Well, since it appears that the world hasn't ended (yet), I guess I'm still pregnant.


In fact, according to my own (hopefully somewhat more accurate than the Mayan's) calculations, I'm 34 weeks pregnant as of today.

Holy hell am I tired. Like first trimester tired. I definitely do not remember this from my previous go-round at hosting a fetus. In this current state of exhaustion (and immune-compromised general physical ick) I am almost looking forward to giving birth. Almost. Though I still feel like I'm procrastinating on really doing much of anything to get organized for the impending arrival.

In starting to think about what I need to be ready, I find it interesting that I'm only now remembering all sorts of things that somehow I've repressed/forgotten since the last time I was responsible for a newborn. The little details like how many supplies you need for the sole purpose of dealing with leaky people. The diapers, burp cloths, monster maxi pads, breast pads, mattress covers, wipes, etc. Apparently the human brain is very good at ensuring the survival of the species by only retaining the memories of sweet, warm, newborn milk-breath and not the memories of waking up each morning for weeks in sweat-milk-pee-blood-spit drenched pajamas. Oh, and of course the joys of breaking-in the poor old nipples.

It's almost enough to make me slightly less eager to have this pregnancy over and done with already.

Well, at least until I get distracted by the thought of getting to see some of those adorable 6-month-thigh-rolls again... Mmm, baby chub...

I'll readily admit that my sense of humour is a bit warped.


So it's really no surprise that the best part of the Christmas season so far this year has been my husband finding this amazing Playmobil set to give our daughter.

For the uninitiated in wonderfully-politically-incorrect Dutch traditions, the set depicts jolly old Sinterklaas and his evil sidekick Zwarte Piet (complete with stick and bag for kidnapping misbehaving children). 

The Dutch: keeping racism and fear an integral part of the holidays.

"It would take a little while for surgeons to discover that the use of anesthesia allowed them time to be meticulous. Despite the advantages of anesthesia, Liston, like many other surgeons, proceeded in his usual lightning-quick and bloody way. Spectators in the operating-theater gallery would still get out their pocket watches to time him. The butler's operation, for instance, took an astonishing 25 seconds from incision to wound closure. (Liston operated so fast that he once accidentally amputated an assistant's fingers along with a patient's leg, according to Hollingham. The patient and the assistant both died of sepsis, and a spectator reportedly died of shock, resulting in the only known procedure with a 300% mortality.)" ~ Atul Gawande, "Two Hundred Years of Surgery"


One of many, many brilliant 2012 non-fiction reads posted at Longreads - a wonderful site for helping me avoid feeling like I'm rotting my brain with far too many zombie-vampire-apocalyptic-teen-romance novels.

In keeping with being about 5 years behind the trends of the Interwebs, I'm loving these brilliant tumblr blogs:


remain simple
a well traveled woman
hermit
wit and delight

Now please excuse me while I go and check out all this "pinterest" talk I've been hearing about.

Four words: Star Trek Sequel Trailer.


Two additional words: Benedict Cumberbatch.

Please excuse that continuous, high-pitched background noice you hear. It's a 34-year old mother-of-soon-to-be-two squealing like the most shameless giddy teenage fangirl ever.

But seriously. Have you watched "Sherlock" yet? I think even my husband has a crush on that guy.

I had my first (for this pregnancy) vivid childbirth dream last night.


Anyone still reading?

It was actually pretty hilarious how immaculate the whole thing was.

I experienced no pain or contractions, pushed once and gave birth to a clean, healthy,  quietly-sleeping, fully-dressed baby boy.

A lady can hope right?

It's the second recent dream I've had that I'm having a boy. In the first dream, I went to an ultrasound appointment and the tech accidentally told me that I was having a boy. A dream which I very much had in mind a few days later when I had an actual ultrasound appointment. As she started taking measurements, the tech started calling the baby "he" before asking if we knew the sex and when I said "no", she quickly told me that she called all babies a generic "he". She didn't sound like she was trying to cover up a slip but I still thought it was amusing.

Truly, neither my husband nor I care about the X/Y chromosomal-predilections of our offspring. Though, he's been convinced that he's only producing girl children since long before our gametes ever connected intimately and for some reason I've been mostly convinced that both my pregnancies were/are boys.

So far he's one-for-one. If he gets two-for-two, I hope that, in a few years, when he's waiting for hours to get into the bathroom only to find that all the hot water is gone and someone has used his razor to shave their legs, he's still able to find joy in those fleeting moments of smug satisfaction he felt about being right at the moment of their precious births.

I promise to try not to smile too hard when that happens.

In the spirit of the giving season, allow me to present my ultimate personal minimalist/anti-consumerist Christmas gift guide (i.e., stuff I'd like to fondle, covet and drool-upon but am fairly content to avoid buying):

• A set of peshtemtal towels.
• A sleepy honey badger mug. Incidentally, I'm in love with the artist via her tumblr.
• A skinny pig. I have an odd love for hairless creatures.  
• Homeland on DVD. I haven't seen it yet but they had me at "Claire Danes cry face ".
• A trip to the ocean. Any ocean. Any coast. I'm not picky, I just need salt water. And beach.
• Anything and everything in these gift guides
• A brand-new Class C Winnebago for taking my little family on our (hopefully) upcoming North American adventure. Normally I prefer old and character-filled but I'd settle for new and well-warrantied.
• A chance to visit Le Marche St. George
• The future-purchase of an initial necklace with two disks.
• An organic plastic skateboard. Yes. Seriously. I promise to let my daughter have a turn.
• This shirt for my hubby.
• A set of white balancing blocks. Mmmm... zen...
• A Moop bag.
• Funding for a bunch of new tattoos. So many ideas. So much pregnancy.
• A trip to London to visit this store.
• A bottle of Forty Creek Copper Pot. I promise I'll only sniff at it until I give birth. And then, preferably right after, I'd like to have a nice shot in one of these. With one of these keeping it cool.
• A weekend snowboarding at Mount Washington. Redeemable when my poor abused abs are back in some semblance of a working order. So like next winter.
• A bottle of "Erastus" from OLO. The description is exactly what I want my grandkids to remember I smelled like - I'm planning to start smoking a pipe on my 80th birthday.

"The problem, Sterba says, is that most modern North Americans have no idea what to do with these species. We gawk and gape; we feed them doughnuts; we run into them with our cars; we are surprised and alarmed by their messy habits and occasional aggressiveness; we manage them all wrong; we want them gone from our neighborhoods, but we abhor the idea of killing them." ~ Emma Marris, "Hipsters Who Hunt"


A friend sent me the link to this great article. Apparently something in it reminded him of my frequent mini-rants about wanting to murder (and eat) the geese who leave massive piles of slippery crap everywhere and occasionally attack me while I'm jogging. Apparently I've also got my finger on the hipster pulse.

Bring on the Christmas goose.