He came home around 7. I told him that this shit is probably going to go down tonight. I just had a feeling about it. Looking back at the weeks before where I was on all fours bleaching the bathroom floor with scalding hot water wearing hot pink gloves, thinking the chemicals and physicality of it all would induce my labor -- it was so about time. Quit torturing me fetus.

At 8 pm, I started yelling “time!” anytime the pain kicked it. Finally, he was like, “Babe, they’re five minutes apart lasting for about a minute.” I, for some reason, felt like I could hold out. We ate Chinese food (oh mythical labor inducer) while we watched Pineapple Express (420 womp womp womp). I was a throbbing blob of discomfort on the Eames*.

When I started crying, my husband brought me an entire tub of ice cream with a big spoon. This is a big deal. He was not a fan of my “fat fuck” cravings throughout the entire pregnancy for fear that I would have trouble getting back to my original self. All husbands should take note that after a baby there is no “original“ and only “new“ and “improved.” He may have said something about “bait and switch” that he had to take back. You would take it back too if you were being held at knifepoint. “Hormones,” I’d say.

I wanted to hold out on heading to the hospital only because I’ve seen where folks go all the way there only to be sent back home. I also wanted to avoid an insurance scam. I heard that this one girl got billed for a whole day because she checked in at 11:49 pm the night she went into labor. Not that I would have had to pay outright, but you never know. I hate a medical bill. I don’t open them. Justin Beck thinks I have hoodrat mentality by allowing them to stack up on the kitchen counter, unopened for weeks at a time. But whatever. I’ll write a fucking rap song about it, leave me alone. I hate a medical bill, okay? The numbers are always lofty and I never feel like it’s fair. It just stresses me out. I have been trained to fear both emergencies and medical bills from early on. Thanks Shorty.

At 11:44 pm, a friend texted me that she wanted Shalom to hurry up because she had major gifts. At exactly that moment, I managed to crawl to the edge of the bed to put pants on. I had ordered Justin Beck to pack Shalom’s going home outfit because it wasn’t packed with my things that had already been in his trunk for three weeks. He couldn’t find her Hello Kitty outfit so he said fuck it and we somehow floated down the stairwell and into the car.

I was so ready to go to the hospital. The contractions felt like sharp stabbing pains left to right across the bottom of my belly. I was still talking though. I don’t know why they say you can’t talk. I was shouting orders and flailing about. I felt every turn, every bump in the road. My husband was calling people, yes at this hour, to say we were going to the hospital. Smiling from ear to ear, “Yeah dude, this shit’s going down I think.”

I had always pictured myself in full make-up on the way to the hospital. I don’t know why. Obviously that didn’t work out. I went straight away, no face. Nina Flowers would not have been proud. Not hot. Brown spots on blast. I did not care, but I still thought about it for a split second only because at some point, someone along this “journey” would ask me if I was, in fact, Melissa from the Real World. It has happened every time I went to the hospital throughout this pregnancy.

My pussy could be on blast at the end of a table with a human hand or a plastic tool inserted within or I could be writhing in pain with my whole ass ablaze and someone would say, “Have we met before?” or “Were you here last week with early labor?” or “Did you go to Hofstra?” and finally, “Were you on TV?” In pain, looking like Biggie said “ugly as ever” I’d just nod and smile and when that person left the room, I’d shoot my husband the evil eye because a part of him is still amused by this exchange. Every time though, I go back to the no make-up thing only because I imagine the inquiring person back at home eating at her kitchenette on the phone with the curly cord telling a friend, “Her skin is really fucking bad, but she was pleasant…”

We get to the hospital and they put me on the monitors around 12:30 am. The midwife, looking exactly like Vicki Gunvalson of The Real Housewives of the OC, comes in to check my shit, see how dilated I am. Another term I never fully understood. You see, they tell you all this shit in Lamaze class and at your check-ups but do you really understand? This percentage effaced, such and such dilated blah blah blah. I speak in terms of hours. How much longer with this shit please?

Vicki tells me I’m only 1 cm dilated and 75% effaced. Okay, whatever. On many occasions I’ve heard that you get sent straight home with that lonely one cm dilated number. I said, “I don’t want to go home. The pain is real. Can you fudge those numbers?”

She dug around in there. Ouch, goddamn! And she said, “Yup, you’re 2 cm dilated…”

She then asked me if I’d like an epidural. Um, is Oprah black? She left the room. Random other people came in and asked questions, shoved papers in my face. Justin and I were silent eye-talking about how closely the midwife resembled Vicki. He was steady taking iPhone pictures of my big ass and it was really annoying.

Time is passing. The pain is still real. I’m lying there. Justin Beck is playing Mariah Carey songs for me on his iPhone. He’s drumming along to the songs on his legs which normally annoys me, but I am blocking it out. I was doing anything to take the focus off of the pain. I specifically remember singing/mumbling along to Fly Like A Bird off the Emancipation of Mimi album. “In this harsh reality, sometimes I’m so despondent that I feel the need to…”

Somehow, in a swirling vortex of time and space and Digable Planets (translation: blur), at 3 in the morning, I am now in a birthing suite. Room 7. The epidural man comes in. I sit upright and they do it up. I didn’t feel a thing. Epidural is on some Sam Lufti drugging up “baby I can make you feel hot hot hot” type shit.

I feel fantastic. Now I’m talking shit. “I don’t know why women talk all this shit about the pain. This is crap. I feel awesome. I love it here!”

It’s now 6:45 in the morning. Some lady comes in and breaks my water for me. Didn’t feel much. No gush. No nothing.

They don’t want to keep doing vaginal exams to avoid introducing bacteria. I feel like we are left alone for a gang of time. Finally, someone turns the TV on. We are watching The Jeffersons. George Jefferson is so Shorty it is laughable and almost rudely stereotypical, but it is so him. At some point, I tell the nurse that the woman on the screen is Lenny Kravitz’s mom. Just a fun fact. She didn’t know. I smiled to myself knowing that I was about to present the world with more flavor crystals. A Filipino black Jew? Love it.

Around 10 am, Justin Beck decides to watch a stretch of Maury Povich episodes. The You Are Not The Father ones. He won’t change the channel. He loves these episodes.

“That baby ain’t mine! That baby got six fingers on one hand. Look! I got one, two, three, four, five fingers.” Justin is straight up LOL next to me. This has probably gone on for hours and hours. Now he’s getting involved in court shows.

At some point, someone comes in and puts a catheter on me. I’m apparently peeing this whole time. Ugh.

The pressure kicks in. What time is it? Who are all these people? No, really. Are you going to eat that fucking tuna sandwich in here Justin! The pressure! It’s like sitting on a block of ice with a crew of worker gnomes inside the ice pounding you in the asshole with a dozen sledgehammers. I am literally sitting on pins and needles.

Cold cold cold.

Pounding.

The lady managing my pain tells me she can dial up the epidural to take the “edge” off but that the epidural doesn’t take away the pain of the pressure. It sure doesn’t. She knows she ain’t never lied.

I stay at 4 cm dilated for 897 hours. Seriously, nothing has happened for fucking hours. The pressure is just brutal.

At 6:20 pm, I insist that they have someone come and check my shit. I know that I am more than 4 cm dilated because I feel like I’m shitting on myself but trying my hardest not to. I insist! “Something is coming out. Please tell the doctor to take a look!”

The epidural lady lifts the sheet and says, “The woman knows her body. Get the doctor. She’s ready to push.”

A nurse comes in to tell me my doctor is somewhere performing the never-ending hysterectomy and she’d like to know if I’d like to wait for her. She claims she will only be a half hour.

I tell her I’m willing to wait five minutes because I really want to push. And that if after five minutes, she is not available the fucking janitor can come up in here and deliver this baby. I am fucking over this shit. I say it as nicely as possible though. No F bombs.

Five minutes pass. Two nurses and a senior resident come in. They change the bed positioning and go over the breathing shit with me.

We start pushing.

Hours and hours of pushing. They’re pushing my legs to my chest and pulling my arms away from me while Justin has his hand at my neck and tucking my chin down. I push in ten-second (long pauses between the numbers) intervals, three times a piece. Pushing, pushing, pushing. Different doctors come in and introduce themselves. I don’t give a fuck. There’s no other way to say it. I really, truly do not care who you are. Can you dig this baby out or what? I met 9 different people. It’s the musical chairs of doctors and nurses. There is still no baby.

Some other doctor comes in and says the baby is “sunny side up” and if she weren’t, since I’m such a good pusher, this baby would have been out already. But apparently her face is getting stuck in my pelvic bones and causing her stress. So when she’s stressed, they have to stab me with this stuff that counteracts the Pitocin (makes contractions happen). The needle prick even hurts. Bad. And I am forced to take a break from pushing. The counteracting stuff makes me very anxious and shaky and stupid emotional. I feel like I am convulsing on the table. I am freezing too as white hot tears stream down my face. I am just crying and crying. Quiet, sad crying but with a GANG of tears.

At 8:30 pm my doctor comes in. “You guys are still here?” she asks. This annoys my husband. “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you,” he says curtly.

She then tells everyone in the room that has been helping me push that she doesn’t like the position of the bed and she doesn’t like when people push like that. She could have whispered the shit. Because for me, it felt like I was pushing in vain for the past two hours or that I’d had incompetent care. I glare at my husband, no words. And he smells what I’m cooking. And I can tell he’s pissed, but he stays calm and feeds me the ice chips and keeps telling me why we’re such a good team and why I’m so fucking awesome. I still hate him and everyone else in the room, but I love him.

At some point I scream, “Is my asshole on the outside of my body!” Everyone assures me it isn’t. I am telling you, it is. The Lamaze lady said not to push like you’re having a bowel movement. To push with your vagina. But the nurses keeping saying to push like you’re pooping. I opt to do whatever the hell feels like there is progress. I am willy nilly pushing hard and hating life.

Around 9:30 I’m like, “Is another day going to go by? Is the baby coming tonight? What are we really talking about? Isn’t it time to cut her out of me?”

I'm whispering to myself and maybe to anyone that cares.

“I don’t think I can survive this.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

Silent tears. I’m staring into Justin’s face looking for answers. He has none. He looks about as sad as I feel.

