A Denial Dinner

I've decided to throw a dinner party.

Granted, I'm 36 weeks pregnant, having contractions, and still haven't packed my mommy-and-baby bags yet.

But, no, I'm cooking dinner for 15 instead.

Both the hubs and I desperately wanted to have our friends over for one more dinner before Baby Girl arrives - and we're stuck eating turkey sandwiches and leftover jars of olives for the next few months - so, we planned a dinner.

For tonight.

Dear me, what I was smoking?

By the time I normally get home from work on Fridays, I'm totally beat.

It's all I can do to get myself in the shower and wash off the I-Just-Taught-Four-Classes sweat off my body.

And that was before I got pregnant.

Now, I'm positively in a coma by the time I get home Friday afternoons.

But today, I can't be. I've got to make one more trip to the store, prep all my dishes, and cook and serve a taco-and-fajita bar for 15.

It's going to be fun. In the end. I'll be glad we did it. I always am.

But I can't help but see the irony that I haven't so much as purchased a nursing bra, but I'm obsessing over the tequila-lime marinade for my chicken.

Apparently, it's easier right now for me to entertain than to make sure I have enough giant maxi pads on hand for the post-partum recovery.

My husband had to convince me to install the car-seat yesterday.

I kept maintaining we had plenty of time.

I still haven't set up our bedroom for co-sleeping.

I still maintain we have time.

And I still haven't found the perfect "Bring Baby Home" outfit.

But, darn it, we have time!

Except we don't. We really, truly don't. (Even the midwives warned me to start getting ready. NOW!)

And, yet, here I am, browning taco meat. Slicing olives. Whipping up guacamole. Shredding cheese.

Because I totally have my priorities in line.

And because, if I don't think about it too much - if I ignore my contractions and my waddling and my ever-increasing pelvic pain - I can still trick myself into thinking that we have time.

Fajita, anyone?

***

Happy Friday, everyone! If you need me this weekend, I'll be packing up my mommy-and-baby bags.

Maybe.

Blessed and Then a Breakdown

I had fair warning that this weekend was going to be hectic.

My calendar had been full for months.

I knew what I was getting myself into.

But, being Classic Me, I wasn't really that phased.

After all, I'm a pretty high-energy person. I can get a lot done on any given day. And I'm kind of relentless when it comes to doing and joining and making things happen.

My husband calls me an "execute-r" for a reason.

Still, after a busy Friday, spent entirely on my feet, I went to bed tired.

Tired but excited.

I was going to spend all of Saturday with some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things: exercising and celebrating my baby girl.

So, when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, I was feeling chipper.

When I corralled up a bunch of my clients, I was feeling downright plucky.

And when I lined up with them at the race line for a local 5K we were all planning on running, I was, dare I say, giddy.

And then the race gun went off.

I won't go into too many details here. But let's just say I vastly underestimated how this race was going to go.

Granted, I did the entire thing. At 31 weeks pregnant. Pushing a 3 year old (one of my client's kids.) In a very uncooperative jogging stroller. On a 3.1-mile route that was made up almost entirely of rocky terrain and bumpy, uneven sand.

But the pictures of me crossing the finish line, in which I'm insanely smiling, also reveal the ugly truth: Running a 5K on a hot, humid Southern day when you're super pregnant and pushing a heavy load? Not the most athletic and graceful of moments a woman can experience.

Still, I did it. So did all my clients. We had a great time.

Except, I couldn't stay around to celebrate. I literally crossed the finish line and kept running to my car.

Because, before the race that morning, my baby shower had taken an unexpected turn.

My good friend hosting the shower here is newly pregnant herself. And sick.

Let's all take a moment of silence to ponder that.

Yeah, exactly. I have been there (so have many of you) and any woman in that position is lucky if she can sit upright long enough to focus her eyeballs without wanting to gouge them out.

The first-trimester is no joke.

Anyways, when said sick, pregnant friend called me at 7:30 Saturday morning to tell me that not only was she not up to snuff but her 1 year old was sick, too, well, we were up a creak without a paddle when it came the baby shower she was throwing for me and another pregnant friend of ours.

