So Dave was in pain

I'm going to write this so Grandma doesn't blush. Or, I'm going to try.

Dave was in pain Friday night. He came home from work, grunted for hours, kept us both awake, then moved downstairs to the couch to grunt in peace.

At 3 a.m., and once an hour for the next 15 hours, I asked him if it was time to go to the emergency room.

"No, I'm too embarrassed."

"No, what if it goes away?"

"No, it's too expensive."

"No, it's getting better, I think."

"No, I hate hospitals."

Well. I won, eventually, because I sat watching two episodes of "Cops" last night in the waiting room of an emergency room that looks happily nothing like that on "ER."

"Erin? Would you like to go back to see Dave?" a nurse asked. "Oh, Dave said you work at The Northwestern, too."

I gulp, never knowing what that means. "Yes."

"Cool."

Nice.

She leads me back a quiet emergency room to find Dave sitting on a bed, arms above his head, watching the History Channel.

"I got a CAT scan."

"Oooh. Neat."

"Yeah."

We waited for word. Dave thought he was dying. I thought he was a dummy for waiting. But, either way, 20 minutes later, we left with a new understanding of Greek history, a feeling of being violated on Dave's part, and a prescription for a low-grade infection.

So what did we learn? One, I show my love for him with an irritated "WHAT? For God's sake, if you're dying, I will be so PISSED" at 4 a.m.

Two, I show my rational thinking at 4 a.m. by thinking "I swear, he's probably dying and I'll have to go to that financial thing to find out how to be a single mother."

And three, he must have a low threshold for pain -- you know the sound of men grunting as they're lying, bleeding on a battlefield after being shot by a musket or something from old history shows?

He sounds just like that. YOU try to sleep through that.

I sound really grumpy here ... Dave was a saint

I handled registering for the baby just as I thought I might.

I was crabby. Overwhelmed. Angry at all the choices of some items -- who needs a whole aisle of nipples and bottles, for God's sake? -- perturbed at the fact that there are gobs more of the important stuff like cribs and high chairs on their Web site but no mention of that in the registry booklet, disappointed in the registry woman's lack of a personality, upset at being hungry already, at the weight of the registry guide with its lists of necessities, at the man waiting on God knows what sitting in the chair I wanted to see ... Sigh. It was great.

And seriously, I love babies. I love my baby in particular. I'm psyched about being pregnant. I love registering. I just can't stand the annoyances and ohmygod is that a hair in my mouth? I WANT TO STOP LIVING.

We scanned through a few items, but Dave was in pain (see next blog post) and I was hungry, so we said "screw it" and turned our gun back in. Later that night, I happily registered online for a few more items, and will finish the rest later this week.

I just can't do it in person. I can't. Too many gaudy teddy bear patterns. Too many "for mom's comfort!" Too many. It's just too many, man.

I'm so neurotic

As I took down the Christmas decorations today, I was extra careful in my wrapping of the glass bulbs, the removal of the hooks from the strings and the securing of the tops to the boxes.

Because, maybe I've mentioned this before, but when I get these boxes out again, there'll be a six month old crawling around. Or scooting. Or whatever.

See? Look at me. Safety first.

Never was much for waitin'

I know it's early. I know I don't know the s-e-x yet. I know I won't be giving anyone birth 'til about June.

But my showers are coming up -- as in February*. Yes, I know I have time. Plenty of it, actually.

But ask anyone who's lived with me longer than five seconds and you'll be told "Erin's crazy." And Dave and I don't get days off at the same time (where we're not driving to Ohio) more than like, what? Once every three or four full moons? And I took two semesters of hard-core astronomy. I know moons.

So that's why tomorrow, provided we don't die first in this snow -- Wisconsin snow, something no one with a career in broadcast journalism here has ever heard of, ever -- we'll set out to register for some of this baby thing.

And ohmyGod. Registering for the wedding was one thing. We walked around the store, gun in hand, pointing out all the necessities we could ever ask for, and a few of the items I'm not sure why I needed (our coffeemaker's more space age than my astronomy classes were ... really).

But this is like registering in a foreign language for something like ... how can I compare the alien feeling? Uh ... A cannon ball hitting your house? Something you have no idea how it works, what it'll do, whether it'll have "puke issues" (Mom's words, not mine) like I did, whether it'll have GERD like Dave does, whether it'll sleep, ever ... Just. I've been babysitting half my life, I went to school for two years for child development, yet I can't tell you what a person should register for.