I don’t really want a C section. It has never been offered to me. But I am just talking shit now. I am so over this. I’m starving. Hadn’t eaten since 7 the day before! An entire 24 hours plus has passed.

Around 10 pm, everyone in the room starts hustling around, opening packages, rolling this table here. Putting on big blue jackets and shit. I just hear packages being opened. And everyone tells me I’m really close.

At 10:18 p.m. this baby is out of my body. I don’t cry. I cry at A Baby Story and I don’t cry at my own birth? Am I sociopath? What is wrong with me? They bring her bloody body to my chest and place her in my arms. My arms are jelly mush. I have been pulling on these bed handles for hours. I can’t hold her because I’m shaking. I am not crying. I ask them to take her please. My hands are bloody now. They take her. Justin Beck is somewhere doing something. I’m lying there like holy shit.

I ask to see the afterbirth. I’m gross like that. They lift it up but I can’t get my neck in an upright enough position to look in the bucket. I regret not seeing it. I like to see progress. I am a person that has Youtube’d periodontal disease, you see.

Then I feel stitches. The numbing shit so didn’t work. I felt every pull of every stitch in and out, the sewing. That shit hurt really bad.

Justin Beck is next to the nurse that is shoving stuff in her mouth and cleaning her up. He’s yelling stuff to me. “Babe, her hands are really ashy!” “Holy shit, her fingernails are so long!” “She has crazy long toes!” “Hi Shalom!” “She’s a Chinese baby!” I’m exhausted, lying there waiting for someone to put my glasses on me. I’m also wondering why I am not crying. I’m not crying at the birth of my own baby. I keep saying that in my head. I’m just lying there quiet and uncomfortable, yet relieved.

They weigh her talking about six pounds. I manage to sit up and say incredulously, “That’s it!” I really thought she was a fucking monster baby. I gained 42 pounds!

Someone changes the sheets beneath me. It’s quiet and dark in the room now. Justin is holding the baby. My mother-in-law comes in. My father-in-law comes in. I feel huge and heavy.

Then someone comes in and rips tape off my back. The pain never ends. Someone puts me in a wheelchair and rolls me to another room on the other side of the world. It’s now 2 in the morning.

Another nurse comes into my room. Shows me how to make my own diaper and there are so many steps and layers, it’s literally like making a big sandwich. I’m wearing a wee wee pad and four Tucks medicated pads and a maxi pad and these mesh panties. And I’m peeing in a hat. What time is it and where is my baby? She’s exclusively breastfed and so does this mean she hasn’t eaten yet? There is no lactation specialist available at this hour.

At 2:45 am they bring her to me and tell me to try to breastfeed. Um. I have never done this before. She latches on like a champ. I do this for 10 minutes and then I can’t see straight. I must lie down. The baby disappears. The girl behind the curtain next to me is moaning in pain. I sleep/not sleep til 4 am and then I get up to go to the nursery to really see the baby.

I’m walking down the hallway, holding the guardrails. Walking. Thinking to myself, “I’m walking!”

They call me Mommy Beck and they tell me my baby is alert and has been entertaining herself quietly since she came to the nursery. That’s nice to know.

The next day. Shalom is a fucking Harlem Globetrotter. She is entertaining the masses. I have visitors. So many visitors. I managed to shower and put makeup on at some point in the darkness. I do not sleep. I am feeding every two hours. Nothing comes out of my boobs. She poops and pees though.

"Tomorrow," the lady said. I get to go home. I do not sleep. I do not cry.

I eat Apple Jacks for breakfast this morning. I’m going home. Wait, I’m going home? With this baby? Me? Justin Beck? And that baby? Home, you say? But…

I am in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. In front of me, I see my husband’s back. In his left hand he has my Louis Vuitton*. In his right hand, he’s got our baby in the car seat. She’s facing me. It’s my husband’s back and I can hear him trudging along in his Timberland boots. He never picks up his feet.

Now, I am crying.

A rush of heat from the top of my head to my chin. My face is on fire. My tears are warm. There are so many tears. I am crying so much. Everyone in the elevator asks if I’m okay. I stutter that I’m just so happy.

I am home. I do not sleep. Lots of visitors. Pizza. Ice cream. Diaper changes – for me and baby. Vaginal ass pain. Flights of stairs. So thirsty. Milk coming in. Holy shit! Milk is here like crazy. Drive myself to the maternity store. Leak all over the dressing room. Limp and hobble about the baby store to buy a breast pump.

I do not sleep.

Two weeks later, I have a system. I am calm. I troubleshoot. I fulfill the needs before she knows she needs them filled. I am the baby whisperer. I understand the cues before they become problems. I am a serene robot. I am hardly stank. I sleep when she sleeps sometimes. She sleeps in three hour stretches. Her daddy cuddles her. She is an angel baby and I deserve that considering I vomited for 18 weeks straight while my face looked like Iraq. She doesn’t wail. She doesn’t complain. She sleeps, poops, pees and smiles. Really smiles.

She’s perfection. I am happy. I can see my crotch today.

*Justin Beck forbids me from calling my stuff the name of the brand. Says it’s pretentious and gross. Sorry. When I say pass me the “Louis” I don’t mean it in a shitty way though. I swear.

Last night around 11, I cried myself to sleep. That is true. Justin Beck got into bed after spending the whole day and night with Daryl Palumbo (...and not me. I'm not mad or anything, but damn a friend in need is a friend indeed.) He was like, "Is everything okay?" I could hardly get the words out. I was sobbing and sniffling and acting a damn fool. This was after I folded a load of her tiny white clothes, stopping at every item and smelling it like a freak.

After the weirdo laundry session with myself, I packed all her stuff up and put it by the front door like I was totally breaking up with her. I packed my pumping bag and I packed a normal purse without mom shit. So weird. All this, by the door ready to go. Looking at the bags and bags and bags before I ran upstairs to get in pajamas and wash my face (new regimen, by the way, for discussion later), I lost my shit. Crying and essentially retarded.

This morning, I woke up at 8. Technically she woke up at 3:20 am and normally since she is newly capable of sleeping through the night, I let her fuss for the whole ten minutes and she falls back asleep til 6 but I was feeling generous and sad so I went right up in there and nursed her and cuddled and begrudgingly put her back in the crib. At 6 in the morning, she ate again and this time (so bad!) I put her in the bed with me. NOT back in the crib til she wakes up for the day. That's right. I co-slept with my baby for two hours, what's it to you?! Besides, in Japanese culture, they consider the two parents with the baby in between like two protective mountains. I was born in Japan, you know. Whatever, I will not be made to feel guilty for spending two hours in my bed with my baby. Kiss my ass you naysayers.

So at 8, I took a shower. At 8:15 baby girl was looking for moms. Not crying, just lonely and whining and whimpering. She ate again. Me, still damp from the shower in my bathrobe nursing a not that hungry baby. I know, right? And I did not care that she had just eaten a gang of times before this. I was nervous because I heard that breastfed babies will reject all bottle feedings while mom's away and eat minimally, just to survive and then they'll maul your ass when you get home. I was nervous, you see. So I fed her to her heart's content until I had to finish getting ready.

I got ready. She watched me as I put makeup on. She knows the deal. On date night, she watches me as I put makeup on. I dictate each step so that when she's 15 she'll have mastered eyeliner. I am telling you, she is absorbing all this information. I WISH someone had taught me that shit at 15. I didn't learn until I was 23 and I spent all those years prior looking washed out and ugly like Ralph Macchio. Ugh. See there! You read that correctly. At 15, Shalom can wear makeup. Amy Fisher was probably allowed. Not that I aspire for her to be like Amy Fisher and shoot somebody in the face. I'm just saying. It's a Long Island thing. Little girls wear makeup around here. And I'm not having Shalom get clowned in the hallways at high school so that I have to go down there twice a week looking for the mean girls' moms' phone numbers so I could jack folks up. Because I will destroy a mean girl's mom to her face and on the phone, essentially making me a mean girl but no one fucks with Shalom. I will take pleasure. Nothing would please me more actually. I wish a mother fucker would...

So where was I?

Then I got dressed. Put those heels right on, yes I did. Then she got a diaper change and she got dressed. Loaded up in the car seat. I put all the shit from the front door in the car first. Loaded her ass in second and we drove to my mother-in-law's house.

When I was taking her out of the car, I was looking for a smile goodbye. Nope. Shalom wasn't offering up any smiles this morning. She sat silently in the car seat, still like a little statue with a pout on. I was like, "Are you mad at me?" and I swear to G-d, this baby turned her head away from me. I was like, "It's like that, Shalom!" and she sighed like I was boring her.

My father-in-law is not the type to believe me when I say things like "She knows..." He usually naysays me and is like "Oh please." But when I walked in with her, even he was like, "Is she mad at you? What's with the attitude on her face?"

So I skulked back to my car all heartbroken that she wasn't feeling me. I made sure to go heavy heavy on the eyeliner so I'd be less inclined to fuck it up on the drive to work. I had to concentrate hard on not crying.

I get to work. Trudge through some emails. Make some calls. Blah blah blah. Do some Kelis style bossin' and by noon, I have not even checked up on my baby. Making a conscious effort to take pride and be confident in the fact that my mother-in-law would have called by now if there were problems. Plus, I had Shalom's flickr page up for the duration of the day so I could just look at her in her Juicy bathing suit to get really excited about seeing her when the day was over!

I pumped in the broom closet (not really) around lunchtime. That was demoralizing, but whatever, had to be done. THEN I called.

Turns out Shalom had been giggling, talking, cuddling and shopping at Home Goods since we last spoke. Not a single cry. Not even a whining session. Nothing. Happy as a little clam. She only drank 2 ounces of her bottle though. Hmmm. That made me a little nervous, but if she ain't crying, okay.

Did some more work shit. Emails. Calls. Blah Blah Blah.

I headed home. Nerves were riling up. My neck was tense as shit. My shoulder blades were on fire like I was walking through the desert carrying a basket of fruits and textiles on my head.

Shalom was on my front porch waiting for me with my mother-in-law. Just cuddling. My mother-in-law told me she drank another two ounces. So only four ounces while I was away?

We get inside.

Oh?

Now you want to get fussy. You've been smiling all day and now you'd like to get fussy Bebe Zahara?

