It appears we've entered the beginnings of the "no" phase.
I have a sneaking suspicion that my "day drinking" phase might be right around the corner.

Toddlers.

Oh, hi there.

Let's pretend like it hasn't been almost a year since my last update.

We'll act like I've been writing all along, telling you about all the exciting things in my life:

Oh, Olivia is crawling!

Oh, she started walking!

And she's got six whole teeth!

There was that trip to the aquarium where I almost dropped her in the fish pond.

She fell off the couch and busted her lip once.

She likes every food except mashed potatoes, which makes me think that she is probably maybe not actually my child (I was unconscious for the birth.  It's possible, is all I'm saying.).

And most recently, my baby is now a toddler.  A big fancy pants one year old who tells jokes only she understands, throws dramatic tantrums when her every desire is not met, and explores every new place with big bright eyes that make me wish I could see the world the way she does.  We are growing and going, friends, and she is just the most fun she's ever been.

Right now, I'm in Arkansas.  The last day of our three week vacation to the homeland.  Eric had to go home last week to "make a living" or some silly something.  That is sad because we don't like to be without him, but also because that means I will be braving THREE airports/planes tomorrow with Lou all by myself.  I will probably survive, but in case I don't, please make sure Eric feels guilty for making me live on an island (wink!).

It's been such a fantastic trip.  Fall in the south is a glorious experience.  Everyone is happier, having gotten rid of the sweltering summer heat.  The leaves are turning, the colleges are footballing, the lattes are pumpkining.  I'm glad we could be here for the start of it.

Eric captured some great moments over the last couple weeks, so I'll let the photos do the rest of the talking.

See you next time, Arkansas.

Childbirth: It didn't kill me.

At forty weeks and three days of pregnancy I had an ultrasound because my doctor was all, "I think this baby is huge."

I said, "Whatev, she's measured on target at every ultrasound we've had so far.  This broad is just looking for a reason to induce me."

Radiologist said, "No, for real though.  This baby is ten pounds.  Maybe more."

"Nonsense!" I cried, "Late term ultrasounds are notoriously inaccurate!  The internet told me so!"

I was convinced to let them induce me at forty-one weeks, however, because even if that ultrasound was two pounds off, I didn't want to give my eight pound baby a chance to get any bigger.  Mama didn't raise no fool, and etc.

Well, friends, they were right.  That baby was huge.

Olivia Joyce Rolph was born October 6th, 2011, weighing in at a uterus-shattering 10 pounds 3 oz.  Her daddy and I were/are deliriously happy and exhausted.  

FULL TERM.

Tomorrow is September 1st, and so if you believe in things like due dates, then that means the she-fetus is officially in her birth month.  Being due on September 28th, however, I'm trying to keep an open mind - because nothing is worse than resenting an unborn child (or so I'm told).

I asked the Doctor the other day if while she was violating me, she happened to notice if things looked ready for baby-having, and I swear to God her eyes said, "You're going to be pregnant forever."
That's what it feels like now, anyway.  I had two close friends take the leap into parenthood over the last week, and suddenly I feel like the last pregnant woman on earth.  Really. It caused a dramatic drop in morale over in this camp.

Honestly, though, I'm not in that much of a hurry for her to get here.  It occurred to me recently that just because she's born doesn't mean I'm going to know how to care for her.  As a matter of fact, I feel like this is a pretty big flaw in our society.  You've got high school girls, coke heads, and flighty 23 year olds (ahem) out there just gettin' knocked up for no reason, and hospitals just send them home with babies!  How has this not been stopped yet?

Despite my back-and-forth feelings on the issue of childbirth/rearing, time keeps chugging along, and pretty soon this giant stomach is going to turn into a tiny baby.  In the meantime, I'm keeping myself busy by trying to figure out how in the hell you're supposed to fold a onesie.

From left to right: Jerry Garcia, Captain Calimari, and creepy/awesome old
phone toy.

The Eighth Month or: I Think My Vagina is Broken.

Okay, so, it probably isn't my vagina.
The thing is, physically speaking, I'm about as familiar with myself as Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes, before she had that emotional break-through.

What I'm saying is that there are bones in my body that I didn't even know that I had, and now they hurt a lot.
And well, that's where we are.

Things are coming in the mail every day - because, didn't you know?  Living in Hawaii means that everything you want for a child has to come from the internet! - and so that's unnerving.  We just keep unpacking boxes, staring at their contents with our heads cocked for a few minutes, and quietly pushing them into the closet.  I'm hoping parenthood is one of those things that just comes naturally once they send you home from the hospital.

Speaking of hospitals, and how I'm going to die during childbirth, OHMYGODYOUGUYSIAMGOINGTODIEDURINGCHILDBIRTH.
I really don't care that people have been doing this since the beginning of time.  There's just no way.  I've been reading "Natural Childbirth: The Bradley Way," and I just... it's going to be so awful.  There are so many things they don't tell you about pregnancy and labor until it's too late.  Personally, I think that's ridiculous.  Making teenage girls take an L&D class would be the best birth control ever.  AIDS?  Clearly not scary enough.  Start telling them about mucous plugs.  That'll keep their little legs closed until they're 40.  My stomach is turning just thinking about it, and I'm technically an adult.

There was a time in my life when I was capable of talking about more than just the goings on of my uterus, but I sure can't tell you what it entailed.  It's funny how being beaten from the inside constantly sort of gives you tunnel vision.