There was no way we could have it at her house. It wouldn't be fair to her, her son, or our (un-infected) party guests.

Still, we had 25 people expecting a party in little more than six hours and nowhere (uncontaminated) to host it.

So, we did the next most logical thing, seeing as I only live six houses down from my poor, dear sick friend.

I told her we'd just move it to my house. I'd go run my 5K, sprint home, and hope and pray I could clean my house fast enough to make it shower-presentable.

Blessedly, another friend of mine, sensing my panic, agreed to help and actually run the shower games, etc. (Part of my anxiety stemmed from the fact that now, I appeared to be hosting my own baby shower. And call me sensitive, but I was afraid of looking tacky.)

Anyways, with all hands on deck - the other pregnant friend who was also being honored at the shower jumped right in to help, too - I figured we'd just make it.

Enter me, in Whirlwind Mode.

So, yes, I ran the 5K, sprinted home, and kept running around my house, getting it ready. My husband went into work late to help me clean, but he did eventually have to leave, and I then managed to hoist a leaf into my dining room table, dig through my china, and climb on my furniture to hang streamers and decor, all while the few girls who rallied to help me cooked in my kitchen, text-ed me frantically about punch and appetizers, and tied balloons to my mailbox.

Finally, I managed to throw on a sundress, do my hair, and add some make-up about 15 seconds before the first guests arrived.

And then it was all baby games - the best being Baby Pictionary, in which one of my favorite clients screamed out, "VAGINAL BIRTH!" as her guessing option for the phrase "cut the cord," sending us all into hysterics - snacks and drinks, and the gift-opening tradition, in which I had to stop myself from crying about 18 different times because, seriously, I am so blessed to have met these women, all of whom I've known less than a year, but all of whom have embraced me because that's what we, as military spouses and mothers, do to survive and thrive.

The shower went smashing-ly. The last guests left my house at 7:45 - more than three hours after the party's original end time.

And, then, things got a little scary.

You see, about two hours earlier, I'd started to notice some nagging aches in my abdomen.

Thinking I was probably dehydrated, I downed a couple glasses of water. But I didn't stop moving because there were people in my home and a mess on every surface. If I wasn't socializing, I was cleaning.

Problem was, I noticed the aching getting worse. The pains were getting more severe. I actually kept having to stop and catch my breath from the cramps.

So, when the last guests left, I ignored my dirty kitchen and the piles of leftovers left on the buffet, and I sat down.

At this point, I was experiencing really painful cramps in my belly. And I hadn't felt Baby Girl move in hours.

I laid down promptly and started to poke my belly. She kicked right back, thank God.

But my pain got worse.

And then I noticed myself breathing rhythmically and deeply, just like we were taught to do in my birthing class.

And then, it hit me.

I think I'm feeling contractions.

I tried sitting up to get more water. And the intensity in my abdomen only got worse.

I ran to my purse to grab my cell phone, just in case. I wasn't yet convinced that I should be truly alarmed, but I wanted to have it on me, on the off chance I humored my weaker side and decided to call the midwives.

What alarmed me was that I'd had Braxton-Hicks in the past, and while slightly uncomfortable, they weren't nearly as intense as these. The pain was alarming, though not unbearable.

Still, I kept trying not to think about the fact that Braxton-Hicks aren't supposed to be painful. These were definitely not the same old Braxton-Hicks I'd been feeling.

So I lay there.

And lay there.

And lay there.

It took about 90 minutes for the pain to lessen, during which I just breathed and talked to my husband, feeling Baby Girl move around as if nothing was wrong.

It took another 30 minutes after that for the pain to go away.

More than two hours later, my face white but my "contractions" lessened, we finally breathed our first sigh of relief.

When I could finally manage it, I looked up what I'd experienced.

Apparently, I had been having contractions. Contractions brought on from exhaustion and fatigue and simply over-doing it.

It made sense, considering I'd been on my feet, adrenaline pumping, for about 16 hours straight.