She mauled my boobs. Fussed some more. Then proceeded to vomit seemingly everything she just ate all over me, herself and the Eames lounge. Damn it. That's the best piece of furniture in the room. Girl! Shalom! How could you!?

I stripped down to bra and undies. Put Shalom down on her activity mat. Yes, cleaned the Eames lounge first. Then the floor. Then ran Shalom a bath. No sense baby wiping her down if I planned on bathing her later in the evening anyway.

She bathed. Got in pajamas. FINALLY we can cuddle on the sofa. She starts talking to me. Laughing and stuff. Talking about how everybody at Home Goods was feeling her. Even the 20-year-old not gay checkout boy. How she can't wait for NYC Prep to start. How she thinks she wants to wear her pink Polo tomorrow if I don't mind washing it for her tonight. How she met some 8 month old boy while she was out walking. He was cute and everything but she was way way out of his league so she, like, humored him. You know, the regular stuff we discuss.

Then she took a huge shit.

I changed her and this little mother fucker fell asleep. All of the above went down within one hour of walking in the front door. So now I'm here sharing all of this with you while she sleeps. Snoring actually. So much for missing mommy. Mommy who?

:(

I am now fighting the urge to wake her ass up. I want to play with you Shalom! What is your problem?

The point is -- I'm alive. And she's alive. And it can be done.

Click away.

Shalom's Theme.

Don't say I never gave you nothing. :)

I don't have much time to write but I do enjoy sharing pictures and random details about my favorite baby. I have quite a labor and delivery story to tell too. Still working on it. Oh, and Shorty and Mercy are here. Shalom, Shorty and Mercy went to their first Passover seder last night. Yeah, get there.

Anyway, because I only have time to feed, change and cuddle my baby I have decided to take advantage of technology and get my learn on so that I can share some stuff.

She has a flickr here. And I get to tweeting here.

Follow me, follow me, follow me, follow me, but don't lose your grip
2009's the yizzear for me to fuck up shit
So I ain't holdin' nuttin back
And mother fucker I got five on the twenty sack
It's like that and as a matter of fact [rat-tat-tat-tat]
Cuz I never hesitate to put a baby on her back
[Yeah, so peep out the manuscript
You see that it's a must we drop gangsta shit]
What's my mother fuckin' name?

Shalom Mazie!

I’m pretty sure doing something like that elevates all involved into family status. I am still dying. All of them (gays and ladies alike) are now official aunties to this baby. There was one straight guy there – bless his heart, sup Gene? – so he’s an honorary uncle. But I’m saying.

Have you ever had somebody or a group of amazing somebodies do something so very nice for you that you don’t even know what to do with yourself? I really had no idea how to feel. I walked in and there was just Hello Kitty ablaze. You have no idea. Bottles of pink champagne with pink ribbons with my name on them! And pink straws poking through the top of a pink Hello Kitty tropical umbrella! Totally stupid amazing! Pink towers of cupcakes. Sugary crazy ones. Hello Kitty napkins! Hello Kitty Pez gifts for prize winners. Hello Kitty confetti. A spread of beautiful appetizers, delicious main dinner course and crazy desserts. Pretty pink spiked punch. Like, these people worked like animals.

This party was just gorgeous. Like nothing I ever imagined could happen to me, for me. I felt guilty, it was all so beautiful. It was a baby shower but not a typical baby shower. When I say "not typical" I mean over-the-top Kimora style "fabulosity" really. By the end of the night some folks were perusing The Big Penis Book while listening to Whitney Houston techno remixes -- in front of my mother-in-law. When I said, "Um, that's my mother-in-law right there!" my friend Bradford said, "Girl please. I do not censor myself for my own mother and I'm certainly not going to do it for yours." Okay. Point taken. It's not right, but it's okay.

It was cocktail-y (nighttime, honey) which is so how I would envision a "ferocious" baby shower to be. And the invitation! These fools took a photo of my Maxim picture and put a stamp through it talking about “NEVER AGAIN!” and I about fell out. That is amazing. And so true! And so me.

This entire pregnancy, I have been very much opposed to “baby” everything. I have tried to maintain a sense of the non-mom version of me, you know, until it got to be too ridiculous to bother with blue patent leather high heels. I just looked sad. But I’m trying to still be my true self but intertwine my mom self into that seamlessly. I don’t even really know where one starts and one stops because everything is unknown right now. But I am feeling really confident and scared as fuck simultaneously.

It’s almost as though I am cognizant of the fact that there is a physical necessity to be prepared for a baby’s arrival and yes, I will slog through the pages and pages of blankets so I can swaddle this baby with love but am I emotionally ready to be doing all that? Yes, but I still feel very much overwhelmed about motherhood and what a baby really means and I wanted this! I don’t even know how to explain it.

It’s not even a selfish “I’m not going to be light and airy and come and go as I please” type of thing. It’s a “Do I have what it takes to be America’s Next Top Mommy?” type of thing actually. Will my child sufficiently, effectively, adorably be the center of my universe and will I be able to provide this person with all that a person of this caliber and importance and gravity needs?

She makes me write run-on sentences!

I am in awe of her and she makes me nervous. And I love her in a way that I do not know love so it’s like I am somehow, not smart. It’s like I’m confused by my own inability to grasp what is really happening. Overwhelmed isn’t quite the word. Unconditional love isn’t even close. Those are all cliché things that people say because something has to be said.

There is no category for this range of emotions.

No, there is no category for this. I just tried to think of one again. Nope. None.

You basically grow a human inside your own body. You say, Wow, there are four ovaries in my body right now. Weird, I have 40 phalanges (knock on wood). You endure catastrophic emotional duress, physical pain that knows no bounds but you’re happy about it. You look over at your husband who looks back at you, the vessel for his real live baby, and you feel weird and yet sensational. And you trace the stars and hearts that are beaming from your face in white lights all the way up to the ceiling until they dissolve into glitter that floats back down onto your shoulders.

So in the midst of seeing all the Hello Kitty stuff, I was overwhelmed into an almost numb happiness. Like, I could feel that I was really happy. The presentation and the hugs and the warm wishes and kindness and the thoughtfulness – all that was tactile and I was presently absorbing it. I could taste it and I could feel my heart beat through my skin. My face was flush, warm with hope and shit. I was my meta skinny self floating outside my physical bloated self. Similar to the sensation I felt when he proposed to me. I was looking at myself become this transformed emotional weird lady. And I liked this lady and everything, but I do not know how she got here. Did she hitchhike to this place on shrooms because I do not remember picking her crazy ass up!? You know what I mean?

So now it’s the final countdown. I stop working this Monday!

You know that Justin Beck is the most Jewish person to ever walk the face of the earth (he believes himself to be this) and so we have lots of Jewish rules to follow. There are to be no baby products in this house until my baby comes. It has been a hard rule to follow because I feel like I am going against my own human urges to nest. I have a trunk full of goodies. I have stuff in my mother-in-law’s garage. I even have stuff in my garage now! And only because I diabolically made plans for us to go get “essentials” at Buy Buy Baby at 8 in the evening after he had a full day of work, knowing he’d be too tired to take the stuff to his mom’s after. Umhmm, you have to have a plan! “Justin Lloyd Beck, it’s like illegal to not have a baby first aid kit in your house before the baby is born. Don’t you know anything? You could be fined by the county!” He was so tired and still making business calls on this trip that he didn’t notice the cart filled to the top with inessential modern bath toys, pink booties shaped like bunnies, matching lotions for me and baby girl, Hello Kitty band-aids, etc.

So now I confess on the Internets. This Jewish superstition has not deterred me. I have stuff hidden in the house for when I need my fix. If I put it out to the universe, it's not an ugly omission or lie. It's a pretty admission and acknowledgment. When he’s not around, I put a onesie to my face and breathe in the Dreft. And I giggle like a stupid ass!

Can’t wait to meet our baby.

But like I said, Brad Walsh took my picture three nights ago and now I feel like hot shit.

I am happy that he told me I have to take pictures. He has single-handedly changed my perception of my own pregnancy. You have to know what a mindfuck it is to hate your own life in the midst of vomit, nausea, leg cramps, heartburn, amniocentesis, manic worrying and constipation but to love the little life inside of you so much that you sometimes cry on the drive home listening to fucking Jodeci. "So you're having my baby..."

But to look at the photos, I believe now that the whole process was just golden. The happiness and calm I see in my face when I look at the photos is not what I felt while living in my body for the past eight months. But the photos manage to tell the true story of what is in my heart for my baby. I can't even explain it without writing a fucking haiku and hating myself after for succumbing to this outpouring of spiritual type shit. Trust me, I'd rather stay dry and sarcastic and roll my eyes. It's where I feel most comfortable. BUT! I now deem the whole process peaceful and beautiful. And really, it was and is. I haven't even met the child yet and I find the suffering of all this discomfort and acne and low self-esteem and anxiety and self-doubt. The needles. The amniocentesis. The fetal monitors. The premature contractions. The scares. The waiting for the good news after a traumatic experience or test. Really, all totally worth it. Ugh. I can't even.

Thank you Brad Walsh. Really. What a tremendous gift to give to me. I'm crying.

I also got another Louis Vuitton bag for my birthday which is also a nice gift. Especially since my thoughtful husband surprised me with it. We retired birthday gift exchange many moons ago. He filled it with onesies that he made special just for her and said, "Our daughter started packing before you did..." when he handed me the gigantic LV bag in all its glory. Housed in the big LV paper gift bag, then in the big hard-structured LV box, then in the big LV dust cover. The layers of luxury packaging are half the experience, you know.

It's the final stretch. The most amazing little girl will soon bless this house with her presence. She doesn't even know she is the most prized and most loved baby in the entire universe of all universes yet. How could she know? But soon enough! She's coming home in a tiny rasta hat. It's black with red, gold and green stitching. She is beyond! I don't even know what to do with myself.

<3

The 3D sonogram changed my life. I have had this blog for how long, ladies? Going on 9 years? Have I ever learned how to upload a picture? A picture? Did I even own a camera? Some of you have been going off on me for years about posting pictures. And you know how much I hate a picture. I don't want to be in it. I don't want to take it. I don't want it all viral up on the Internet (don't flatter yourself, I know). Ugh. And for the most part, I have been like Madonna with Lourdes -- where are the pregnancy pictures? Where is the documentation that this baby was not immaculately conceived? I am not a fan of pregnancy pictures. I'm miserable. My face looks like Jackie Chan's. And I'm excessively oily. No photos, I said!

