In any case, I figure it was as good a reason as any to start actively blogging again. Kind of like tucking my sharpei belly into a slick little running number after many pregnant months of sedentary life and one too many frappaccinos and yelling MARATHON BABY…GO!

I am nothing if not overambitious. Or insane. Take your pick.

I mentioned that I’ve gotten completely sucked into the incestuous vortex that is Facebook. I’ll tell you, the snappy, third-person, one-line statuses seem juuuuust about my speed at the moment. There’s no commitment, no effort. And it goes great with my severely amputated attention span, which has gone from reading heady literature and lengthy Merchant Ivory-type movies to reading style magazines and watching Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style. Send help. Also wide leg, summer-weight wool trousers and flirty secretary blouses.

The other day, I had a few hours to myself, which started out with a short list of “fun” things I wanted to do, but which actually ended with me riding around my favorite parts of Lancaster County, Sarah Harmer on the iPod and a complicated coffee drink in my hand. As I rode around, I just let my brain relax, not worrying about the kids, my job, my post-partum flab, the household budget, our future plans…nothing. I felt some heavy door open up in my brain, with a puff of dust and cobwebs and an agonizing screech of protest. And this overwhelming stream of thoughts and ideas started streaming in, so many things I have wanted to capture and write about, not for my blog, not for anyone else, but for me.

I’m doing a horrible job of explaining what I mean. When I sit down to write, I just can’t get to that place I was in. Having a screaming three-month old in the other room, and a toddler 15 feet away watching Noggin and asking questions every three minutes doesn’t help. When I have distractions and stress, I completely shut down everything but the most essential functions.  Work. Care for children. Clean house. Maintain sanity. That’s about all I have capacity for.

Michael tells me I should start carrying something to write on wherever I go, to capture those moments when they come up. Such a simple solution, something so many people already do, something that I’ve started doing. I am desperate to tap into this deeper part of myself, I need to drag it to the surface, untangle it, hold it up to the light and figure out what it all means to me. There’s a large part of me lying dormant, my spirituality, my creativity, and I’m starting to feel like I can’t get enough air.

Since I didn’t think my team would appreciate Smithwick’s-fueled emails from me at 11 am, I trundled off to a local coffee house - one that makes the most awesome lattes and quesadillas.

They are awesome because they are flavored with the power of God Almighty himself, amen.

It happens that my favorite haunt is a Christian Coffee House. Yes, with initial caps. They are as common as Starbucks in San Fran around here and come in many kinds of flavors. This one is the full-on, no holds barred contemporary Christian stereotype – extraordinarily bright and cheery decor, perky, well-scrubbed staff, Christian pop piped in via satellite radio (where every song sounds like a cheap rip-off of an existing song), flyers about upcoming youth revival events and uplifting signs with many exclamation points.

(I have to interrupt my cynical rant as the perkiest of the staff came over to ask how I was doing. Or maybe it was “how strong is your personal relationship with Jesus?” I was too distracted by her apple-pink cheeks and gleamy, perfect teeth to know for sure.)

This is so completely not the place I would normally haunt. I am illogically tempted to start an idealogical argument, come in wearing an “if you can read this shirt, the bitch fell off” biker shirt and respond with a “fuck, yah” to a question about whether I would like whipped cream. The unctuous ooze of religious sincerity and fervor, and the dogma it is based on, are things I would normally, and instinctually, run far, far away from.

But weirdly enough, I really love this place. I think it is because coming here, for a minute or a few hours to work, are just…soothing. I don’t have to think, I can simply let the bright candy-coating of cheerfulness wash over me. When I tune out the actual content of the message being communicated here, its buzz provides a pleasant escape from the real world. I feel like a bit of a fraud, this is not my home turf – and my own well-scrubbed cheeks are pink from cosmetics, not a belief in the afterlife.

So I’ll save my religious naysaying to my husband, close friends and the occasional conversation with my born-again sister in law. In the meantime, as long as they don’t start infusing my lattes with ground-up scriptures or asking about the state of my soul, I think I’m content to enjoy the coffee and the free interest service. It’ll be our secret.