Luckily, because I hadn't lost any fluids, wasn't experiencing any swelling, and, most importantly, because I could feel Baby Girl moving away, I seemed to be out of the woods. I wasn't really in any danger.

Thank God.

It was, quite honestly, the only time in this pregnancy I worried that I'd done something wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I'd hurt the baby.

Thank heavens, it seems Baby Girl is even tougher than me.

I spent the rest of the evening hobbling around, sorting through baby clothes and helping my poor husband, who blessedly cleaned up the majority of the shower mess so I could stay off my feet.

Lesson learned? I do have limits.

My body can do a lot. But it can't be pushed to the points it used to reach before. At least not right now. Not while it's growing a baby.

Combining a strenuous race with a social event in my honor that had to be unexpectedly moved to my unprepared home was too much for Pregnant Me, it seemed.

I hated to admit that. After all, I like being the "execute-r." I like being able to do it all.

Except, sometimes, I can't.

And it only took me 31 weeks into my pregnancy to find my limit.

***

Due to the fact that I was so caught up in prepping my house for the shower, I didn't take a single picture of the event. Not a one.

If there's one thing I would change about my weekend, it would be that. Because, despite my test-brush with contractions, the day had been pretty heart-warming and fabulous. I hate that I didn't capture that.

However, we do have pictures of me running that darned 5K. Because, honestly, who doesn't want to see a huge pregnant woman, sweating her face off, attempting to cross the finish line in a reasonable amount of time?

Dear me.

Anyways, I'll try and share those photos and more race adventures this week.

Until then, I'm learning to rest and realize that, at least for the next nine weeks, I can't do it all.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Rent-a-Chick

I was looking through my calendar Monday and realized that Easter is just around the corner.

And, like every holiday that's occurred while I've been gestating this baby of mine, I had the over-excited thought, "Next year, at this time, we'll be celebrating Easter with our own baby!"

I was so excited.

I was even more excited when I realized that, in a little less than two weeks, this year's Easter would be over. Which can only mean one very important thing.

All Easter merchandise will be marked way, way, way down.

In other words, it's my idea of shopping heaven.

I figured this was a prime chance to pick up a cute Easter basket, on the cheap, for Baby Girl's first Easter.

I know. I'm lame. But these are the things I get excited about these days.

Anyways, I was so beset with the idea of scoring an affordable, formerly over-priced Easter basket for my daughter's first Easter that I began to dream about the whole entire Easter experience.

I imagined us next year, Baby Girl wearing a pastel, ruffly dress and tights, complete with an Easter bonnet. I imagined her stockinged little legs crawling through the bright green spring grass, taking part in her very first Easter egg hunt. I imagined me handing her a precious stuffed bunny and her hugging it to her sweet baby chest.

Oh, it was a greeting card moment, that's for sure.

Until I went to the farmer's market Tuesday.

I was walking around, scouting out the lowest priced organic strawberries, when some man handed me a slip of pastel yellow paper.

I took it, barely giving it a first glance. After all, local produce was on the line.

It was only when I'd finished my shopping and was standing in line waiting to pay for a bag of kettle corn that I read what I thought had been a tract:
I was so shocked, I had to read it again.

Seriously? People do this kind of thing?

I mean, there's actually a market for live baby chicks out there? For children's parties?

Parents actually rent small chickens for their children's Easter egg hunts, Sunday school picnics, and the like?

And just like that, my greeting card, first-Easter-with-a-baby went crumbling down around me.

I mean, I thought I had it covered, what with the basket and the dress and the bonnet.

But no. Not these days.

Apparently, babies these days require live chicks to handle at their Easters. Babies these days are way into experiencing the real, live animal-husbandry experience.

Which means, unfortunately, my child is going to be sorely deprived in about a year's time.

Because, for the record, she will not open her eyes to find a chirping chick awaiting her on Easter morning.

I mean, are you surprised? I'm hoping to buy her Easter basket on clearance, for heaven's sake. I'm not about to shell out $20 bucks for a chick-related experience.

Call me a bad mother. Call me a cheap-skate. Call me what you will. But I think we've taken the greeting-card, picturesque nature of even our most meaningful holidays a bit too far.