After the 3D sonogram, I went my ass right online and bought a camera. I love the 3D pictures so much, I thought I must take pictures every day of this baby when she's out in the world. Then, I learned how to upload the pictures and put them on the computer which makes them tranferrable to anywhere on the Internet. I shared them via email with just about everyone. The tax accountant and the neighbor got pictures of this baby Sunday afternoon, within 30 minutes of the upload. I was dead serious about sharing the joy. Oxytocin overload. Pure love.

It gets crazier. Oh I wish I could share all my discoveries with Wendy (Williams). She too is afraid of technology. She isn't so good at the MySpace which is like, so over now. She can hardly check her emails. She does not fuck with DVR. I understand her. She isn't ready for all that jelly. But there is no reason to fear it, Wendy. Just start clicking around and try.

I then started looking at my laptop and saw this little square at the top that looked like a little camera. I clicked one button, found another, clicked on this and that and BOOM - I discovered my laptop has a little camera built in. If I wanted, I could take a video of myself typing this. I don't know why you'd want to see me looking like Dragon Tales first thing in the morning typing away, zit cream in place and chapped lips abound, but I'm saying. I can make a video though! I made a 30-second video for my baby two nights ago. Told her what's up and showed her my belly. I also mentioned she was stank that day but I love her nonetheless.

Oh gets better people! I'm on a technology train! Choo mother fucking choo, fool.

Then I said, Hmmm. Does my blog let me have pictures? I got to messing around on here and sure enough, there's a whole section where you can upload stuff like images.

And so I share with you -- Little Miss Baby Beck. She is my clone. She may as well have been immaculately conceived. I am Beyonce and she is Sasha Fierce. She is my doppelganger. She will inherit the wedding Louboutins. She will get all the Louis bags. She will wear pigtails every day. She will be the best person alive. Are you not entertained?

And just for comparison's sake. Just for good measure. Just in case you forgot what I looked like as a young grasshopper, get there. Inhale!

I can't stand myself! Isn't she wonderful? In the photo with her lips all smushed -- that is a Justin Beck face if I've ever seen one. Oh goodness. Been around the world looking, dude. Lisa, we've found my baby!

Fifty something more days to go. Feeling way better! Skin is clearing up. Walking upright though? Not so easy. Baby is huge. Four pounds and six ounces. That's really heavy for me. But whatever, she's perfectly healthy and this part is almost over. Imagine a church scene on Keyshia Cole: The Way It Is and say "Praise God!" really loudly, intermittently throughout reading this entry. That's how glorious I feel. P.S. I love you Frankie!

Justin Beck has been scouring the Internet for all the things she needs. So far he has purchased the following for his daughter:

One gel ant farm. Two Vitra miniature Eames Lounges and Ottomans (for her modern dollhouse that he plans to build). Five Yo Gabba Gabba plush toys (will the show even be on the air when she can understand it?).

I bought her a dashiki (thank you for all your suggestions – I am still going through all of them). A few Hello Kitty dresses and onesies. Lots of the Roger Hargreaves books. Mainly the ones I will read to her and say, Hey this book is about your daddy. So Mr. Messy, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Clever, Mr. Clumsy.

All the major important stuff has been magically taken care of by people who love us. Must be a Long Island thing. I have never in my life seen so many things disappear from my registry so quickly. One girlfriend was like, “Um, I went to your registry and there’s nothing expensive on there! You need to add stuff so I can buy you a nice gift!”

Okay. I was totally flattered and surprised.

Really? I edited the thing like crazy on purpose. I tried to choose only necessities and when I did “splurge” I picked cheap things just in case people can’t afford stuff and they feel obligated to buy me something. No one has to buy me anything, really. Babies have been thriving and surviving on diapers, breast milk and blankets for centuries. I really don’t need the baby wipe warmer or Diaper Genie (heard it doesn’t even work). Registering (for baby or wedding) the Long Island way has been a real social experiment slash treat for me. Apparently you’re allowed to just put down everything, expect to get it and then you will get it! Like, the lottery. You just win that shit. That shit is crazy!

Where I grew up, there was no registering. You got a check for $30 (that the writer may ask you to wait until next Friday to deposit and even then, it may or may not clear), someone said a prayer for your ass and you were really happy about that shit.

Here, you get to register for two car seats! One for each car.

Gone are the days of laboriously transferring the car seat from Granny’s Oldsmobile to Papa’s pick-up truck (that they begrudgingly let you borrow if and only if you replace the gas you used) or to the sperm donor’s sports car (if and when he decided to show up with a raggedy box of diapers that are two sizes too big for the baby). You never had the car seat in your own car because that shit was fixing to get repossessed. You would sleep with one eye open in the living room that no one is allowed to touch, shoes by the front door. You check out the window every hour or so when you thought you heard the sound of car doors slamming or chains or large trucks. The Repo Man is never kind enough to let you get your shit out of that bomb ass Honda Prelude (two-door with a sun roof, heeeey). And if he left with the car seat in the car, damn it all to hell, you’d miss a shift at KFC and it would fuck your whole week up. (Can you even put a baby seat in the front seat of a pick-up truck? We did.)

You needed that $45 KFC cash for formula and a fill (yes, acrylic tips). Fuck. And Shorty would remember that shit. Much as he loves his grandbaby, he still is none too pleased about handing over his recreational money. “$45! Negro please,” he’d say. As he hands it to you, he has to let you know how painful it is. You should know full well he was going to use that for the Lotto and the barber. “Don’t you know the jackpot is $8 million? This is a bad week to be fucking up your finances, you know. And a mother fucking doubly bad week to be fucking up mines!” No worries though. You’re starting a new job at Arby’s for a week, then a real upgrade weeks later at Blockbuster Video. WOW, what a difference!

So basically my new Long Island life is straight up notorious. Birfdays were the worst days, but now I drink champagne when I’m thirsty for real. TWO car seats. What?

I wouldn’t trade any of it though. I became an Auntie at 14 years old. Never did I view that life as financially difficult or weird, in the sense that this wasn’t the “nuclear” family. It didn’t seem hard though. And I honestly don’t think we were “poor.” We weren’t. The cars were insured and we went to the commissary once a month and spent a lot of money. A Long Island childhood is just so different and privileged. Camp! Uh, sleepaway camp at that, like in the movies. Summer and winter vacations! Birthday parties every year – the kind outside of the home, like renting out a place. Eating out with the whole family! It was just not like that in Tampa. And yet it was still fun and I have fond memories. And I feel more “prepared” as a result.

My nephew (called Boo to this day) rolled out with me when I got my bomb ass ’91 Toyota Corolla at 17. I earned that car with many hours of work, lots of re-doing the “towel wall” by color and tri-fold at the Linen Barn off Highway 60. That job was awesome until I got held up at gunpoint. Anyway, I took Boo to Chuck E. Cheese’s (before all the violence). I had the hook-up, all the tickets and coins yo. Pays to sleep with the manager. He was my boyfriend for five years, don’t trip.

I’d get my check. Cash most of it if it wasn’t time to pay my car note. Put a little into savings. And I’d allocate funds for me (shoe shopping with Anisa, headbands, Red Lobster, the record store, maybe $5 for my little brother if he agreed to be my “slave” for a day) and then for stuff I wanted to do with Boo. Something like the aquarium was no joke. It was expensive so that’d be like two checks’ worth of saving because we had to eat lunch there too, and get a souvenir otherwise I felt insufficient as an Auntie.

He was a major part of my daily life. After school (high school and college), I’d do my homework at the dining room table and he’d sit right there with me. He’d color and ask lots of questions about life in general. He had an amazing attention span. He’d dig in my backpack to find candy. I’d put it in a different spot every time to watch him find it. He’d find it and yell “non-tee!” which was his word for candy. We shared everything. We practically shared a bedroom. But he was my baby as much as he was my sister’s. He wasn’t like a baby brother either. He was like my baby. She “got her shit together” and I was sad to only see my nephew on random weekdays or weekends depending on the babysitting schedule. Getting your shit together is a phrase we lovingly use in my family to mean upwardly mobile, doing something to better yourself. According to Shorty, when I stopped trying to be "half famous" and let the "Hollywood dreams" go and moved to Long Island to settle down, I was officially "getting my shit together." Everything previous to that was deemed "playing around." I did not see it this way for a while and that shit hurt my feelings because my bills were paid and I was happily floating around in the California sun. Now that I'm pregnant, writing checks to my niece's Girl Scout troupe for the 19 boxes of cookies I ordered and spending an hour on the Kelly Mom website reading about boobs, I get it.

Thinking about it, those years with my nephew as a baby were easily some of the most memorable and best years of my childhood, young adulthood. I really can’t wait to be a mom. And I'll never forget this. Once I had just given my nephew a bath. My sister was doing some kind of homework in the bedroom. Court reporting shit. I brought the baby in the room to dry him off. He was lying on a towel on the bed. The oscillating fan was going because Shorty only let us use the air conditioning at certain times. I shut the fan off so the baby wouldn't be cold and I dried him off and cuddled him. My sister looked up and said, "You're going to be a good mommy one day." I have never forgotten that day. Ever. I think about it every time I think about my daughter and wonder (translation: have a panic attack) about how I'm going to get through this. I'm nervous but really excited!

Tomorrow I’m paying all the money and I’m going to get a 3D sonogram done so I can see her face. In the regular boring technology sonograms, I can only tell that she has fat huge chubby cheeks. But nothing else. My friends all got the 3D sonogram for free at the 20 week checkup. Um, some of us have the same doctor so what the fuck? Why didn’t I get one? In those pictures you can see what the baby looks like exactly. I need to know. I can’t even miss a TV show without reading the message boards for spoilers before I catch it, so how does anyone expect me to grow a baby and not know what the hell she looks like?

I can’t wait!

In 82 days we will finally meet our daughter. I have a running countdown everywhere. On my cell phone. On my work email. On my personal email. On my husband’s computer. Everywhere. I totally need to be reminded that the pregnancy portion of this starting a family business is almost over.

The great news is that I’m really excited. And happy. Still. All things considered.