I’ll put together a birth story over the weekend, but I’m pleased to say everything went extraordinarily well. I went in for an induction Thursday night, had my water broken late afternoon Friday, ordered an epidural at 5:30 pm and started pushing at 10:04 pm.

Wilder Wellington was born 20 minutes later.

At a jaw-dropping 10 lbs. 8 ozs. The general consensus among the doctors and midwives was 9-9.5 lbs. I made the nurse weigh him twice to be sure. Despite being almost 2 lbs. heavier than Emerson, he was a lot easier to birth. Thank god for that. If I would have known the size going into the delivery, I think I would have gone on strike. Or on vacation. Let somebody birth the Christmas turkey.

He is lovely. I don’t know what else to say right now. He is just simply gorgeous. He looks a lot like his brother, but with darker skin and more hair. (And a smaller head, for which my nether regions are grateful.)

It is a week later and he has already gained his birth weight back. After several nights thinking our house was an all-night afterparty, Wilder slept 11:30 pm to 6:45 am, only waking once at 3 am to gorge himself at the milk bar. I forgot how heinous the whole “milk coming in” process was. Picture flaming hot coconuts. Now stuff them under your skin. Comfy? Now attach a vacuum lined with tattoo needles to your nipple and turn to “puree” for 25 minutes every three hours. Joy.

For me? I’m doing so much better than last time that I could burst with it. Despite a belly that looks like Laura Flynn Boyles’ alien at the beginning of MIB 2, I feel great, taking some iron for anemia, and have dropped 25 lbs of fluid already. I think I spent an hour yesterday just getting reacquainted with my ankle bones. (why hello, you’re so…so, delicate and boney, aren’t you?)

All in all, despite the nonstop bitching about the heat, I would totally recommend summer babies. Sitting on the porch swing, rocking the baby in the breezy, dappled sun, watching Michael draw chalk trains on the driveway with Emerson, drinking iced coffee…not a terrible start.

My two boys. I foresee a future that is lightly perfumed with sweaty athletic socks.

People keep asking me if I’m excited. Not yet. I know what I’m in for this time and I just want to get through the labor and delivery. Then I’ll be excited.

Here’s the final belly photos. Holy stretch marks. And chubby cheeks...thanks to 45 lbs and copious amounts of ice cream. Yeesh.

I would officially be 40 weeks tomorrow.

And here’s Emerson being “sweet” to his baby brother.

See you guys on the other side!

I’m sitting here with a slightly rumpled piece of paper that was tucked into one of those “Seventy billion perfect baby names” books. The paper starts conservatively, with a long list of neatly typed boy names, then spirals downward into a mess of blue, felt-tip madness – scratch-outs, additions, comments, doodles and even a game of tic-tac-toe and hangman.

It is this list we chose Emerson’s name, and it was flat-out war. Michael and I, knowing how opinionated and picky we are, started out early. After battling from 25 to seven names, we wrote them all out with the middle name (easily chosen from a tradition in Michael’s family) and each of our last names. We agreed that our children would have each of our last names – mine as a sort of second middle name, and then my husband’s surname. I never gave a thought to changing my last name when I got married. Hell to the no. And I decided that I wanted to balance the traditional patriarchy with the practicality of having a single, consistent surname for our kids. (People used to ask me if Michael minded about keeping my name. My standard reply is that if he would have minded, I wouldn’t have married him.)

After we had snug, final few names…Michael decided, at 3 am about a month or so before I gave birth, to insist on a new favorite – Emerson. I wasn’t sure I loved it at first, but some time, convincing, and the promise of naming rights for all future children sealed the deal. And, of course, we love it.

My parents, however, were not sure and were, let us say, they were pretty direct in their opinion. To say they pretty much abhorred every name we picked was an understatement. Maxwell, Beckett, Jamison, Bowie, Whitman, Sawyer…HATE. Even though as an expectant parent, your heart knows naming is absolutely your right and final decision, it was pretty demoralizing.

I think they love the name now, I knew to gird my loins for the onslaught this time around.