They don't teach that in school. Not even at the community college. Weird, I know.

So anyhow. They'll probably hand us the gun and we'll be standing quietly in the megastore with a sheet of paper in front of us that I tore out of Fit Pregnancy magazine, going "OK ... they say four sleepers ... But it'll be June. Who wants to be wrapped in June? Oh my God. I quit."

Wish us "Godspeed." Hey. At least the stuff's cute. I mean, come on. Have you seen this? This? This? And yeah, this, too.

*Ah. It should be explained my showers are so early because a.) Dave's sister's hosting one and she's due with her baby in March, b.) I don't want to travel eight hours at eight months' pregnant, and c.) we were going home anyhow because I'm that awesome wife who got Dave those Foo Fighter tickets.

Hallelujah -- We've been saved

Here's how the money works in our house.

I make some, he makes some, I collect bills in a slot for our envelopes, he pays bills at the very last second, every time, like he's surprised that -- oh my God? Erin? This one's due on the 1st too! Again! Every time. Dang.

Admittedly, I have little idea how much those bills are unless I open them; he has little knowledge what day of the month it is, so we often pay bills RIGHT on time. Exactly on time.

Saving? Well, yeah, we have one of those accounts. I don't recall ever putting money in it since we opened it. But see? I'm SAVING it. And checking account? Yup. Retirement fund? Uh, I have ... something set up through work. I couldn't tell you what it is, or what it means. Or what those student loans have left on them. Or what Dave's do, though I know he has more than me, and even though we're married, that's all the same headache.

My credit card's paid off. His isn't. I have a car payment. He doesn't. But we will soon. No, it won't be a minivan.

That about covers it. Oh. The mortgage. I've got one of those.

So. We've got some money stuff.

And now? We've been SAVED.

Remember that pre-Cana thing I just mentioned the other day? (Here's my original blog about the marriage class ...)

Well, one of the presenters/ counselors/ speakers from that whole thing just called. Apparently, the free financial counseling session we all were entitled to for going to the pre-Cana class is still good. And, what's that? Our number just came up? YESSS.

He told us in June 2006 he'd call in like six weeks, so after we didn't hear from him after that, I kind of thought he hated us, or maybe noticed we were unmarried and shared an address? That's OK. He's over it now, and thank God.

We need some help. I picture myself dumping my money stuff from a shoebox onto his desk, and him saying "No, no, don't do that!" and "Yes! That's what I call saving!" And there will be singing! And rejoicing! And counting of coins in tall stacks with green visors.

I don't know if you knew, but babies cost money, and we have 23 weeks and five days (according to my online pregnancy calendar) to find some money. I'm so ready for this money thing. Help me, man.

Wasn't so, so bad. Just bad.

I found out the worst part about working Christmas Day wasn't the fact that I was missing cheesy potatoes and pumpkin pie. Though, yes, now that I mention it, I could use some of that, please.

It was staying up.

I was working about two to three hours after I'd usually be sleeping. It didn't hit me til I got home and started to whine, or until this morning when I thought about poking my eye out so I wouldn't have to go to work. Or at 2 p.m. today when I wanted a nap.

Dave. You second-shifter, you. There's a reason I only see you at work. Days are so long, man.

This was almost as good as finding his old love letters to an ex

I've talked before about how Dave's mom's saved everything from Dave's first dental X-rays to a sheet of wallet photos from his junior prom, but the bin of treasures she dug out of their basement went so far above that expectation that I couldn't do anything but shake my head.

I'm not sure why anyone would keep items they weren't sure what they were or where they came from. Posters. Cereal boxes. School notebooks. Avon cologne bottles.

And now's not the time to talk about "Antiques Roadshow." I'm not talking about "AR"-type finds.

Over the last few years, though, from our moving to Dave's having to carry items from the top floor to the basement, I've convinced Dave that a good rule of thumb is, if you forgot you had it, you probably don't need it. I've trained him, my words like a shot of water in a squirt bottle, poised for him to say "Should I keep this?" ZAP, ZAP, "NO -- ROOOOOAAARRR" ZAP, ZAP. He's drenched on the floor, one hand extended to the garbage can by the time I'm done shooting him my looks.

But standing in his mom's living room, it was different. He hovered over the black garbage bag, pitching 75 percent of the treasures his mom had lovingly saved as she and I watched from our seats near the fireplace. Yet in came his dad, reaching for an Avon cologne bottle amid the garbage. "Hheeeyyyy, what's this?" he asked, holding it up.