Pregnancy has been brutal. Initially, when strangers approached all smiles talking about “Oh how far along! Aren’t you so excited? Isn’t it so beautiful?” I’d fake smile and be like, “YES! Totally. Love it. The best ever.”

But I don’t over-the-top fake it anymore because what is the point in that? This shit is crazy. And has been since the sixth week. That’s not to say I’m not thankful. I’m totally thankful and anxious and all of that. But I am exhausted. And when people ask if it is the most graceful thing ever to happen to me, I struggle with being sensitive. It is rude to roll your eyes at people that are expressing happiness toward you. Plus, you never know what that person has gone through in terms of fertility so you have to be gracious and cool about it. But I struggle. I just mumble and go, “I’ve had a couple nice days. Almost over!” And I present the non-teeth smile, but without any smugness.

If it’s mildly annoying, somewhat uncomfortable, crazy inconvenient, stupid painful, emotionally stressful and it can happen to you during pregnancy – it’s happened to me. I’m sure this shit has happened to billions of women all over the universe, but I’m saying. Dumb shit keeps happening to me and I just want no one to judge me in my complaining. By the way, I must say I have been a trooper. I have missed only one day of work as a result of this brutality. It’s truly amazing. The doctor ordered a day of bed rest so that wasn’t my fault exactly. I hate to miss work. The guilt and the anxiety -- not worth it. I'm not even saving lives, but still.

Regardless, pain exists up in this dojo. I am just assuming labor will be a mother fucker. I am hoping a gorilla will throw a barrel from a rooftop right onto my head when the contractions start. I mean, to fantasize about being curb stomped into unconsciousness prior to delivery – that’s saying a lot.

So the daily vomiting lasted from week 6 to week 24. When I say daily, I mean two to three times a day. My husband called it the worst case of bulimia ever because I have still managed to get fat. He is not stupid enough or insensitive enough to actually call me fat. However, he is required to commiserate with me when I look in the mirror and go, “Dude, I’m a gorg.” He usually goes, “Babe, you’re pregnant…” and finds a way to leave the room because I will itemize each area of growth and ask for his opinion. He is a terrible liar. “I didn’t notice that” or “Looks the same.” Umhmmm.

My thighs rub together. There is actual friction, like a friction eczema. Cool rash in there. Fuck.

Dimples and cellulite. Luckily I can only see what’s in front in me. I once tried to examine my back fat but upon turning around, I struck a sciatic nerve and heat/pain radiated through my butt and down my thighs and I had to sit down. And cry.

My face. Wow. With so much more surface area, I am able to have that many more clogged pores and pustules and cysts. Holler. Ooh, don’t even get me started on the mask of pregnancy. In high school, I had a history teach named Mrs. Butts and she pronounced business as “bidness.” Dead serious even though she was a real live educator. She had the worst panty lines too. Anyway, she had the mask of pregnancy (melasma) on her cheekbones and forehead. She wasn’t pregnant. I hated her. And now, this is karma. I have that shit.

The only place where I like the fat? My toes. I have long Filipino finger toes. Google Nicole Richie’s toes. She must got some Lou Diamond Phillips in her ass because her toes are fucked up. I’d say mine are in that range. Maybe not as brutal but I only say that because she can’t have everything – good skin, cash, Lionel Richie on speed dial and unlimited access to all the clothes. Therefore, Nicole Richie, your toes suck. How about that? Yeah, mine. Now that they’ve filled out – looking kinda fly.

On Barack Obama Day, the doctor discovered a white speck on my baby’s heart. She said that this appears in 10% of “normal” babies and my baby might be fine. But she did say that it is a marker for Downs Syndrome. She said in my age group (yes, I’m old enough to be told about my age “group” with a compassionate pause and then a procession of the bad news) the likelihood of Downs is 1 in 700. With this white speck, it’s now 1 in 300. She offered me an amniocentesis to rule it out. But if you do the amnio, the risk of miscarriage is 1 in 300. I’m not necessarily a math person, but I am an alarmist. I know in my heart that the probability that my baby is “normal” is highly likely. However I was not in a place where I could rationalize the true probability of good news. I started crying.

I agreed to the amnio. Brutal. Bed rest. Thought I’d like it. Nope, felt trapped. Waited days for the results. Cried sometimes. Brutal. The bill came. Brutal. Baby’s fine! High five. The doctor did tell me that if I felt sick or suffered a fever within the next two weeks to most definitely call. Fevers were one of the indicators that you may be miscarrying from the amnio. She said two weeks tops to see or feel symptoms of miscarriage.

Yup. Sure enough.

Two weeks later. Exactly two weeks later I had a fever. 102. You’re supposed to call when it hits 101. For some reason, I am scared to call the doctor. Like, I’ll be annoying or something. Or they'll tell me another bad thing. So I never call. That’s so bad. I have girlfriends that call if their pinky toe tingles. I just don’t call. And in this case I knew I had to call but I had definite fear. Hardcore, paralyzing fear. But a part of me really felt it was just a fever and yet I was so scared.

My husband said I have to call. He was in a state of panic. I could see he was tripping. I called. I told the doctor I’m really hot, sweating and my stomach feels tight.

She said, “Do you have contractions?” I said, “Um. Does that shit hurt?”

She said, “Not necessarily. But you will feel tight in your abdomen…”

I said, “Oh yeah. I’ve been feeling that for a couple days.” I had no idea that feeling wasn't "normal" because everything feels weird. All the days are "off" and so I have no barometer for what is abnormal.

She said I needed to go to the hospital as soon as possible.

Get there. Hooked me up to an IV drip. A fetal monitor. Totally having contractions. Did all kinds of sonograms – vaginal and what not. Baby was in there breach. Sitting Indian style with her face facing my back. Like she was lighting cones and meditating. On the screen, all I could see were her butt cheeks. She’s so adorable. Stayed at the hospital to hydrate for four hours. I have since been so scared of dehydration, I drink nearly 12 bottles of water a day. No exaggeration. I pee a lot. And my hands are dry from all the washing. Totally worth it though. Baby girl needs liquids. After all the tests and stuff, they said she's fine.

Now they think I have gestational diabetes. There’s no way to know just yet. At the three hour test where you have to fast overnight – hmph. They gave me the glucose drink to test my tolerance, I violently threw it up within 30 minutes. In front of everyone in the lobby at the lab. I sounded like a one-man grind core metal band. I was going off. Vomiting like it was for cash money hundred dollar bills. For like three full minutes, six or seven hurls in total. Orange glucose drink spewing from my nostrils and tear ducts and mouth. Insanity. I tried to start cleaning up the walls that I just destroyed with my vomit, but they told me not to worry about it. I felt really bad about that. They sent me home. Once you throw up, the test is over. I have to go back to try again tomorrow. Cool life.

I will say that I have successfully managed to avoid the big baby warehouses. I went exactly one time to the big baby Costco place to buy the “snoogle” because my heartburn is out of control and I need this special long pillow to prop me up in certain places so I can get at least four hours of sleep. I don’t sleep by the way. Can’t for some reason. Anyway, there is something wrong with me. In all baby retail experiences I get clammy and sweaty. The book store, the baby clothes section at Century 21. All retail baby shit makes me uncomfortable for some reason. I get hot flashes. It’s overwhelming. I actually started silently crying to myself in the stroller section at the baby Costco. I feel intensely guilty because I correlate not wanting to be in those stores with not wanting to have a baby but it's so not the case. I want the baby really badly. I love this baby. But I hate this store and these hemmorhoids and this waddling and this vomiting and this nausea and this acne and these needles and this exhaustion, this dizziness and is that my gas? Really? Damn. Sorry. Ugh, my nipples look like Flavor Flav too. Black and crusty.

So yeah. I don’t go in those stores. Just like I intended to from the beginning, I cut and pasted a friend's registry. I am not a bad person. I am not a lazy person. I swear. I just can't be in that store. I changed the colors and stuff, but still. Made my life way way easier.

This baby better poop glitter and cry tears of gold. I love her so much but if I could grow her in a Petri dish, I would. I just can’t wait til she’s on the outside with me so we can hang out and cuddle and I can look at her face and know that this is entirely worth it. I know it is. But I want to feel it already. March 25. I’m so ready. I'm all read up on breastfeeding even! Yes, I am going to man up and breastfeed and bond with Little Miss Thing all organic and natural like. I say that. And then you'll read a blog about how I ripped my nipple off and threw it down the stairwell in frustration, but still. I am mentally prepared for the challenge as of now.

Now, does anyone know where to find a baby dashiki? I saw one years ago at a head shop and like a stupid ass, I did not buy it. It was the cutest thing I have ever seen and have not been able to find one since. My daughter needs a dashiki. She's fabulous like that. Don't think she doesn't already have the tiny gold bangles. Baby girl is about to be laced.

Oh, none of this will make sense or have a cohesive order. I ramble non-stop now. You thought it was bad before. It's deep now. This is the pregnant verson of myself trying to write something so please forgive. I have been struggling with not making sense for weeks now and it will help explain my absence.

I was huge in that photo, but I'm way way way bigger now. Everyone thinks I'm 7 months along and I am a mere 4. I felt movement in there the other day. I thought I was supposed to get misty-eyed and hear that Lion King song Can You Feel The Love Tonight in the background, but instead I was a little grossed out. I felt guilty right after I felt gross and then I felt happy. I was just taken aback that a baby the size of a baked potato is in there getting her ghetto pilates on. It's a little weird.

So anyway, my friend Brad took this one of me sitting with his mama at his boyfriend's fashion show last month. You see, I do get out there and do things. I just don't really write about them much because I am vomiting and miserable. Well, actually I don't get out there and do much. This was the last exciting thing I did. Thanks for having me Christian!

The next exciting thing on the horizon for me is Election Day which is also the day I find out if it's, in fact, a little lady that has caused me to come down with the following: massively clogged pores, constipation, acne, vomiting of white foam and bile and sometimes an entire breakfast, nausea 24/7 even in my sleep, sciatica (Shorty warned me about this kind of shooting pain), general laziness about my appearance, bizarre hair growth in awful places, patches of dry skin (oh hell no), hard ass fingernails, fucked up (no other words) leg cramps, gas, hyperpigmentation about the face and chest, absolute terror and most curiously, pure bring-me-to-tears joy amidst all of the above.

Yes, he or she will be named Obama Beck in honor of Election Day actually. Hot right?