I know, right?  Three months since my last update and this is all I have to offer you.
I'd blame that "pregnancy brain" phenomenon, but we all know I was just as uninteresting before the hormones.  We have our first "prepared childbirth class" this Saturday, so I'm sure I'll have plenty of terrifying tidbits from that to relay to you guys.

Just under six weeks to go and... I am nowhere near being ready for this.  Yikes.

In Retrospect...

Maybe buying a book with 60,000 baby names (that will eventually turn into grown-up names, lovers of the name "Baby") was probably not a good idea for someone with my particular level of neurosis.  I was able to cut out 50% of them this week, though, when the very personable ultrasound tech exclaimed,

"Oh, yeah.  Gender?  Well. Looks like a girl...see? Leg, leg, nothing."

Thanks man.  I understand that you see a lot of prenatal vaginas, but maybe you could at least pretend that this is something to be excited about?  Eric and I looked at each other awkwardly, afraid that any display of emotion might result in a blown circuit for the suspected Robot Doctor.  Not exactly the Kodak moment you imagine when assigning your child-to-be its genitals, but I'll take it.

So, along with trying to replace the pronoun "it" with "she," we've been actively avoiding the subject of names.  How do you name a person before you even meet them?  Actually, how do you name a person even after you meet them?  Typically the people I meet already have names, and I sort of like it that way.  It's just too much pressure.  I know there have been no conclusive studies on a person's name limiting their job prospects, but I also know I've never met a Pepper Jones, M.D. or Supreme Court Justice Rainwater Adams.  I want a strong name that lends to adorable nicknames when she's little and is not emotionally crippling as an adult.  A friend of mine pointed out, though, that "she's probably just going to change it to Beyonce anyway," and so, you know, they aren't that permanent after all.  I'm going to try not to worry about it until I have to sign a birth certificate.

Next, in this week's edition of Reasons I'm Not Ready to be a Mom:

Yeah, that's exactly what it looks like.  It's called a Snotsucker, and it has ruined all of the flowery motherhood feelings I was beginning to develop.  This thing has hundreds of 5-Star reviews on Amazon.  The picture alone makes every hair on my body stand up.  Am I a terrible person?  If I'm not willing to siphon boogers out of my helpless daughter's face, how will she ever know I love her?

I've got to get away from the internet.

One final thought, America.  For the entire half-hour I sat in the doctor's office waiting room this week, I was forced to listen to that bearded guy on CNN talk about Arnold Schwarzenegger's affair like it was 9/11: The Sequal.  I don't typically comment on celebrity gossip because a) I don't own a television, and thus don't usually know any, and b) I don't care about Lindsay Lohan's vagina. However, I was completely baffled by the coverage this story was getting.  You guys, he was a celebrity and a politician.  There was no way he was going to keep his pants on for any substantial amount of time.  How is this still news?  I'm shaking my head at you, Guys Who Determine What's Important Enough to Televise for Six Hours.

To my Darling Fetus,

Here's the thing, kid.
A romantic I am not.
I laughed in the face of the first boy who tried to kiss me. 
I refuse to hold hands in public.
The day I have to have "the talk" with you will probably also be the day I hire a live-in therapist.
Emotions are not my strongpoint, is what I'm trying to tell you.

I hear my friends talking about their children in such a flowery and lovely way that I just assumed it was another chemical side effect of pregnancy, like an aversion to poisonous smells or the desire to kill everyone in the car in front of you.  I thought that once I saw your little blurb on the ultrasound I would undergo some sort of magical transformation that made me both eloquent and maternal.

Apparently, that's not really how this whole thing happens.  Because as it stands, I'm 20 weeks and 6 days into this little (enormous) adventure, and I still feel like I'm at square one.  For me, square one involves a lot of panicking - about anything, really.  Anything I can grab onto.  Did you know that your due date is during the most active month of hurricane season, for instance?  Right.  Your mom is a crazy person.  And probably, if I had to guess, not the endearing kind of crazy that they base television sitcoms off of.  It's more like the kind of crazy that inspired sedatives.

And can we talk about the word "mom" for a second?  My mom is mom.  I am not a mom.  I still don't know how to buy a properly fitting bra for myself, for Christ's sake. I have no idea how to take care of myself. If I didn't have a boyfriend who liked to sit near me sometimes, I would probably not shower that often.  How am I going to mother you?  There are a lot of awesome moms in my family, and among my circle of friends. I don't think you understand the kind of pressure I'm under here.

The truth is, underneath all of my trademark panic attacks , I'm excited to meet you.  At the very least, I'm assuming that having you out here in the real world will squash my inexplicable craving for orange chicken (really, dude?).  And I guess, as wildly unprepared as I feel for this whole thing, I think it's going to be pretty awesome.  I think that you're going to be pretty awesome. 

When I really think about it, I was sort of made to be somebody's mama.  My diet already consists almost entirely of crackers and juice, and dance parties happen to be my favorite form of exercise.  Also, I've already read all the children's books we've been stocking up on.  Beverly Cleary is our favorite, I don't care if you're a boy.

I am so, so scared of screwing this up.  But I really think it's going to be okay.  We've got a pretty good family.  Even from 4,000 miles away, I think you'll be able to feel how much they love you.  I love you too, of course, and though I have a little trouble saying it out loud in the direction of my uterus, I imagine that once you're here I'll have trouble stopping.

So, here's to us, Fetus.  Let the wild rompus start.

PS -  For the love of God, open your little prude legs at the ultrasound next week.  Calling you Fetus is bordering on inappropriate at this stage in the game.