Naturally, we went right back to the short list to name Pilot Fish. Again, we’d already picked out a middle name – Wellington – which is a family name on my side. Michael’s last name is short and very common (at least around here) so the two names sound quite good together. Especially with MD, or PhD, or even Nobel Prize winner attached to it. Not that I’m thinking about those sorts of things.

Being the good book-dorks that we are, we wanted to stick with a literary name. We knew right away which one. We hunkered down over the name, knowing that once again we would be faced with vocal protest of my folks (and, funnily, other people of my parents’ generation). And we were not disappointed. I did manage to stem the flow a bit at one point, telling my father,that upon hearing I was getting my crap about the name we chose, my uber-conservative, 86-year old grandfather (my dad’s dad), yelled “It’s none of your parents’ damned business what you name your kid!” Go, Poppop.

To date, my parents still choke when they try to utter this baby’s name. Emotionally, I’m large unaffected. I know can’t win, and I don’t care. I’ve bluntly told them to get over themselves. We love it, we hope the child will love it and they will do and say nothing to make our son feel awkward about his name EVER.

In the meantime, we’ve been coaching Emerson on the name of his new baby brother. He’s got the hang of it now, but is more likely to call him “What-to-wear”, “Underwear” or “Wonderwear.” Unfortunately, some of those are starting to stick. Underwear – what a hell of a nickname.

So how about something totally unique…say a pregnancy update? No! you say…really? Because you having been talking about that at all! I mean, at this point, what’s there to say beside…am big and fat, swollen ankles, holy hell, is this baby ever going to come?  Here is one more thing.

Am being induced late Thursday afternoon. Which is, like, TOMORROW. Holy yay. Pilot fish should be here Friday or (if the universe hates me) Saturday. I’m fully expecting another marathon induction, wherein my labor is as easy to start as an open, honest dialogue on birth control with John McCain. (wha?) Easier second-time labor, my ass. This baby is still tucked up around my larynx, with no sign of dropping, and my cervix is playing completely dumb (baby when? Due date what? Are you expecting something? *blinkblink*) This boy is absolutely going to be bigger than Emerson. I have the horizontal stripes across the middle of my stomach that tell me so. I went to the grocery store last week and the sight of me carrying a watermelon under my arm nearly made my husband pee his pants with laughter. If he didn’t give such orgasmic foot rubs, his ass might be buried in the backyard right now.

Ok. So, I know it’s the way big medical practices work these days, but I hate having to see whatever doctor or midwife is available. You can’t get to know a single provider, which means I have to retell me life story every visit. I also have to account for my choices and decisions (last week…induction a go! This week…why induction? Why not wait it out?), convince every person I see that I am a thoughtful, well-informed and rational patient, not a hysterical, hormonally imbalanced pregnant woman who just wants this baby out already. Every provider I’ve seen has had a different opinion about risks, procedures, things to watch, etc. Fluid too high! Fluid fine. Induction reasonable! No, no, let’s wait and see. Baby is going to be 9 lbs or more! Nah, will be normal. Gaining too much weight! Weight is absolutely fine. You need an ultrasound! Ultrasounds not necessary.

Come The Fuck ON already. I’m sick of it.

The doctor I saw yesterday was the worst…from the minute he walked in. After “hello” he starts with, “I’ll do the internal check that you requested, but I’m not going to do anything with that information.” Uh, I just want to know if I’ve progressed at all, is that a problem? Then he practically fought me at every turn. “Oh, retained placenta? That’s no reason to induce.” Funny, the doctor I saw JUST LAST WEEK, the one who gutted me like a Halloween pumpkin last delivery said it was fine to proceed, especially since I had lost so much blood. “Well, I’m looking at your chart, and you didn’t lose that much blood. Actually, your blood count didn’t seem to be that bad.” (THE FUCK? Funny the medical team who was actually there at the time has a different opinion) Then I mentioned that I would bet this baby’s first name that I wouldn’t go into labor naturally, and he was going to be huge, because that’s how the women in my family roll, so WHY WAIT when we know nothing is going to happen?