In three weeks, I'll be halfway there. I am both mystified and scared as hell. So wait? I'm going to be in brutal pain which will include ripping and pulling and cramping and then an afterbirth which, hello! Need I say more? Have you seen a photo of that shit? Dude. I'm scared. And then after all of that, I'm going to be a mom? Like, have my own little person to shape in the world. I will have my own little person that will know right from wrong and be kind to people because I said so and that there's no other way to live, really. This person will be the total living symbol of how bomb ass it is that my husband and I are feeling each other the way we do. I can't wrap my head around loving someone this much but I'm here.

I'm at this point! Who the hell?

In no time, there will be a Baby Beck all cuddly, batting her long ass eyelashes at me and then shortly thereafter I'll be removing her bedroom door when she's 16 and thinks she's grown enough to be having private conversations on the phone all hours of the night with that love interest up the street that ain't up to no good. Ugh! I am making myself so sick I absolutely just cannot wait! And yet, I'm sad that it will all go by so quickly.

You see! This is why I don't write much. I don't even know what I'm saying. I am so out of my mind tripping off this baby I can't even put the words together.

So yeah. Sorry about the no news. But no news is good news. If this site goes black, then that's bad news but let's stay positive. The doctor says I'm totally healthy and that everything is normal. Well it's probably not normal that I have zero interest in going to the big baby warehouse supply Costco kind of stores to register. So little interest that I plan on cutting and pasting portions of a friend's registry but I'm saying. There's still a part of me that while happy as hell is in total disbelief that this is even happening. Even with all the signs and symptoms. I had the nerve to buy skinny jeans today. You see, denial and yet glee. It's hard to explain.

My girlfriend tried to make me look at strollers today and I was like Please don't. She's like, "You're freaking out! You don't want to deal with this right now, do you? This shit is getting real, huh?" I insisted I was doing no such thing - freaking out! Hmph. Stroller shopping is like picking out a toilet to me. So many options. Everyone will see it. Do I have taste? Does anyone else have this toilet? Does this even work? What is this knob here? I mean, is it excessive to get the Philippe Starck toilet? Ugh. Babe, you pick. That's how I feel about strollers.

What was I saying? Yes.

This is probably the second time in my life where I have felt speechless, without words, no explanation. I am a very verbal and expressive person by nature but this? I don't know what to say. Ever. I just say what it is I feel at the moment. I just gagged and so I feel like shit but there is an underlying excitement with all of that. If Justin Beck talks to the baby (too close babe, it's like a megaphone for the peanut for real but that is sweet) I get a feeling that I have never felt before for my husband. Like, I should have these feelings of unconditional love and know this feeling intimately but this is next level shit. This is supersonic crazy love. Like how Brad must feel about Shiloh considering she is the first fruit of his crazy cheater love for old girl, a person I love to just look at regardless of the man-thievery that I do not stand behind. But I'm saying - it's that level crazy.

It's as though all my senses are crunk. I feel everything intensely. Sickness and greatness -- it's almost all the same. When I'm standing in the aisle at the grocery store trying to decide between Apple Jacks and Cocoa Krispies and I know full well my thighs are touching beneath my two-sizes too big house dress, I am in love with this baby and with my husband and I think these things all at once. It's an internal stream of thoughts that goes, "Thighs touching I got a lot of nerve up in here oh shit I'm going to have his baby I need to sit down ooh Justin loves pineapples I love him fuck Apple Jacks or Cocoa Krispies..." and it goes on and on like that.

Can I just say this? Randomly in the car yesterday, my husband goes, "Oh yeah babe. I designed our family crest a couple months ago. It's sick." He goes on to explain the design to me. It's genius! Justin Beck is the shit at designing stuff that feels iconic. Look no further than his reinterpretation of the Puerto Rican flag for Glassjaw. I said, "Really?" He said, "Yeah, I'm silkscreening all the baby's clothes with it. It's gonna be fucking hot." I don't know if he even knows that I burst into tears later that day thinking about how thoughtful and sweet this is. First of all, I had no idea he was making a family crest! And I certainly didn't know our baby would be hooked up with a full uniform. We're talking varsity jackets, karate pants, onesies, hoodies, knit caps. The baby will live in Timberland boots too, stuntin' like her daddy. I am so disgusting. I find all this entirely too charming and too precious. UGH!

Um.

See?

I've lost my mind.

Can't help it.

Love this baby. Love this life right now. Not so much the vomiting though. But I'm saying.

My second cycle charting, I got a triphasic chart. All the message board ladies (no I was too scared to actually log on and join the conversations but I lurk) and even TCOYF – the real live software – was like, "Yo take a pregnancy test. It's highly likely you're pregnant."

I was out of control. So excited, I couldn't stand to be around myself. The days of my self-diagnosed "unexplained fertility" I found it rare to be happy and unfortunately, I am only comfortable when I'm most pessimistic. Sure enough, I tested for four days straight with the expensive digital pregnancy tests and they were all negative. I got my period soon after the negative fourth test and spent the morning bawling like an asshole in bed. Blubbering about some girl I'd just seen on Intervention that was addicted to heroin, still using, while she was pregnant as shit. I was mad at her! So irrationally mad at her. I felt bad a couple hours later, realizing how terribly jealous and disgusting my behavior had been considering she and the baby died from her addiction which is, honestly, a disease. And yes, you can beat it. But damn, sometimes you can't and I feel sad about that. So there was random, long-winded nonsensical crying and feeling sorry for myself.

My period finally ended. I visualized my egg eking its way out of my ovary, probably for like 10 minutes for every hour. Some book told me to visualize. I would wake up and go to bed thinking about what the hell could possibly be wrong with me. One night, after I already ovulated though, I dreamt about hostile cervical mucus. I didn't even know where that terminology came from and why that random celebrity (Pete Wentz) said it to me in my dreams. I must have read about it, but forgotten that I read about it. I was convinced that's what I had. I Googled and then bought the lube that remedies that issue so I'd have it for my next cycle. My husband, who is now more so on board with the seeking of answers as desperately as I am, was like, (laughing) "Yeah babe, you have evil cunt snot." I shot him a dirty look, and he was like, "No, but for real."

I went into charting my third cycle with half a black heart. I rolled my eyes when my alarm went off at 6 indicating it was time to take my temperature. I'd log on to my little TCOYF all late in the evening to record my numbers, not first thing in the morning. I'd forget which numbers I had. If my temperature was 96.69, I'd make a mental note that it was a nasty palindrome. But sometimes, they were off numbers and harder to remember like 97.31 and I'd say something like "Thirty-one today, alive and well. Miss Jones fired from Hot 97." But I'd still be all foggy by the time I had to put it in the computer.

I couldn't watch television. I purposefully avoided all TLC morning programming. A Baby Story. Bringing Home Baby (when you should have left that baby at the hospital if you plan on sleeping with him on the bed with all those damn pillows, ya assholes!) – all too much to take. Commercials, sitcoms. Everywhere, some lady was pregnant. I swear on my life that movie Knocked Up is always always on. Justin Beck is scared to even flip past it because at any moment, I could just unzip my face and elbow him in the ribs for no good reason.

I did really well at my job even though I was in no mood and so I was congratulated by really important people. Even though I shouldn't have, I drank wine with dinner.

Later in the week, my husband picked me up from work late and took me to the expensive sushi place on that side of town where most of the clientele acts all entitled and annoying. We go every now and again when the mood strikes. The food is that good. The people-watching is even better. Anyway, I had sake at dinner. And all kinds of raw shit.

I only had sex twice during my fertile period and not even on my ovulation day. He got brutalized for that shit. Enter Sybil. Wait, hold up. You don't want to have sex today? But today is the day though. "Justin Beck, I'm fucking ovulating today. Not tomorrow, not the next day. Not next week when you randomly 'feel up to it.' This is a team effort! I don't care that you been at work in the heat all day. Go fuck yourself then. Waste the babies. Go ahead! I hate your guts. Do you want to have Outback for dinner though, ya piece of shit!"

Actually, I only had sex four times in that 28-day cycle. Begrudgingly, at that. Umhmm, I was real stank.

The diary goes like this:

Entire cycle – all hope is lost.

June 26 I went in for an HSG test. They see if your ovaries are blocked. The test was painless even though I read on the Internet that it would be a nightmare. Doctor says I'm not blocked. I cried. You just want answers at this point. I almost would prefer something was wrong with me so I could try to fix it. I know that's irrational, but that's how you get to thinking.

Thursday July 10, 9 days past ovulation – I'm kinda mad at Justin Beck (still) for not wanting to get down on July 2, the day TCOYF told me I was going to ovulate. Plus, he had to go to California on business and decided to let me know mere days before. Not that it even matters, but let me try to go all about the country on two days' notice and let's see how well that goes over with him. Umhmm. I'm, again, irrationally upset about this. "It's not about the trip, freak. It's the double standard." He leaves in the morning for work at 6 a.m. and goes straight to the airport after work at 7 p.m. so I don't see him at all for the whole day. I feel really sad about it. Like, I shouldn't have been stank and please let the plane land successfully. I had all that shit going on. I caught up with some friends I hadn't seen in a while. Stayed out until 10 p.m. Look at her go!

Friday July 11, 10 days past ovulation – I take a pregnancy test just to see if I should guilty about having that drink three days before. Nope. One pink line. Cool life. I hate everyone.

Saturday July 12, 11 days past ovulation – Justin gets home at 6 in the morning. Takes a shower, gets in bed with me for exactly five minutes of cuddling and he heads right back out to work. He's printing one billion shirts for a major chain department store that sells anything from guns to ovulation predictor kits (at a good price, might I add). I take another pregnancy test. Knowing it will be negative, I turn on the shower and get ready for work. I live my life and come back to the test a full 10 hours later. Yeah, you're only supposed to look at it within the first 10 minutes but a negative is a negative so whatever. Sure enough, 10 hours later it is negative.