"Erin's not letting me keep it."

"Why not? This is probably worth something." And that's how the Avon bottle ended up on top of their fridge. And how my life was rid of it.

Now, watch. It'll be the ONE bottle that's worth something, and when his brother or sister realize it's on top of the fridge, there will be an all-out war over who gets to show PBS the coveted item.

Say what you will, but people don't realize that gobs of wallet-sized, one-pose-only, professional prom pictures of Dave and a girl named Jamie lead to happiness that can't be measured in money alone.

Do stuff for me

We discovered I'm what our pre-cana leader called a "do things for me" person. See, when they were explaining marriage and what a long complicated time "forever" is, the leader said there are certain types of people in marriages. There are "do things with me" people. "Do things for me." "Touch me." "Buy things for me." Etc.

It basically means that instead of buying me something nice or hugging me before I've brushed my teeth in the morning, I'd prefer to be "told" "I love you" by having Dave switch over the laundry. Shovel the driveway. Empty the dishwasher. Take out the trash. Yup. That's the key to making me happy. Just do stuff for me.

So, it can be deduced by that and my cold mental state that I just don't like to be touched. I'll hug Dave, Mom, family. I'll cuddle with the dog. But when anyone other than my specified few come at me with hands extended toward my belly, I'm going to freak out. I'm not a touch-me person. Just because my belly is cute and growing doesn't mean it's an open invite to touch. No one is proclaiming that everyone -- yes, everyone -- should touch my belly!

So far no one's been in direct violation of this as they've all been family, but the first stranger in the grocery store who touches me is going to get karate-chopped, right there by the bananas. Don't they know? They could so much easier have asked me if I needed anything. Maybe a bag of dog food in my cart? Anything? And I'd feel much better.

Merry stinkin' Christmas

I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. Doctors, nurses, Wal-Mart cashiers, gas station attendants, the poor guy in the toll booth on I-80/I-90 ... I know, they do it, too. But it doesn't mean I was looking at the cup as half full as we drove back from the promised land of Ohio to the lonely, cold, snowy land of Wisconsin tonight. It was more like I saw the cup had some water in it and I kicked it over out of spite. Kind of like that.

Christmas Eve is usually the night my mom and stepdad and my brothers would open presents. Christmas Day is the Schroeder Christmas party in the church basement in New Cleveland. Dinner is always leftovers from lunch's big meal. But instead of that, I'll be at work here in Oshkosh. Ugh.

The problem with working on Christmas is you go in to work when it's bright out, the roads are clear because people are at Grandma's or home, eating turkey and cookies. When you leave work, it's dark, radio stations have stopped playing the Christmas songs already and the only ones on the road are the ones heading home after a long day of nothing. Jerks.

Last time I worked Christmas Day, I served food to folks and did dishes in a nursing home (I was a dietary aide, not a volunteer ... that'd be different). By the time the hair net came off at 8 p.m., Christmas was pretty much over, and all I had to show for it was a glob of pureed peaches crusted on my white pants and the onset of strep throat. That was awesome.

If I picked up that half-empty cup and put some water back in it, I'd say at least Dave's there this time. At least we'll both be working. May as well both be miserable.

Sixteen-and-a-half weeks

Pregnant women are especially easy to Christmas shop for -- gift cards, baby clothes and baby books. How can you go wrong?

So that's what my Christmas was like -- full of onesies, Cincinnati Ben-girls bibs and socks (I was raised a Browns fan, ya know, this is hard to handle) and even a sweet changing table. We got "Goodnight Moon," a "Baby's First Christmas" ornament for next year and a set of animal books. So cute.

And now that our Christmas is basically over, and as it gets closer to Jan. 18, I'm getting less "it'll get here ... patience, woman" and more "OHMYGOD I'll never make it." Because after finding out the sex, what's there to look forward to but the whole birth thing? Not that that's the process you look forward to, so much as the end result. You know what I mean.

Anyhow, all these baby items that are lying on the spare bed upstairs and all the unsent baby shower invites at my mother in law's and my mom's houses -- they're just little baby-powder scented reminders that I'm not even halfway done yet with this pregnacy, and I'm not a patient person.

Though Mom says that when it comes down to June and D-Day, I'll probably panic and say "No! Wait! I'm not ready! One more day, just one more day!" Probably. But that's how I roll -- fickle and anxious and slightly neurotic.