And, I swear, he effing “poo-pooed” me. Complete with a little exasperated eye roll.

At that point, if I could have hauled my large, nekkid ass off that table, I would have strangled him with a latex glove. While everything he said was delivered in a professional tone HELLO? Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t dramatize or make this shit up. A doctor who wasn’t even there to see the amount of gore pouring out of me (which subsequently got knocked to the floor, yum), to witness the scary blood pressure drop, my surgery, my fun attempts afterward to faint every time I went to pee (and vainly attempting to take the nurses down with me) and then a long recovery DUE TO ANEMIA has the absolute nerve to make judgments on me. Oh, and my mother had to have two c-sections. My grandmother was sickeningly overdue. And every baby in my family is HUGE. You Don’t Know Me, Asshole.

I’m beginning to think doctors start from the assumption that you are an emotional, mouth-breathing ignoramus and then it’s your job to work your way up the ladder to semi-coherence.

Wow, so that went totally negative. Let’s turn the beat around, shall we?

I’m going in to have this baby tomorrow!

Knowing what I’m in for, am totally freaked out. Can’t even think about actually having another baby here, just need to get past the delivery.

Also freaking out about – this is the last night I will have my #1 toddler all to myself. And that makes part of me incredibly sad. Little does he know. Need to make the most out of this evening, which means getting the hell off the computer. 

It’s no secret that the United States is not high on the world’s list of countries that mandate some sort of paid maternity leave. In fact, according to a link from the article, the United States is “…one of only five countries that does not provide or require employers to provide some form of paid maternity leave.”

While there is FMLA, or the Family and Medical Leave Act, which requires employers to give most workers (not just mothers) up to 12 weeks of job-protected leave for births, adoptions and certain other medical care, that leave is wholly unpaid. So while you are guaranteed your position back after 12 weeks, unless you have private or employer-provided short/long-term disability insurance, those 12 weeks come at your expense.

There are a few states that do provide some amount of short-term disability for maternity leave. Pennsylvania is not one of them. California is, and I believe Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York and Washington either do or are considering it.

Working in a global consulting firm, I have colleagues spread out across virtually every continent. Many of them are women and the majority of those women are mothers. I am wildly envious of the support their governments and/or employers provide to women in the UK, France, Germany, Canada, Sweden and Australia, to name a few. Paid leave can extend (in decreasing percentages) for up to a year in some cases, with additional unpaid leave available. 

My colleagues are shocked to discover that not only does the United States not have a mandated policy on paid maternity leave, that even the most generous employer (like mine) will provide only a limited number of weeks, which often needs to be augmented by saved vacation and sick time. But that paid leave only applies to full-time, salaried employees, of which I am not.

While I work a full-time gig at this global firm, I am a contractor, meaning I am actually an employee of a contracting agency, not the firm, and paid on an hourly basis. My agency takes care of taxes, has benefits and a 401K available, but there is no coverage for maternity leave. There are no paid sick days or vacation days in my job, and very few paid holidays. The six weeks of maternity leave I am planning to take starting July 28 has been meticulously scraped from my weekly paychecks during the last several months. Fortunately, my compensation has enabled me to save enough to cover all bills and expenses through mid-September in the absence of a regularly scheduled active paycheck. I’m already thinking I’ll try to work 10-15 hours a week after the first few weeks off, just to keep a little money coming in. When people ask me why I’m not taking more time off, I respond, “I simply cannot afford to take any more time.”

I count myself lucky to be able to work at home, which enables me to be around my husband and son during the day. I am equally lucky that Michael works nights, and is the willing and able primary caregiver during the day while I slave in front of my little glowing screen. I’ll admit, it’s not the ideal situation from a relationship (and admittedly, sex) perspective, but it is fantastic for us in raising our kids, keeping one or both of us actively engaged at all times, saving on daycare costs, but still flexible enough to accommodate the schedules of a two-income family. It works for us, and we feel extremely fortunate.