Sunday July 13, 12 days past ovulation – At 6 in the morning, I take my temperature. Still high. Small output of joy. Small. I take a test. I leave it alone while I pack for The Hamptons. I'm leaving for a personal day. Without Justin. He doesn't believe in personal days. He has to work Monday and that's that. This is monumental shit for me. I never take days off. I do not plan vacations. I don't even much show up late. I don't do half days. I have insane guilt issues when it comes to shirking work responsibilities so I just don't do it. I had perfect attendance all my life. Yes, even senior year of both high school and college. I was an asshole. Didn't know then that it doesn't matter. At all. I'm meeting Bossman at his house out there in the evening and we plan to eat, tan, watch Flipping Out and drive around looking at celebrity homes the following Monday. Then Tuesday, it's back to work for me.

So I'm packing for my little vacation. Justin is still sleeping now. He should be. It's only 7 in the morning. At 7:30, I look at the test as I am cleaning up the bathroom countertop.

Bitch?

Wait a goddamn minute.

Ladies is pimps too?

Yooooo!

That's a line. It's faint as hell, but it's a line.

On top of the clean counter, I dump out the trash to find yesterday's test to see if I missed a faint line. There was a pink dot. Tiny. The human eye that is not TTC couldn't see that shit. And an evaporation line. Like the white test line that would turn pink if you were pregnant was clear and the test itself was white. Like a white on white striped duvet cover. I'd never seen that before. I compared the two side by side. Pink dot with evaporation line on 11 DPO and faint pink line on 12 DPO. I can't believe it.

I shake Justin awake. Holding the 12DPO test in my free hand very gently.

"Babe, do you see a line! Do you see it?"

He replies, "No." And he rolls over all sleepy.

But you didn't even open your eyes, fool!

This is unacceptable.

I turn the lights on bright as they can go. And open a window. Super light shines through the room.

"Babe, sit up. For real. I'm not messing around. I know last month and the month before, and the month before, I said I was eating for two and I just knew I was pregnant and it was a false alarm, but for real. I see a line this time!"

He sits up and looks at it and says, "It's a small line. Relax."

He doesn't read the books. He doesn't know that there is no such thing, really, as a false positive. Only false negatives. He doesn't know because he doesn't read the books, I tell you! He says it's the astigmatism, but whatever.

He then goes on to say that the test is unreliable because I bought them online for 60 cents a piece from Canada. I had to buy my shit in bulk because last cycle, I was saving all my negative pregnancy tests and ovulation sticks. And then, in a burst of common sense, I realized that was bad chi up in here and I threw all that shit out. By accident, I had thrown out the digital ovulation predictor thing that cost me $40. So I had to scale back on my budget for expensive brand name pregnancy tests and I found these cheap ones online. The dollar store up the street was out of the cheap ones with the only Spanish instructions. And yes, I had bought them all in the previous two cycles.

He then says, "Let me take a test. It'll probably be positive."

Laughing, I said, "You're an asshole."

He gets up from bed and rifles through my underwear drawer where I keep all pregnancy related paraphernalia and he takes a test out. I follow behind him into the bathroom and I pull out a paper cup – the same famous NY coffee cups I used for coffee service at my wedding. I liked peeing in them. It made me feel closer to Justin somehow because every morning that I saw the cup, I thought of my wedding day. It's like using my rabbi's business card as my bookmark for TCOYF. Just little reminders.

He pees in the cup. We're married. I watch all this go down and he hands me his sample.

I perform the test and within moments it is negative.

"I'm not pregnant," he says, still sleepy leaning on the countertop with his eyes half open.

And I say, "But dude! I AM!"

He says, "Take another test and let's compare."

I don't think I have any more pee in me but I push at my stomach (scientifically) and make pee appear magically. A tiny bit.

I perform another test.

Faint line.

I put the tests in my purse. To keep them close to my heart for the whole day. I'm living on a mother fucking prayer for the whole day.

I drive out to The Hamptons that evening. I can't even concentrate. I get lost 5 times. It's one highway, one road and then turn left. Not that serious, but I get lost. I stop to get gas, right behind Matt Lauer who looks like he as the whooping cough. He looked rough as shit. I wanted to tell him to Google our names together so that my Britney blog would show up, but I refrained. He didn't have socks on. Again.

You're not supposed to tell people until 12 weeks.

But I rush into the driveway and pull the tests out of my purse. Bossman greets me and is like, "No!"

He hugs me. And he's like, "No! This isn't even real!"

I'm like, "Dude, I'm telling you!"

He starts saying my daughter's name to me. "Oh my God! ____! ____!" You can't tell your baby names, you know.

We agree not to talk about it for the whole night or the following Monday. We're suspicious and superstitious, supersonic and shit.

We ate grilled monk fish and grilled vegetables for dinner. We lounged around on art furniture and we "not" talked about it by looking at each other with raised eyebrows, hands on mouths and then changing the subject even though words were never spoken.

Monday morning I woke up and took my temp. High (the temp) as hell.

ANOTHER POSITIVE PREGNANCY TEST!

I run to Bossman's room and put the test on his bed. He shoots up out of bed and is like, "HOLY SHIT!"

And then, "Wait. Did you just pee on that? Get that off my sheets girl."

We laughed. But it's a dark ass line. Like, for real for real.

It's six in the morning. I call Justin. He tells me to relax, not to jump around and to just relax.

"Let's not get excited," he says. He explains he doesn't want me to be upset, God forbid something happens blah blah blah. Let's relax and wait until your period is missing for a whole month.

A WHOLE MONTH?

I'm like, BITCH (said it in my DMX voice). I can't believe this.

It's happening. I am so pregnant. It's my turn. Could you ever believe it? I am so thankful that my husband's health was okay, that I was okay! Mentally not so much, but we all knew that from Jump Street. And for some reason, I think this baby knew damn well that my mother-in-law would be very upset if I had gotten pregnant in the two years that I wasn't on the pill all not yet married to Justin. How could a baby show so much respect in its non-existence?

I wrote all of the above 12 weeks ago. I could not wait for the day that I got to yell it from the Internet mountain tops and share the news with you! I am three months and one day pregnant today. I am sick as a dog and yet happy as a clam.

I throw up daily (and nightly). Vomiting is a state of perpetual being, actually. I have the worst migraines you could ever imagine. I am constipated. I am seasick non-stop. I gag just pronouncing the word "vomit." I cannot get comfortable at all. I produce more saliva than Cujo. I am craving burnt pancakes. My face is fat as fuck, Real World fat. My rings don't fit. I started showing at 6 weeks. Yeah, yeah people say that's impossible but at a mere 6 weeks there was no denying there was a mother fucking snake on this mother fucking plane. Every little old sunbathing lady I encountered on my vacation in Aruba (yes, I took one) two weeks ago with my in-laws could not believe I wasn't even out of my first trimester and everybody thinks it's twins up in here. It ain't. It's one big ass baby in my little body. Trust me, I have already cried some about how big Justin Beck's head is. He was probably a big-headed ass baby and I get spasms in my lady parts just thinking about the pain that will exist in this dojo.

Even having said all that, this is the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. Just think, 36 years ago today, my mother, yes The Adorable Mercy was pregnant for the first time in her life. My baby is due March 25, 2009. My sister was born March 22, 1972.

I get my second sonogram Friday. The baby will look way more baby-ish although at only 8 weeks I clearly saw a head and arms and feet – she (I really think it's a girl) wasn't a blob. All the other pregnant ladies I know said their babies at 8 weeks were hard to make out and did not look like little babies. Yes, I'm dead seriously saying my baby is photogenic already! I'm talking crazy, all proud and mom-like. Don't worry – my hair is still long for now. I am so excited it's just plain stupid. If I could kiss my belly, I would.

And finally, Justin Beck is fixing to by my baby daddy. I've always wanted so badly to say that. Thank you so much for all your congrats and mazel tovs. Much appreciated.

P.S. Justin Beck would like you to know that all along he knew his boys could swim and that it was, in fact, me with my "dusty pipes." Hmph. (Small voice: I think it was the HSG that pushed things along too actually, but I will never admit that to him).

I'm pregnant.

(:

I am now on a prenatal vitamin that has that disgusting concentrated vitamin smell that reminds me of raccoon urine. The raccoons are back by the way. I drink green tea every day to help with the cervical fluid (ugh). And I take folic acid and Vitamin C (for my skin, really, I admit). And yes, I prop my legs up post-coitus (love hate that word) like a freak.

I am also not as depressed and pessimistic as I was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago? Meltdown city. Melting the fuck down, for real. Like, ugly face child of war crying at the mere thought of a negative pregnancy test. A friend announcing she’s pregnant? Fucking forget it – windows open and I’m about to jump out this bitch while ugly face crying. Shit was deep. Poor Justin Beck didn’t know what to do with me. He just sat there at the edge of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Umhmm, a blanket. Because I had this fit at 1 in the morning which required that I move to the sofa downstairs so as not to disturb my hard-working husband’s sleep. But my Feds-just-done-broke-up-the-fundamentalist-camp style crying woke his ass anyway and he came down the stairs, bundled up, without the first clue of what to say to me.

“Melissa.”

“Melissa.”

“Melissa, dude…”

“Melissa, babe. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“Melissa. You gotta relax. It’ll be …”

Of course, when I hear the word “relax” the tailspin truly gets momentum and I become Sybil. Sophia. All kinds of crazy. You told Harpo to beat me? He consoled me by promising to get the semen analysis as soon as possible. Good thinking, babe.

That night ended (or morning started) with a batch of brownies and a good long Google session. I was trying to figure out how to get some fertility acupuncture on Long Island. Um, y’all don’t have that out here or something? Anyway, he agreed to get the test. We got the happy results and I am feeling lots better.

Lots better.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still crazy and obsessed, but I’m not out loud with it. Plus, I have a soft space to land when I’m sad. I can express my feelings freely without being judged to my family and close friends. Well, actually, I have tried to talk to Mercy about all this shit but I’m afraid it’s a bit too complicated. So she doesn’t get the day-to-day struggle details anymore. I get very frustrated talking to my mom. I feel guilty about it too. But shit, she’s confused and there’s no way to explain this so forget about it.

I called this woman at the top of the week to say Justin Beck’s sperm works. And then I gave her some back story on my test results, a refresher because I don’t think she’s a very good actual listener. I love her to pieces, I do. But I don’t think she absorbs the information the same way I would, or you would. So I’m giving her the information. Like, a whole five minute telephone paragraph’s worth of good juicy clinical pregnancy talk that ended with, “So we both checked out. I ovulate and his sperm works so the doctor said I can resume regular sex every other day the week I ovulate and hope for the best! I’m so relieved!” Smile, smile.