I can handle the Easter bonnet and the basket full of jelly beans.

But I am drawing the line at renting live farm animals.

***

Seriously, have you all ever been to a children's party that boasted this kind of entertainment? I mean, people can't actually make money off of this kind of thing, can they?

And am I being melodramatic? Or do you agree that festivity themes are going a bit too far these days?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Party People

I like a social gathering.

Food. Drink. Chatter. The occasional awkward dance move busted out for all to see.

Parties, as they're known in some circles, are fun.

But, recently, I've noticed an abundance of a certain type of party.

A particular kind of social gathering where only women attend.

And these women attending? They buy things.

Or, rather, they are expected to buy things.

Perhaps it's my age. Perhaps it's the fact that I live on a Navy base, and these little shindigs are super-popular among the military wives.

Heck, perhaps it's just the fact that everyone and their mother has expendable income except me.

But I swear on my mother's life, I've literally been invited to no less than 30 jewelry/cooking/candle/craft/romance/toy parties over the last two months.

Just like the Tupperware parties of yore, everyone is throwing them.

My clients. My friends. My friends of friends. My next-door neighbor. The girl down the street. A stranger I walk by in the grocery store.

If I can make it through a week without someone handing me a little primary-colored postcard inviting me to so-and-so's jewelry bash, or sending me a Facebook message reminding me to RSVP for yet another make-up party, it's been a good week.

It's catching, these parties.

And, really, I don't know what to do about it.

I mean, how many over-priced sets of costume-jewelry earrings does one girl need?

And thanks to the first candle party I attended - where I actually needed things for my home - I'm pretty much OK not buying anything that smells good and lights on fire for the next three years.

But still, I get more invitations for the exact same candle party, selling the exact same candle product, just at somebody else's house every. single. week.

Fitting these things into my social calendar alone is getting taxing.

Not to mention the fact that, sometimes, it can be downright awkward.

For instance, all the rage right now are these "romance parties," where, I imagine, they sell all sorts of things that are supposed to spice up our love lives.

Though I wouldn't know, as I've made it a patent rule not to attend any of those parties.

Especially considering so many of the people that invite me to them I don't know that well or, worse yet, are my clients.

I'm not about to sit around discussing S-E-X with relative strangers.

Especially pregnant.

Heck to the no.

Still, all manner of sexy parties aside, I'm not sure what to do about this phenomenon anymore.

You really can't attend a friend's party without buying at least something. And then, if you do attend one friend's party and buy something, then you have to attend another friend's party and buy something else.

I can only purchase so many of the "bargain" items out of the catalog before someone's going to notice my M.O.

At a $100-a-plate dinner and silent auction, I'm the girl that goes for the appetizers and makes the minimal donation to a charity.

Except it's not a charity. It's a woman, much like myself, selling foundation. And I already own three bottles of the foundation she's selling.

Frankly, I'm exhausted. This epidemic has to stop.

I can only come up with so many excuses. There aren't that many nice ways to say, "I just can't come because, frankly, I don't wanna."

I'm at a loss for what to do.

So, please, I'm begging you.

Somebody.

Anybody.

Throw me a real party. A party where there's food and drink and chatter and the occasional awkward dance move busted out for all to see.

Heck, I'll bring the awkward dance moves - are there any other kind when you're pregnant? - if someone promises to invite me over without hitting me up to buy something.

Because at this rate, I'm going to need to start a separate savings account for these parties.

Sheesh. Even in my college years, partying was never this expensive.

***

The ironic part about all of this? Months ago, I'd already agreed to host a P*mpered Ch*f party in March, mostly because it's a dear friend of mine who sells the stuff, and she is a stay-at-home mom trying to make a little extra money.

But also because, at no point during the party will anyone be attempting sell me or my guests a s*x toy.

I'm also going to be very, very clear that anyone attending does not have to feel pressured to buy a single item. They will not hurt my feelings if they simply eat and run.

In fact, if they do so, they may be me new hero.

Teach me your ways, oh wise one.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!