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I thought I was doing really well with mood swings, til Dave came home for his dinner break tonight.

I saw the dishes in the sink and was so paralyzed with feelings of overwhelming stress at the stack of dirty dishes that instead of rationally washing them, I turned the light off and ran away.

So when Dave got home, he got me on the couch, angry for no good reason other than I had eaten today, and that had created dirty dishes, and couldn't he SEE what was WRONG with that?? It doesn't stop. It NEVER stops. As soon as you have the sink clean, you get hungry. I will be 98 and still angry about this.

He trepidly asked what I wanted for dinner. Easy. I've been craving ravioli and homemade garlic toast. Easy enough. Only we don't have garlic salt.

We went through our timid dance of I-don't-know-what-do-you-feel-like-eating began, and we settled on cream of mushroom with soy crumbles and instant mashed potatoes.

Only he didn't tell me we didn't have cream of mushroom. But! But! Erin! We have cream of chicken! Tastes the same! Only, no, it doesn't. Because you don't put chicken and beef in one pot, so you shouldn't put cream of chicken in something that's supposed to resemble beef. And there weren't enough mashed potatoes for us both. And the sympathy soy chick'n nuggets were overcooked and couldn't be chewed through.

So I did what anyone would do. I grabbed my napkin, held it to my face and bawled. Uncontrollably. Because nothing's going right! And it's almost Thanksgiving and I want to see my mom! And the pile of dishes is bigger! And I have to go to work tomorrow! And none of my pants fit! And the mashed potatoes are getting cold! And I can't taste them because I'm crying too hard! And Dave wasn't helping!

Probably because he was scared to death. Hi, his wife just fell apart over her chick'n nuggets. He'd touch my shoulder if he weren't afraid I'd bite his hand off. He'd hug me if I hadn't put the kibosh on that for reasons you probably can only appreciate if you've been pregnant.

Poor Dave. He did an awkward side shoulder hug and a "shhh, shhh" thing, probably praying for the phone to ring or for a meteor to hit the house. It didn't, but I calmed down and ate and he grabbed his scarf and coat and kissed me goodbye sweetly, and then it was over.

I think he'll come back ... I hope so, anyhow. Cuz I'm not doing those dishes.

Written Nov. 17

Yay, Dave

Morning sickness is a weird occurrence, because I get it when I'm hungry, tired or otherwise standing still. In the morning, I find it hard to get out of bed -- remember that time you were so tired you thought you'd lay down and never, ever get back up? It's that feeling, plus vomiting.

Now picture yourself at 6:45 a.m., leaning over feeling like that, wondering if you already asked Dave to get you toast or if you were just hoping you did.

He doesn't move. You assume you just thought you did.

"Dave?"

"I'm going," he says, eyes closed, mouth barely moving.

Though you didn't ask, he knows what to do. Why? Because he's Dave, the poor sucker stuck lying next to you night after night, waking up to your "I'm thirsty"s and "Could you get me some toast?"s. And he's the kind-hearted guy who goes and gets them without much complaining.

Everyone should have a Dave.

Written Oct. 29

I can't think about anything else

Right after I got engaged, I thought family, friends and random strangers would come up to me just to punch me in the mouth to get me to STOP talking about my STUPID wedding already, God! No one CARES.

But you guys. This is a BABY. As I write this, I'm 7 1/2-weeks pregnant, and my baby looks like a little half-inch alien. He/she has a heartbeat. A brain. A liver. This is serious stuff. And I'm responsible for this. When I post this, he/she will be three months not-born-yet-but-old.

He/she's not even here and already I'm having a complex about my ability to help this child not-die, and maybe even succeed. It's scary.

So it's no wonder that I've got that one thing on my mind right now, and only that. And I don't think anyone would blame me for only talking about my little cashew.

Plus, it's like the "don't think about puppies" thing. I say "don't blog about the baby" and all I can blog about is my baby. I'm laying out pages at work and thinking about he/she. I'm reading copy and going over names I might like in the story. I'm reading pregnancy books where I used to read Joyce Carol Oates or Jodi Picoult. I'm giggling. Over nothing. Everytime someone says excitedly "You're going to have a baby!" I just giggle and say "I KNOW!"

What's happening to me?

Written Nov. 1

I don't really know myself

I don't like pickles, nor do I ever crave ice cream. But meat. Now, I can't stop. Scary, bad-for-you meat, red meat, a damn hamburger, spaghetti sauce so thick with meat chunks that it's not quite sauce. Pepperoni, even. Beef sandwiches, with ketchup.

I don't even know myself.

I was a chicken woman. Nuggets, legs, sandwiches, patties. Chicken. Healthier, lighter. Soy, even. Yum.

Now, unless it's covered in hot sauce, I don't want it.

Mmm, that or just plain green olives. I eat them like I used to eat M & Ms, and olives are unfortunately not much healthier.

Somewhere, my doctor is crying and my sodium levels are soaring. I promise. I'm also drinking my milk and eating fruit and the occasional veggie. I promise.

Written Oct. 22

Telling my mom

"Mom, we have a bunch of gifts for you," we said on our vacation last month.

"Ooh!"

"Here, your jelly container back."

"All right."

"And here -- magazines."

"Sweet."

"Aaaaand, Dave got you this for early Christmas -- a 7-foot crossword puzzle."

"Oh, man."

"Aaaaaand, Dave framed this photo of you and Bernie. Isn't it cool?"

"Oh, baby!"

"Oh, speaking of babies -- I'm pregnant."

Silence.

"AH! YES!"

Written Oct. 20

In my head, I made a lot more sense than I did aloud

"Ugh, I'm so tired. My back hurts."

"YOUR back hurts? You're tired? I carried around a fetus all day!"

"Wha?"

"Yeah! YOU try being pregnant!"