There was a pause.

Silence.

Finally, Mercy Howard goes, “So go get dee pertility! When you gonna make dose baby, Meleesa!”

The fuck?

She then launched into this doozy:

I am watching dis singer on dee Ellen DeG…DeGen…dat one Ellen lesbian show. Oh my god, Meleesa. Dis singer, I need dat CD. He is Pilipino and oh my god, good singer. He is dee singer por dat group Journey.

“Journey was on Ellen, mom?”

Oh yes. Journey. He is Pilipino. He is good singer, Meleesa. Can you pind that CD por me?

“Mom, I don’t think Journey was on Ellen. They’re like old school.”

“No ees not. Dey are on dee TB yesterday. I watching dat one. Can you pind it?”

I just agreed to find it. Hung up and vowed to keep it simple on the baby tip for her. I won’t be calling home with any more pregnancy details. We’ll just chit chat about the price of Tide at WalMart and whether or not her best friend Eula May will be visiting this summer so they can be mall walking partners. Totally.

UPDATE: My husband just Googled and said Journey does have a new Filipino singer. Mercy, I apologize. Years and years of figuring out what she is saying and I got jaded. She knew what she was talking about. And I will be finding the CD like a good daughter should. Sorry mom.

But I am okay. Really okay. No meltdowns. No internal hate speech.

As a matter of fact, last night I went to dinner with a girl that’s 11 weeks pregnant. My husband and her husband do business together, but we’ve been going to dinners every now and again. We get to talking and it’s to the point now where if she asked me to take her to the airport between the hours of 8 am to 2 pm and then 7 pm to 11 pm, I would without hesitation. She’s a friend like that. So she’s pregnant and her bump is lovely. I find myself drawn to her because I get the sense that she has a level of sensitivity about her. Like, saintly shit. She knows what not to say or ask me and she’s warm about it. If you are TTC, then you know about that whole sensitivity thing. It’s deep and it’s so important and yet so often overlooked. Words are powerful.

I think I spent a good hour asking every question under the sun and then we looked at her sonogram pictures. The baby is adorable already! I left the dinner, not with a sense of doom and gloom about my own predicament, but instead with over-the-moon happiness for her and hope for myself and Justin.

Then tonight, your girl Melissa – that’s me! – is going to a barbeque hosted by another pregnant couple. Look at her go! I’m just walking right through the fires here! I’m keeping my shit together! I’m really proud of myself.

It seems like an easy enough task. Socialize on Long Island with like minds, homeowners expecting babies. But, emotionally it’s not that easy for me! I find it difficult to maintain a respectful sense of my happy self, to not become self-involved and totally insular with my depression. Plus, um gross, to be envious is so dangerous. So when it comes to this baby shit, I have to sit down with myself and say, Who do I want to be and what do I want to project? And when I’m fucked up inside, it’s ugly and I don’t want that. Justin Beck really doesn’t want that. So I have to work hard at this. Accepting invitations to places and events that require a glimpse into the world of easily conceived babies is a huge, brutal step but I’m a G and I can do it. Walking right through the flames, I tell you.

Fingers crossed for all my new cyber friends on the conception tip. No, I will not send baby dust, dancing glittery icons and hugging emoticons across your screen. I have not gotten that deep just yet but I will keep my fingers crossed for you.

And yes, I’ll say it because I mean it. For all the ladies out there with their first BFPs (positive pregnancy tests) or first babies, CONGRATULATIONS AND DO THE WOP! I’m so happy for you. (small voice) If you have any leftover OPK sticks, holler at your girl.

Again thank you, you, you and you for all your well wishes. It really does help and I appreciate you. Watch this video. I’m corny, but I’m saying…

I never wanted to chart. I either purchased or was given all the necessary tools – calendar, thermometer, books about lady parts -- to start charting five months ago and I just didn’t want to. I could not face the fact that normal happy couple relations inside of a normal happy relationship did not reward me with a baby and I’m pissed off about that.

Well…

The emotion surrounding the non-baby has range. It goes from standard pessimism (the regular Melissa Beck brand) to annoyed to angry to holy shit oh my g-d am I crying alone listening to Wendy Williams on the drive home? Wow! I can’t believe I care this much to start crying with absolutely no trigger. Heeeeey! How you doing? (And to think, all these “donkeys” just get pregnant, just like that.)

Then there’s resigned. Some days resigned feels more like who gives a fuck? I’ll just stay skinny and vain and pour excess attention on the flatness of my torso to distract me from the fact that I hate my own ill functioning guts on the interior of said flat torso. It ain’t even that flat so I don’t know why I’m fronting.

It’s like: best friend soul mate husband, check. Mold-free, raccoon-free home filled with mid-century modern snobby furniture that I actually use freely without guilt, check. Money in the bank just in case the baby gets hungry or needs dental work (mad likely), check. A full set of culturally diverse grandparents on both sides! Who has grandparents? Everyone does, I know. But as a child, I didn’t really experience that. I had a grandmother in the Philippines and I was so little I can hardly remember knowing her. And sadly, I do not know much about her in general - not her death, not her life. Cool language barrier. It's really frustrating. Then, I had one American grandfather and he lived far away and he visited once when I was 9. He cooked me some eggs. He was adorable and tiny and well-dressed. He brought his girlfriend, yes he did. I enjoyed the irony of his name. A black man named Ivory. I would sit across the kitchen table from him and stare at him and find all the pieces of me, quietly amazed. He passed away a few years ago. I was really sad even though I didn’t know him like how people know their grandfathers in peanut butter commercials. So again, I ask. Um, what’s the problem, baby? Who do you think you are to deny my gifts?

Then I realize I am a freak. That I can’t displace the blame on a non-existent baby that it’s my responsibility to create. That I am becoming a crazy person, talking to myself. Having entire wide-awake dream sequences and fantasies about a person that does not exist. I am out of my mind. I always wonder if I’m getting lead poisoning from my thermometer, you know.

I even tried to convince myself that I had a learning disability to avoid charting. One look at all the boxes and symbols and I was like “Math? Oh hell no.” And I promised myself, with a timeframe, I’d only keep “trying” the regular way of you know, lay down with the man and stay optimistic. Like, “okay we’ll go three more weeks of the regular way and then I’ll try that thermometer.” Three weeks pass, cool period. Fine, three more weeks once my period ends, hardcore regular way and then maybe I’ll take the thermometer out of the package.

It was like I managed to make myself believe that if it required “work” or extraordinary note-taking that I was somehow damaged, stupid or incompetent. I don’t even really have self-esteem issues that deep, but I was just so mad at myself at the top of this unfortunately labor-intensive “journey” that I deemed it punishment to take my temperature every morning at 6 am and then to snoop all around and indicate which kind of cervical mucus I’m experiencing – yo, doing way too much. I will not, I will not! test the positioning of my cervix until they tell me that I am unlike every other human woman and I have a horn growing out of my back which is somehow obscuring my fallopian tubes and that it’s absolutely necessary. I’m all for body science – pilonidal cysts, ingrown toenails – love all that shit (on other people). But digging around myself for science? No thanks.

Ugh charting. It’s essentially staying after school, writing “I can’t get pregnant” on the chalkboard 365 times for every day of the year that I can’t get pregnant and then having to clean the chalkboard. Oh no, that murky water and that smell. That’s what charting is like to me. Can't you see I've learned the lesson though? YES it's difficult getting pregnant. Nothing in life is fair. You can't always have what you want. If you want something bad enough, you have to work hard. YES YES YES I got the memo in kindergarten. Shit.

I know! I know! Get positive. Get positive. Totally. I will. But I’m having a moment today. I started crying to Mariah Carey’s “Bye Bye” okay! I am fucking out of control right now!

Speaking of Mariah Carey, to the Glassjaw fans on dot net, I know the reason behind the coding of Last Lisp being filed as Mariah. It has nothing to do with me although the Beck household loves Mariah. He is a liar if he says he does not like her. I did not "own" you, I promise. I would not do that to you and I think you all deserve more than that. I, like you, am tired of the fuckery and want the album out already as well. I nag daily on your behalf so we are friends in that respect. K?

Okay now, where was I? The TCOYF icons are pretty adorable. And fine, I have learned some useful things.

Oh shit.

Did you know that it’s not a monthly appendicitis? That’s it’s ovulatory pain!

All this time, I thought my fucking guts would burst through my bellybutton once a month. I’d have this weird urgent pee that smelled like I ate asparagus coupled with this nagging tingling pain. I’d assume I had a UTI and I would keep going to the doctor and he would keep saying, “it’s nothing again, Mrs. Beck. I don’t know what to tell you.” I’d recount the symptoms again and again. Tingling, discomfort, only on this side, for maybe two days, sometimes less, bloating, minor cramps like my period is coming but it’s so not. Are you sure it’s nothing! And he’d look at me like I was a fucking asshole, like I enjoyed wasting his time. Sure, maybe he’s still annoyed that I made him Google Morgellon’s that one time I thought I had it. But I had real tingly pain. Fine, I didn’t have the fibers. But I had fucking tingling pain in my abdomen, fool. READ UP ON WOMENS HEALTH already, freak.

So this is today. Tomorrow might be better. But I doubt it. The entire baby train came to a screeching halt last week when Justin Beck left for tour, a day before I ovulated. DAMN YOU! He can manage to fly to Ireland and play the guitar and eat Lebanese food, but somehow can’t make it the 10 paces to the lab to get those swimmers checked. He just got home. I have yet to say this passive aggressively about the sperm analysis because I am in sweet mode because I really missed him and he looks really cute and stuff. But next week, stank mode and I will be demanding about that shit so I hope he’s prepared.

The good news is for my first foray into charting, I am not half the dumbass I thought I was. I understand it! I have 7 high temps post ovulation! Eleven more to go and boom, I’m off to scour the Internet for my push present. Did you know about push presents? I didn’t. You get presents (aside from the baby) from your husband when you give birth! I was reading about it on the message boards (another world of insanity and glitter and bizarre abbreviations). Louis Vuitton and everything! I haven’t gotten a LV since the summer of 2005. Dude, we could be on to something. I need the duffel, that’s for sure. I mean, I have to get home from the hospital after the birth…