas

A surprisingly satisfying conversational exchange I never imagined I'd take part in:

Riley: *belch* "Hey, Riwwy fahted!"

Me: "No, sweetie, remember: when it comes out your butt it's a fart, when it comes out your mouth it's a burp."

Riley: "Bup."

Me: "Right."

Riley: *buuuuuuurp* "Hey, Riwwy BUPPED."

Me: "Yes, exactly!"

Riley: *poot* "Riwwy fahted! Riwwy fahted AND Riwwy bupped!"

Me: *wiping away a single tear of maternal pride* "Nice job, Boo."

Pregnancy cornucopia

Every week I get an email newsletter from Babycenter.com reminding me how many weeks pregnant I am, which has been surprisingly useful this time around—so unlike my first pregnancy when at any given moment I could have told you how many days pregnant I was.

My favorite part of each email is the food/fetus comparison: for instance, I am now 30 weeks pregnant, which apparently means the baby weighs as much as a head of cabbage. Mmmm, delicious baby cabbage.

Some of the comparisons have to do with length, some with weight, but all of them are sort of funny—all these fruits and vegetables, and the inevitability of imaging each one sitting inside my belly. Next week: four navel oranges!

BabyCenter's Food/Fetus Comparisons, Which I Am Totally Not Making Up:

4 weeks: Poppy seed
5 weeks: Sesame seed
6 weeks: Lentil bean
7 weeks: Blueberry
8 weeks: Kidney bean
9 weeks: Grape
10 weeks: Kumquat
11 weeks: Fig
12 weeks: Lime
13 weeks: Medium shrimp
14 weeks: Lemon
15 weeks: Apple
16 weeks: Avocado
17 weeks: Turnip
18 weeks: Bell pepper
19 weeks: Large heirloom tomato
20 weeks: Banana
21 weeks: Carrot
22 weeks: Spaghetti squash
23 weeks: Large mango
24 weeks: Ear of corn
25 week: Average rutabaga
26 weeks: English hothouse cucumber
27 weeks: Head of cauliflower
28 weeks: Chinese cabbage
29 weeks: Butternut squash
30 weeks: Head of cabbage
31 weeks: Four navel oranges
32 weeks: Large jicama
33 weeks: Pineapple
34 weeks: Average cantaloupe
35 weeks: Honeydew
36 weeks: Crenshaw melon
37 weeks: Stalk of swiss chard
38 weeks: Leek
39 weeks: Mini watermelon
40 weeks: Small pumpkin

Picture perfect

Oh look, a charming image from this weekend's Christmas tree outing. A father and son, enjoying an traditional holiday moment together:

Except, what's missing from this bucolic tableau? (Other than the child's mittens, of course.) Why, it's Mommy. Where is Mommy?

She's behind the camera, as usual, shivering in the snow in a coat that won't zip shut over a 7-months-pregnant belly. She's the one trying to hold the boy's hand to keep it warm, while he yanks it from her grip, shouts NO, and chases his father. She's holding a squirming, tantruming toddler while he screams DADDY, DADDY, DADDY over and over in her ear like a firebell while the beloved, eternally preferred DADDY takes the tree out to the truck. She's sitting in the truck, sniffling back hormonal tears, while her son cries piteously in the backseat about DADDY, DADDY, where is DADDY. She's thinking that in the rolling credits of her family's life, she would be listed somewhere near the bottom. Maybe under "grip", or more accurately, "personal assistant to Young Master". She tearfully announces to DADDY that she's nothing more than a glorified babysitter, a nearly pointless biological accessory that is simply around to do the breeding, and that her own child couldn't care less if she lived or died and she's going to move to a Caribbean island and spend the rest of her days serving watered-down Mai Tais to tipsy businessmen because FUCK IT.

Later, of course, she takes it all back, as her traitorous son clings joyfully to her leg yelling I GOT YOU MOMMY.

Oh, the things we don't put in the holiday cards.