Always thinking

We exchanged gifts already since we'll be out of town before and working during Christmas. It was one of those really romantic evenings with the fireplace going, Harry Connick Jr. on the radio, perfectly wrapped gifts and champagne.

Or, Dave just finished "wrapping" my presents five seconds before he said "wanna open them now?", we flipped the volume off "Clash of the Choirs," and we're not much for champagne. Or having fires, since that'd require burning my house down. Or Harry Connick Jr. since he has a tendency to sound like a herd of elephants if you don't listen, put all your energy into listening to his damn Christmas songs -- and I just don't have the energy for that.

Anyhow.

I got my ring, of course, and "Mr. Big got me" a gift certificate, a couple shirts, a pillow, a CD. I'm so good to that dog.

And because I'm such an awesome wife, I got Dave tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Detroit in February, the same day as my baby shower and Dave's birthday. Convenient, huh? Dave thinks he got the tickets because he's such a good husband, or maybe the hormones swung in his favor for a minute, or maybe I just had a stroke of good planning. Maybe. Or maybe it's my way of saying "This is the last time, buddy. Enjoy it, my friend. En. Joy."

Correction

There's a correction I'd like to make.

The 80 GB iPod has been on back order, so instead of being rational and waiting for it, my dad's bosses said "Hey, remember that day back in '87 when Randy was all like 'Bill, I'll do that report'? Yeah ... Let's upgrade." And that's how Dad ended up calling me to ask me if 160 GB was anything special.
Seriously. If he could just turn it, yeah, just a little bit? To the left? Yes, there. I think the knife's in deep enough now. My 20 GB iPod from college is hiding behind its black-and-white screen out of shame now.

Teary woman

A coworker didn't mean to make me cry, but I about did when she sent me a picture of her sister's ultrasound. I don't know her sister; I am just the token pregnant woman who, yeah, enjoyed looking at it. The baby (a girl, if you were dying to know) at 19 weeks is just about how mine will look (if all goes well, ya) Jan. 18. God. I was doing that breathing deeply, looking at the ceiling thing so I wouldn't embarrass myself.

Then today, I got to do it all over again when I opened my gift for the work exchange. I saw this bib and wanted to crawl away and cry. I love, love, love it. It's so freaking cute. But no, I didn't cry. I think I squealed or something. Just wait til my shower in February.

Grocery shopping

"Did you see those boots?"

"Oh my God, yeah!"

"How many Muppets lost their lives for those?"

"Fozzie's definitely no longer with us."

Zee baby

Well, I broke down and got two more pairs of maternity pants, and wore one to work today.

I know this isn't a big deal to anyone who's not had a drastic change in body shape, but I was nervous and worried about how I'd look in them for an irrationally long time last night while I was trying unsuccessfully to sleep. I like the belly, but I don't like how the short-waisted Erin looks with the pants that come up so far in the back and the shirts that cut me at just the wrong point ... But that's not what you're here for, to hear about my expanding stomach.

In summary, I wore them. I felt comfortable. I need to deal with the fact I'll never look the same as I did. Whatever. I hear there's a reason for this -- apparently I get a baby at the end of all this. And they let me KEEP IT. So, moving on.

Back to this not-sleeping thing ... I keep reading in my bible of pregnancy (this one is the best, courtesy of my doctor) that sleeping doesn't get easier as you get bigger. But I can't get comfortable NOW. I can't stop thinking about work, the baby, Dave, in-laws, holidays, traveling, money, work, foods, memories that mean nothing, songs in my head, work ... And this is me, the Olympic medal-winning sleeper. I don't get it. I can't stop thinking. And I can hear myself breathing. UGH.

I blame it on not sleeping on my back, as that book also says like a harsh German dictator, that you MUST NOT DO, because we don't want to huurt zee baby!, and that's annoying only because I am still 3 when I want to sleep. Tell me I can't do something? That's the ONLY thing. I want. To do. And if I could, I'd throw myself down on the floor and stomp my feet about it. But, I don't want to hurt zee baby. Ah, well.

Pregnant lady at a liquor store

I like getting little "pretend" presents for people to go with their "real" presents. Most call them "gag" gifts, but since I'm talking about buying cheese curds as jokes, I don't like to use the word "gag." Mainly because yeah, when you explain to someone what a cheese curd is, and why they're called curds, they really do gag ... and that's not my intention. I just wanted a little laugh.

