Squee! Ultrasound pictures!
I just created a photo album on Facebook entitled: "The Mighty Ninja." I included only the 4D image of the Ninj. I tagged J. Someone promptly "liked" my new album.
Then I quickly deleted the whole she-bang.
I don't know why. It just felt too personal. Like maybe 400 Facebook friends shouldn't see my uterus. And my baby's shoulder. And the giant HomeValley head.
I save that for you guys. My real friends. That space is Ninja's, and I suppose I decided that that space will remain his/her. Until birth.
So, the Ninja emerged with a vengeance this week. I hopped on the scale at Friday's prenatal still high on receiving the single greatest compliment any prego can hope to receive: "My, you are so cute! You look like you swallowed a basketball!"
So imagine all hints of smugness and hubris being sucked from the room when the numbers kept going up.
And TEN pounds in 3.5 weeks later, the Ninja let his/her presence be felt. The Ninja is starting to resemble a young Chuck Norris.
Since I had only gained an adorable six pounds since learning I was with blessed child, the doctor assured me that ten pounds in a month was okay. She did warn me, however, that if I packed on another ten in one month, that we'd have to chat.
Thus, my love affair with the gym begins again in earnest. Because it's not like I can deny Ninj his/her Snickers bars. What kind of mother would I be?
Also of note? I am in Syracuse, preparing to watch Julie and Julia. This frightens me, as I fear the film will make me ravenous.
Also? I just turned off Baby Boom, as I got so annoyed with the entire premise of it. Let me recap: J.C. is a career woman. She graduated first in her class at Yale, and has a Harvard MBA. But alas, she is married to her job. The narrator WARNS us at the film's onset NOT TO BE FOOLED BY APPEARANCES OF GIANT SHOULDER PADS AND CAREER SATISFACTION. (Even J.C.'s moniker hasn't a scant trace of femininity. She may even have a penis. All she cares about is WORK.)
You see, J.C. is terribly unfulfilled, and she doesn't even know it. Not until a baby is dropped in her lap and she has to quit her job because she can't hang with the big dogs anymore. Really, what she has always wanted to do is make baby food from a quiet house in the country anyway. The end.
And that is why the 80s was a hot fucking mess for women. Hey now, I've read Backlash.
What say you, women and men alike? I want to qualify my statements: there is nothing wrong with birthing babies (you know I'm into it). There is nothing wrong with staying home to raise your babies. But on the other hand, there is nothing wrong with NOT birthing babies. Moreover, there is nothing wrong with birthing babies AND continuing to work to provide for them. Happiness is personal. Do you hear that, 1980s filmmakers? Enough with the scare tactics and blatant agenda-pushing. (I'm lookin' at you, Fatal Attraction director Adrian Lyne.)
Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find some chocolate bars with almonds. For the baby.