And I'm not even really "showing." Dave's probably got an escape plan for months seven to nine. Sucks to be Dave. I'll track him down. He won't get far.

Written Oct. 29

Good luck, suckers!

"Dad? Erin's pregnant."

Pause.

"No foolin'? Well, wow, good luck!"

Pause.

"I mean, uh, good job!"

Written Oct. 21

Baby Cashew

I was five weeks pregnant, skinnier than I'll ever be again and aware of it for the first time, and buying baby name and pregnancy fact books at Meijer (it's like Wal-Mart, with a conscience, and Wisconsin desperately needs one here).

That night, sitting on my mom's couch, Dave and I picked out girls' names we liked, narrowing it down to about five. Olivia. Emma. Isabelle. Tegan. Abigail.

It was all perfect. People said "awww," and gave their opinions on each. But a few weeks later, I checked the oh-so-addicting Social Security Administration Web site's baby name page and found all but Tegan were in the top 10 or 15.

Then I found a name somewhere in the top-hundreds. Lucy. I asked Dave and he said "I've never thought about that name ... Now I can't get it out of my head." Lucy Wasinger. Lucy, Lucy. I thought we'd found it. We could stop calling the baby our little cashew -- she could have a name!

But the next morning, while brushing my teeth, I stopped mid-brush and stared at myself in the mirror. Lucy. No. I can't. WHY didn't I think of this? I thought. Calmly finishing and sitting at the table moments later, I said "It can't be Lucy."

"Why?"

"Carly's dog. Her name is Lucy."

"I thought it was Lou-Lou."

"I think that's the nickname. Call your brother."

But his brother confirmed his girlfriend's dog's name was, indeed, Lucy.

"So ... Joe. If you could, you know ... 'off' that dog, you know ... I'm just saying."

Great. Now we have attempted murder on our hands. Lucy's out. The dog lives.

And yes, we have a boy's name. But that's secret for now. I'm hormonal, and likely to get angry when strangers scrunch their noses up and say "Ewww, you want THAT name? What are you naming, a goldfish?"

Written Oct. 19

Why I had to tell you now

I wrote about 12 blog posts and saved them, carefully selecting "Return to list of posts" instead of "Publish post," afraid I'd tell you all and then jinx the whole thing. That I'd go to the doctor and they'd do the blood tests and say "Well, the good news is, you're not anemic. The bad thing is, you're not pregnant."

But no.

I am. And it's still early. The good news is, I'm pregnant, I'm not anemic, I don't have hepatitis, HIV, Rubella or anything else they took four vials of blood for at my nurse's visit in mid-October, two days after our one-year wedding anniversary.

I won't feel OK about being pregnant until Dec. 4 when I enter the second trimester of my pregnancy. My pregnancy. It sounds weird to say it, and I walk around all day thinking "I'm pregnant, and you don't know. She doesn't know. She doesn't know, either. I'm having a baby. I'll have a baby this time next year. This is my last October as a woman without a child."

But I'm not going to lie. Dooce had a missed miscarriage right after Dave and I told our immediate families and I told my bosses, and I thought I didn't have the nerve to share it yet beyond that because I didn't know if I would be strong enough to, like Dooce, blog about it, should anything -- God forbid -- happen with my pregnancy.

Of course, I went through how many weeks of not having anything to blog about because I wasn't doing anything but being pregnant, and I realized I missed being able to talk about real life.

But what can you do? I kept my mouth shut. And DANG it was hard.

Written Nov. 9

So hot

Old wives are rarely right in all their tale-telling, but sometimes, they can be right on.

I guess morning sickness is one of those things they got head-on.

Of course it was named by an insensitive man who never had it, because if he were able to experience it, he would've insisted it be called all-day kill-me-my-mouth-is-watering-oh-God-I-think-I'm-going-to-puke-oh-wait-false-alarm. (Now, Nov. 27, it's pretty much gone. But dang, it was a long month.)

And I'm not sure there is a sexier feeling than being not-quite-showing-but-still-bloated, nauseaus and tired like you've never, ever experienced. Ever. And I know tired. Then you add on top of that the heightened sense of smell -- of which I come with a sensitive sense, anyhow -- and you've got yourself some burpy being with your pants unbuttoned and held together by a hair tie looped through your button hole. Hot. Hooootttt.

I think it's nature's way of making you not sleep around. Cuz, man, did I have a problem with that before! Whoooo. (Just kidding, Ma.)

Written Oct. 18

Also, the first time you blame a mood swing on being pregnant, you get a punch in the face

"Let's lay some ground rules."

"Ohhh-K."

"First, there is no fruit in my womb. I hate that."

"OK."

"Second, WE are not pregnant."

"What?"

"I am pregnant. WE are not."

"Oh."

"We are having a baby. We are starting a family. We have one on the way. But WE are not pregnant."

Written Oct. 17

What I've been up to and hinting at for about two months now

The two lines sprung up within seconds. First the variable, then the control. The clock ticked as the blue lines grew darker, the variable slightly lighter than the control line. It was 7:16 a.m. on a Thursday in early October. By 7:18, my heart beat once in my throat where three beats should have been in my chest and I hesitantly called for Dave. "Daaaave?"

Holding the paper with the idiot-proof directions and the wand out in front of me, I just looked at him and watched as he looked at the key. "Two lines ... positive ... One line .... nega--"

Pause. He looked at me and smiled, slowly, rubbing his bed-head.

"We're having a baby?"

"I think so?"

I mean, yes.

And later that day, I took two more home pregnancy tests. Positive. Took one more - a different brand, just to make sure - the next day. Positive.

I guess I should clear my calendar for early June.

Written Oct. 16 - It should be noted the blue lines I'm talking about are from the first test. This picture was the third test. Can you say paranoid?