As I mentioned, while my leave will necessitate a bit of belt-tightening, it will work for us. For others in less fortunate financial and work situations, I cannot imagine how families manage. I was speaking with a woman working at our local convenience store, who is due at the same time as me. She makes about $10/hour and, because her employment date is weeks shy of the time required for any kind of leave coverage, she has no paid maternity leave. She has another child at home and a partner whose salary barely covers the bills, even with her job. At the same time, they make too much money to quality for any kind of assistance. She recently found out she might need to go on bed rest. She has no idea how they are going to make ends meet.

This is too common a situation. Too much for assistance, too poor to make it independently, and with questionable health insurance…what are these families to do?

If you read the Feministe article, maternity leave was just a small part of a larger issue. The main point was more about the pressure mothers get for their choices to work and be considered less dedicated parents, or to stay home and not be considered to be contributing professionally to society. That’s a whole separate topic, and the flashpoint of countless “mommy wars.” I will say one thing as it relates to maternity leave - if there is overwhelming concern in our culture to support a woman being the “primary caregiver” for children, even just in the first six months to a year of a child’s life, then our culture needs to step up and underscore that pressure with some real support to women to make that happen. But, and here’s my own sarcastic reply to myself, that’s too logical. It’s much easier to waggle disapproving fingers, judging mothers for the choices they make for their families, for whatever works the best for them. Does this same culture judge fathers by those same merits? No it does not. Man = breadwinner, right?

If we are to step up to the plate and provide support to MOTHERS to ensure their ability to receive paid leave, we cannot do so without fully addressing the same right as fathers who, maybe in lesser numbers but still as critical, can, do and sometimes MUST choose to be the primary caregivers for their children after birth or adoption. Why would we offer dads any less?

But I am absolutely unable to tell my housecleaner that her current work just isn’t all that great. Today I had to ask her to actually MOVE things when she dusted and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

WTF is up with that?

1. What is in the back seat of your car right now? Car seat. A cajillion toddler toys, two maps, an umbrella, a tiny jean jacket and a box of tissues.

2. When was the last time you threw up? About 3 am Christmas eve…something about Christmas dinner didn’t agree. Broke my standing 10 year no vomit record. Dammit.

3. What’s your favorite curse word? Motherfucker. Apparently, it’s getting to be my son’s favorite as well. Might need to do something about that.

4. Name 3 people who made you smile today? Michael and Emerson and the woman on the phone who scheduled me for a massage on Saturday.

5. What were you doing at 8 am this morning? Picking up toys ahead of the cleaning lady’s arrival.

6. What were you doing 30 minutes ago? Checking email.

7. What will you be doing 3 hours from now? Probably checking email again.

8. Have you ever been to a strip club? Yep. I used to be the token straight girl at a weekly Lesbian Poker Night in DC. Tthey broke my strip club cherry.

9. What is the last thing you said aloud? I’d like to schedule a massage, please.

10. What is the best ice cream flavor? If you are nine months pregnant, the answer is YES. Otherwise, mint chocolate chip.

11. What was the last thing you had to drink? Decaf coffee.

13. What was the last thing you ate? A butter cookie.

14. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?  Does a new bra count?

15. When was the last time you ran? Like exercise, or like running after SOMEONE? Last time I ran was in February, when I was four months pregnant. Last time I ran after someone was probably last Wednesday when a certain toddler decided to haul ass through the mall.

16. What’s the last sporting event you watched? Phillies game on television

18. Who is the last person you emailed? A former co-worker at Law & Order: Amish Division for a lunch date.

19. Ever go camping? Yes. I prefer “cabining” much better. Or “Hyatting”

20. Do you have a tan? Uh, no. That would require actually going outside in the heat. Are you insane?

24. Do you drink your soda from a straw? Only at a food joint, if it comes in a paper cup.

25. What did your last IM say? “Ok, maybe at 11 am EDT? Would that work for you?”

26. Are you someone’s best friend? YES.

27. What are you doing tomorrow? Worky-work, busy bee.

28. Where is your mom right now? She’s at work in New Jersey. And probably none too happy about that.

29. Look to your left, what do you see? The family room and out the window into the backyard.

30. What color is your watch? I don’t wear a watch.

31. What do you think of when you think of Australia ? Beer. Boomarangs. Holy stereotypes, batman.

32. Would you consider plastic surgery? *looks down at stomach* Lord, yes.

33. What is your birthstone? Opal.

34. Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? Drive thru.