Anyhow.

Besides those cheese curds I'm going to be throwing on top of real presents, I'm officially DONE-ish with Christmas shopping. I add "ish" because in a bit I'll be wandering around the wine section of the grocery store for a gift -- a GIFT -- as I hold in my belly behind my winter coat so I'm not the one people are whispering about behind the reds, what with their "can you believes" and "lush"es on their lips.

See, I may as well light up a cigarette mid-belly scratch and drink right outta the paper bag.

I plan on kindly escaping past them with an apologetic "but I just love wine .. they're made from grapes, right? Fruit? It's gotta be safe for the baby. It's just gotta be. Right?" Hack, hack, smoker's cough.

Yeah. After that fun experience, I'll be done with Christmas shopping for the year. Then comes the fun part ... getting the presents. Whooooo!

The 30th anniversary isn't for pearls anymore

My dad celebrated his 30th anniversary at his work Thursday, and for his years of dedication and traveling and hard work, he got something he wasn't convinced would ever leave the box.

He got a freakin' 80 GB iPod. An ay-tee gig iPOD. I'm pretty sure that's ridiculous. What happened to a cake? A watch? He gets an iPod? Really?

"Maybe when you come home you can show me how to use it," he said.

Or I'll show him how I'll steal it, is what I'll do.

Imagine how it must've been for him in 1977, walking in that flooring company.

"Hi Randy. Here's your desk. Your coffee mug. The restroom. Now, just think ... sure you'll install floors for a few years, then you'll sell some stuff, you'll travel so much your kids'll hate it, you'll work at home cuz you're on salary ... huh (pat on the shoulder)! But seriously, Randy, you just wait! It'll all be worth it! In 2007, we'll give you something that can fit 20,000 songs on it! And it'll fit in your pocket. Yep. That's right. We're getting you an iPod ... Just keep your eyes on the prize, Randy. All right. Get to work."

I got five months

I wasn't feeling well today, so I decided to stay home from work and hang out in bed. Before he left for a morning meeting in Appleton for work, Dave asked me what I was going to be doing today.

Gee, I don't know. I thought about organizing the garage? Maybe making four dozen of his favorite cookies with homemade icing? Knitting sweaters for him?

Or, I don't know, napping. Reading. Nothing.

"Your days of doing nothing are getting limited, huh," he said, chuckling. I thought quickly to the finality of his statement and shrugged.

No need to be so danged melodramatic about it. Hmph.

The only time in my life I'll say I wish I were fatter

I went from about five to seven comfortable, don't-even-think-about-it, you-know-it-matches-so-just-grab-and-go outfits to wear to work to about three outfits. I'm down to two pairs of pants and three shirts. Yes, I still work five days a week. I get really, really creative around Wednesdays. Matching isn't so much a priority.

And nothing is more annoying than having to stand looking at clothes you wish you could wear if they fit. I have a whole closet full of them -- look at them! Purples, blacks, whites, stripes, sweaters, cute little shirts ... Just standing there. If I had the extra space, I'd box them up and keep my few shirts hanging there to inspire Dave to say "wow, you need clothes." But since we don't have the extra space and because Dave would willingly set his Kirby Puckett collection on fire before he'd notice if I ran out of clothes to wear to work, I won't do that.

The two comfortable maternity pants are great for wearing around the house, but I have to pull them up too often to make it feasible for wearing out of the house. Walk, walk, hike up pants, walk, walk. Not yet. And I don't want to go shopping yet. It's depressing.

I realize that in a few short weeks this won't be an issue, and that in a few months I'll be so uncomfortably shaped like a small bus that I'll wish I could complain about my pre-pregnancy pants fitting at all. I know. But let's not talk rationally to the hormonal lady. Got it?

Let's instead pretend my outfits match. GOT IT? LIE.

What dog whimpering? I don't hear anything

Sleeping's my favorite. I can do it anywhere, anytime, no advance notice, no darkness, no quiet. Just give me five minutes and I'll be out. Bam. I'm GOOD at it.

Or, I was. Now I tend to not get comfortable. And when I do, I havea few things on my mind. I never understood when my college roommate or my mom would say they had trouble sleeping, or slept like crap, or had so many problems or issues on their minds that they couldn't sleep. Now, I get it.