35.How many kids do you want? We thought two kids was the limit. Now that we know we are having two boys, we most likely will be adopting a third. This body is DONE. And the possibility of three boys? AIYEEEE!

36. Do you have a dog? No way, no interest. I have a toddler, an impending baby, a husband and five chickens. And only one in that motley crew actually poops on a potty with any regularity. That is enough to deal with.

37. Last person you talked to on the phone? Massage therapist.

38. Have you met anyone famous? Yes, famous to me, anyway.

39. Any plans today? Work, work, work.

40. How many states have you lived in? Let’s see, NJ, PA, DC and VA. Four.

41. Ever go to college? Yes. Trenton State College (eff that College of New Jersey noise)

42. Where are you right now? Home office.

43. Biggest annoyance in your life right now? The fact that this baby isn’t making any plans to budge anytime soon. Also, husband’s inability to fold the three foot pile of clothes next to his side of the bed with any sort of regularity.

44. Last song listened to? Ingrid Michaelson – The Way I Am.

46. Are you allergic to anything? Penicillin, I think. Also some cats.

47. Favorite pair of shoes you wear all the time? Flip-flops. Not because I love them, but they are the only things my sausage feet will fit into.

48. Are you jealous of anyone? Yes. Yes, I am.

50. Is anyone jealous of you? Hahahahhahahaha!

51. What time is it? 10:33 am

52. Do any of your friends have children? Yes.

53. Do you eat healthy? I ate extremely healthy until about month five of this pregnancy. And the last month or so are best to be forgotten in the annals of eating history. I figure I’ve got two more weeks before I have to give up my serious ice cream addiction.

54. What do you usually do during the day? I work in front of a computer. ALL. DAY.

55. Do you hate anyone right now? I don’t think so. But with the hormones, give it five minutes…I might change my mind.

56. Do you use the word ‘hello’ daily? Yes, I’m on the phone constantly for work.

58. How old will you be turning on your next birthday? 36… thanks for reminding me.

59. Have you ever been to Six Flags? Not since I was very young. I get sick on rides. See no-vomit record above.

60. How did you get one of your scars? Having one of 7,045 moles removed.

And with that graceful segue, let’s talk about the current status of this pregnancy, because at this point it is filling every brain cell I have. Except for those cells occupied by thoughts of ice cream. I think a lot about ice cream. (Where mah husband at? I think it is time for another Rita run)

Last Tuesday I had my 36-37 week appointment. I was pronounced, yet again, “big” for not quite 37 weeks. Plus it felt like I had a lot of amniotic fluid, maybe more than I should. Fantastic. I didn’t know about that, but I knew my belly was very different this time…it’s high, tight and round (there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t be assed). While the pilot fish moves a lot, I’m not getting the really painful elbow, foot and knee flailings I did before. Parts of my stomach feel very sore and overstretched. If you tapped me just the right way, my belly button might just possibly explode like an overripe cantaloupe. Or that Violet chick from the first Willy Wonka movie.

After the appointment, I was summarily trotted off for my quadrillionth ultrasound to check on size and fluid levels. And maybe look at the tire pressure and brake pads. As the tech commenced measuring the head, I merrily joked that I hoped this boy wasn’t the overachiever his brother was in the melon department because, HOO-BOY, I didn’t need to spend my post-partum weeks sitting on that amount of catgut again. I watched in horror as the numbers (measured in weeks) raced past the size for 37 weeks and settled around 40 weeks, 4 days. With an estimated current weight (with three weeks to go!) pronounced at around 8 lbs.

And then I blacked out.

When I came to, I was informed that my fluid was just a squeak below the top of “normal,” confirming my status of a fetal waterbed. I would need to stay posted to the same bat channel until my next appointment (tomorrow) to find out exactly what would be done with this information. Would I be “watched” for the next three weeks? Would there be discussion of anything else, induction or c-section?  Could be, rabbit, could be.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about choices since last week. I am 1 cm dilated and having tons of BH contractions, which is different than last pregnancy’s Cervix of Steel which stayed clamped shut even at 41 weeks. But I am willing to bet cold cash that I won’t go willingly before my due date. It’s just not how the wimmens in my family operate. We hold them there babies in until forcibly evicted, and then birth 3 month olds. There’s the prospect of a 9+ lb child with a head like the back of a Land Rover to consider. And the shitty complications and recovery I had with Emerson. 

I’m hoping that I have choices here – the thought that my practice could consider holding my body hostage to “see what happens” sends me to the far end of crazy. If I do have choices, I think I will choose to go before my due date. It’s not discomfort – I know discomfort. I can (and do) handle discomfort every day. This is different. This is very painful and I basically cannot do anything but sit, and only in limited positions. I can’t stand for long. I can’t walk for long. Both actions make my stomach incredibly sore and stabby. My hands are so swollen that I have trouble making a fist. My finger joints hurt. Being at home alone at night with a toddler sucks. I can’t keep up, I can’t move and I can’t plop him in front of the television every night for the next three weeks.

I need some relief here. And I’m hoping to find it before July 25. All good thoughts and ideas appreciated.

People ask me if Emerson talks a lot for his age. Frankly, I have nothing to compare it to, so I don’t know what is considered “a lot of language” for a two and a half year old.  I know we are always talking to him and around him. We tried to never use baby talk. The talking thing was something Michael and I both had to really work at. We’re usually pretty quiet around the house and don’t readily chatter about every little thing, so it took a real effort for us to realize that Emerson wasn’t going to spontaneously burst into language through osmosis. But I guess our efforts have had some effect. Emerson has a decent vocabulary, usually talks in full sentences, even if his pronouns are a bit mixed up. (He refers to himself as “you” rather than “I”)

He also does and says things that we didn’t know he either knew about, or was paying attention to. Including all the stuff we’d rather he didn’t.  One big lesson we’ve learned…you can’t slip up ONCE on the things you say and do around toddlers. Especially the naughty things. Casually toss a piece of track onto the train table? Henceforth, all toys need to be thrown onto every surface. Surreptitiously lick the edge of your plate of the last delicious morsel of strawberry pie? Prepare for all plates to be licked. Use a bad word? Except to hear it. OFTEN. But ask them not to flush the toilet without permission? Somehow that information doesn’t compute, even after the 72nd reminder.

Yesterday we were curled up on his favorite place, my bed, and he laid his head down on my belly. “Baby brother.” He said, giving my belly a pat and a kiss. “Yep, that’s your baby brother.” He nodded solemnly, “When baby comes home to the people’s house…baby fusses and cries?”

I answered yes, that your brother will come home to our house and babies often cry because that’s how they tell you what they want. But I couldn’t figure out where the hell he learned that. I asked Michael, did you teach him that? He says no, thinks for a minute, then hits on it. Apparently, there is a show on Noggin about a family bringing a new baby home and all the things that go on with the baby and the big brother. Emerson picked it up and applied it to HIS baby brother. And they say toddlers don’t pick up new language from television.

We’re big music buffs, and Emerson seems to have picked up on it, something we’re thrilled (and just a little proud) about. Most kids’ music makes my ears bleed (except for Kids’ Corner) and we tend to listen to WXPN, the local classical station, and contributions from our CD collection. Current favorites include the Beatles, The Weepies, Deb Talan, Lynn Miles, Jack Johnson (thanks, Kathy!), Rufus Wainwright, Cole Porter and Annie, The Musical. He can sing most of the lyrics to Yellow Submarine, Hey Jude, She Loves You, All Together Now, Tomorrow (Annie), Maybe (Annie), Comfort (Talan), Last Night (Miles), I’ve Got You Under My Skin (Porter) and a couple other random songs. He loves when Michael plays the guitar for him and pretends to drum or strum when he hears drums and guitars on the radio. If anyone has any good recommendations for toddler-proof toy guitars, send ‘em over.