I fall asleep fine. But I'm painfully aware that I won't be sleeping like a champ that much longer. When Big wakes us up whining at 4:45 a.m., or throws up in his crate three feet from my bed, I'm reminded that another human being will be doing similar miracles. And then I can't get to sleep.

Sometime around 6 a.m., I'll give up and fall asleep .... til my alarm goes off at 7:45. I hate it.

But it is giving me plenty of practice time -- practicing my pretending to be REM-ing. REM-ing accompanied by sharp, unconscious jabs in Dave's back; jabs that lead him to get up and take the dog outside. At 4:45 a.m. Marriage rocks.

Goodbye, 'Journeyman' (maybe)

As one of three fans of this show, I feel it necessary to comment on its finale -- ooh, wait, did I say that outloud? I meant "little break before it never comes back or starts anew on the SciFi channel."

NBC, replacing something with a plot with a reality TV show or something will not grant you access to TV heaven.

---
Two hours later, I should add ... They just said there's another new episode next Monday. Right. Okee.

Then you really might know what it's like

August of my freshman year of college, I had one of those "wait, that can't be right" moments with my then-roommate, a friend from high school. She was standing in the middle of the apartment we'd moved into two days before, holding a pregnancy test that, yes, showed she was very pregnant. Later, we'd find out just HOW pregnant she was, as she had twins. Yow-za.

That little Lifetime moment aside, she gave birth months later to the two cutest babies ever, until I have my own, of course. As I visited the three of them one day, I asked her how things were going.

"I don't feel like they're mine. I feel like I'm babysitting, and any minute now someone's going to walk in and take them away," she said.

So today, as I watch my nephew so Dave and his family could go to the Packers-Raiders game in Green Bay, I keep peering (not eerily, just curiously) at Jack and wondering what it'll be like in a year when I have one of my own. Only by "a year or so," I mean five months. Mini panic attack .... Aaaaaand release. Whew.

We stood by the door and checked out the snow. We hovered over the coffee table and made pictures from Bingo markers and printer paper. We watched a little of "Finding Nemo." I don't know. Maybe it's because I've not HAD one of these things before, but I just can't picture one running around who's my own. Who lives here. Who I feed and bathe and clothe and raise and love and cuddle and curse when they throw up on the rug. I'm thinking it'll work itself out. I can't freakin' wait.

And, for the record, put down your cell phones with the pre-programmed child service's number in it. He's sleeping now. It's not like I tied him up and said "Ya'll wait here. Auntie Erin's gonna BLOG."

No Christmas spirit, no Christmas spirit at all

I know that stress sometimes can be transferred to animals, but I didn't think it'd come in the form of chewing through a strand of Christmas lights.

Idiot.

Luckily, it wasn't plugged in. But I could've lit that dog up when I walked in the room to turn on the tree and found -- what's this? -- the plug lying across the living room, copper wire exposed from its green plastic, the caution tags irresponsibly ignored and wet with dog spit, balled up on the rug.

What? Who DOES that? What a tool. And of course the strand was on the tree, the tree he pretty well ignored til this point, so Dave got the merry job of buying another strand and re-decorating our tree so we could light it again.

What did Big get? He got to wear the sweater. And when he wears the sweater? He pouts on the couch for hours. YEAH. TAKE THAT, DOG.

Did you HEAR that?

It's easy to feel not-pregnant sometimes now, because the nausea's disappeared and the maternity pants have yet to move from where I put them last week -- in my drawer.

But at the doctor today, seeing the scale finally move upwards -- an occurrence I thought as a woman I'd feel guilty about, but instead laughed a little when the doctor looked at the chart and said "Well, you're putting on some pounds!" -- finally helped me feel better.

What made me soar a bit was hearing the heartbeat. Loud. About 150-some times a minute.

I kept laughing and making the Doppler device blow out like a bad stereo, and then holding my breath and waiting as the nurse moved it around on my stomach. I looked up at the ceiling and waited for her to find the heartbeat back after I giggled and lost it. Glancing over at Dave, his face was a mix of "wow, that's great" in a Ben Stein-type way and "Really? that's a heartbeat?" Later, I asked him if he thought that was as cool as I thought it was. "Yeah. I just don't have something growing inside me. Nothing ever happens to guys."

Well. Maybe he should try to get pregnant. Cuz this is AWESOME.

Additionally, Jan. 18 is the day we get to find out the s-e-x. Now you know.