His other favorites from my iPod running mix include “Gold Digger” (called the “get down, girl” song), Hey Ya, Black Horse and a Cherry Tree, and selections from Basement Jaxx, Black Eyed Peas, Kanye West, Gnarls Barkley and Amy Winehouse. If it’s wrong to hear your toddler warble, “Tried to make me go to rehab, and I said no, no, no” while shaking his backside, then I don’t want to be right.

Finally, to wrap up this current issue of Bragfest 2008, I give you my current favorite Emerson-isms. All said with the complete seriousness only an earnest child can achieve:

Is the car farting? (while driving over the speed grid at a turnpike tollbooth)

Mommy, does the digger poop mulch?

Look at how many diggers and tractors…it must be a FAMILY!

Where is the airplane going? Back to the airport to sleep? Is it tired?

The windmill…it’s not working! (Emerson, that’s because it needs wind.) No, it needs batteries. And maybe a screwdriver?

Me: (said in frustration) Emerson, what exactly is up your butt today? Emerson: Poop!

(Playing with his screwdriver) I like to screw things. Screw, screw, screw. I like to screw Thomas (the Tank Engine). Should I screw Mommy too? (Answer: Uh, NO.)

(And possibly, my favorite - said in calm exasperation when he couldn’t manage the buttons on his pajamas.) Oh, fucking crap.
(It’s my favorite because, while I might have a potty mouth, I’ve never actually used this exact expression before. So, points for correct use AND originality.)
(My potty mouth is a work in progress.)
(Oh, yeah. And, Emerson, maybe you shouldn’t say that anymore, hmm?)

While there is an epidural for labor, there is no known drug that can be inserted into my spine to make work days any shorter, less stressful or otherwise cause a pleasant numbing sensation for the frequent post-midnight candle-burning going on around here. I’m like a zombified, bitchy, mutated hippity-hop. Instead of eating brains, I inhale mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Notes from a summer pregnancy:

It sucks moldy donkey nuts. Enough said.

Actually, no, it’s not. When you are talking about being eight months pregnant in near 100 degree temperatures in June, it is not nearly enough.  Whoever came up with “bun in the oven” wasn’t shitting Dixie. I am literally being cooked from the inside out, like some bizarro Betty Crocker convection oven. I swear, my internal organs are sweating Right. Now.

December 2005, temperature in the house, 55 degrees:
Husband: Shivering in multi-layered wool sweaters, wool socks and (I kid you not) wool hat.
Me: Just barely comfortable in a t-shirt, shorts and bare feet.
Me: Touch that thermostat or even think about the fireplace and you are a dead man. Suck it up, here’s a parka.

June 2008, temperature in the house: 55 degrees:
Husband: Huddled in blankets and fleece slippers.
Me: Absolutely melting in a tank top and shorts.
Me: Touch that air conditioner and you are a dead man. Suck it up, nancy, don’t you have a parka somewhere?

Household mantra: The pregnant woman is always right. And if she’s not? STFU. She is now and you will like it.

I’m a little under 36 weeks now, and absolutely huge. That’s not dramatics, here, I’m serious. Despite the fact that I started about 5 or so pounds heavier than last pregnancy, I’m about 7-9 pounds behind.  But, somehow, that hasn’t registered to the pilot fish who, in the past four weeks, has grown to freakish proportions. The t-shirt I wore to the hospital last time around is now insufficient in hiding a generous swath of scary white flesh. Last last, the midwife measured my enormous gut a few more times than necessary, muttering “that can’t be right.” Not a good sign for someone whose last spawn was 8 lbs, 9 oz with a head like a watermelon. Bets are this kid is going to be bigger than Emerson. And then my mother cheerfully reminded my of my 9 lb, 4 oz status at birth, and my mother’s own distinction of being over 10 lbs at birth.  Aw, thanks mom.

I wonder about the chances of being administered an epidural upon arrival at the hospital. Let’s just cross the shortest distance between A and me screaming profanities at the sweet Mennonite nurses as I attempt to pass an SUV through my cooch, shall we?