Picture: Taken about six weeks ago ... Just thought I'd share

Dear Dave: I want a maid for Christmas. And I want that maid to be you. And I really just mean stop leaving your shoes under MY side of the bed.

A normal person would brag about Dave's cousin being in the NFL, and how his family's coming up this weekend to see the Raiders play the Packers, and yay, football.

But I'm not going to the game because I'd rather poke my eye out with a stick than watch football, especially in snow. And "special teams" doesn't mean much to me, despite it being neat knowing that I sorta, kinda know someone in the NFL. Wow.

What's stressing me out is my messy house. And my inability to stay awake past 8 p.m. And the fact that when I say "messy," I mean messy for real this time. Not "Erin's being crazy about that book not being in the library bin again." No, this time I really mean "my mother would be so angry if she saw this."

So as I swept today, fully knowing I was going to leave a note for Dave saying "Dave's to do list for Wednesday: Sweep/ mop, laundry, vacuum, fold laundry, dishes, put away laundry -- all of it," I got so tired I actually had to sit down.

Loooooser.

Which is why I'm blogging with the broom beside me. Ha. I live so scandalously.

I'm not comfortable with the word "belly" sometimes

On this, the second anniversary of this blog, I bought maternity pants. Two years ago, I was broke, living in a shoddily constructed apartment, searching for a wedding dress. Now, maternity pants. Ah, life. This is it.

My first pair ... I purchased them from the privacy of my dining room table, looking online because I was too embarrassed? (Uncomfortable? Anxious? Afraid of having strangers look at my stomach and saying "she thinks THAT'S a bump? She ain't seen NOTHING yet") to get them in the store like a rational person.

Without mom or a friend there, you just look like a crazy lady in a winter coat, in my opinion, if you're not showing-showing. I'm not showing-showing. I'm just uncomfortable with the status of wearing pants that need to be held up by elastic hair ties. Give me Spandex waists for God's sake.

I don't mind gaining weight now; it means everything's progressing normally, and it's kind of cute if I may say so myself.

What do I mind? Not being able to wear anything I want when I'm exhausted at 7 a.m. on a lousy, rotten Tuesday. Of the seven pairs of "work OK" pants I have, two fit now. Of the four jeans I have, one can be zipped all the way -- my "fat pants," the ones I kept from the year I was losing those 30-some pounds between high school and college. And they're so comfortable, my God.

And buying clothes, as anyone knows, is not what one might call "cheap," or "remotely fun to spend money on," especially when you're not really sure what the difference is in comfort between a belly panel, a low-rise panel and a roll panel. (Panel? I'm buying clothes with panels? I need Mom. Mom! My clothes have panels; help me!)

And no, I'm not wearing them yet. Gosh.

Written Nov. 18

Not embarrassed, just annoyed.

I thought he was going to shoot it.

Though we don't have a gun, that was the first thought that came to my mind as I watched from the comfort of our dining room as Dave give our neighbor's snowblower not one but two middle fingers yesterday morning.

Our neighbor's away, and we've been given the use of the snowblower so long as we clean her sidewalks and driveway, too. More than a fair deal if you live here and are perceptive enough to notice we got seven inches of snow yesterday.

But Dave can't get the dang thing to actually work. That's problematic not only for his transportation -- he parked his car in her garage yesterday before it started snowing, and instead of shoveling two driveways, he only wants to do ours, so now he can't get it out -- but also for his ego.

"Does it embarrass you I'm not man enough to fix a small engine?"

"No."

Because why would it? Who sees you be the crazy guy in the driveway, giving two gloved fingers to a machine that won't even turn over in response? Oh, wait. Those people who read my blog. Riiiight.

I'm going to start calling the baby 'the third party'

The first time I wrote a column for my school newspaper in college, I could hardly sleep the night before it came out. I don't even remember what it was about; only that even after a few short years, I'm already sure it wasn't good. I'm quite confident about that; it's like reading a diary entry years later and realizing what a nitwit you were. Just ask what happened to my junior high diaries when I found them in college. Deeee-stroyed.

But I've never been quite so nervous as when this column was going to be published.

I'm a little superstitious about some things. That, and I have a couple people who write me about every two or three months just to tell me how much they'd prefer it if I dropped off the face of the earth. Please. Someone spit in their Cheerios in 1976 and they're STILL angry about it. I'm a logical target. I'm OK with that; it's just I don't want to hear it when there's a third party involved. As in my third party. Ah, well.