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WARNING: If you aren't comfortable with a little boob talk, do not read this post! However, if you are comfortable with it, I promise the awkwardness will be rewarded with a good laugh.

I have entered into that phase of pregnancy where I select random details to obsess over instead of acknowledging the overarching anxiety that comes with bringing a human being into the world. It's called a defense mechanism.

Yep, that's right. I was a counseling psychology major.

For example, it is much easier to worry about whether or not that backordered cradle will ever arrive than to worry about whether or not you'll ever get a good night's sleep again.

My latest obsession involves making sure I am fully supplied for our hospital stay and the first few weeks at home, and the current detail of note is the infamous nursing bra.

Let's just get it out in the open (pun intended): any clothing contraption that allows you to pop out a body part on a whim in order to feed another human being is just scary. What is even more scary to me at the moment is attempting to figure out my bra size. To put it nicely, the girls are quite a bit larger than they used to be, and knowing that they will only grow again after this kid arrives makes the whole sizing situation all the more intimidating.

I mean, how much further into the alphabet can my bra size go???

Don't answer that.

Last night, on the recommendation of a dear friend, I visited the website for Bravado nursing bras. They have a wonderful portion of their site dedicated to sizing, so I whipped out my trusty sewing measuring tape and got to work.

To make a long story short, my little sizing escapade resulted in me in the bathroom, whining to my husband while holding the girls and muttering something about being a freak of nature.

I blubbered to him about my sizing dilemma: my chest size (above the girls) and my rib size (below the girls) are a good three inches different (normally only an inch or so). You are supposed to take the larger measurement, and subtract that from your bust size (across the girls) to get your cup size.

Essentially, I ended up with a larger band size and smaller cup size than I am used to, which left me thoroughly confused.

At this moment, my husband looked at me and in the most matter-of-fact tone said: "Leslie, as your band size increases, your cup size should decrease."

You could see the lightbulb go off over my head, and all was right with the world again.

And that's when he said, "Why am I explaining this to YOU???? That's like you explaining the science of jock straps to me!"

As I realized the silliness of it all, I dissolved in a fit of laughter. My husband just explained the science of nursing bras to me. And he was right.

You know, those nurses at our parenting class last Saturday told all of us expectant moms to listen to our husbands, to trust their big-picture perspective, and to know that a lot of the time--for some unknown reason--new dads are right.

I can already see the wisdom in those words.

And it doesn't hurt that his good calls almost always come with a big dose of humor as well. I am so thankful for this Baby Daddy of mine, and there is no one I would rather start this journey with than him.

Empathy

I won't go so far as to say that he fully understands the plight of pregnancy...

But I will say that in the 48 hours since our "Expectant Parents" class, my Baby Daddy has cooked two meals, refused to let me bend over to reach for the remote control or grab my purse off of the floor, and offered to give me a full-service pedicure.

I think the empathy belly did its job.

Spring to Me

is forsythia...

Image

Forsythia is one of the earliest bloomers here in Memphis, and it never fails to make me smile. I just love its wild branches and brilliant color. And in my opinion, it should never ever be pruned. There is nothing sadder than a perfectly boxy or rounded forsythia bush. The beauty is in its sprawling chaos.

When we lived on the OBU campus, the driveway to our apartment on the side of Kerr Residence Hall was lined in forsythia bushes. I would clip sporadic branches and bring them inside, letting the yellow blooms brighten up our little cinder block dwelling. I might have to make friends with a forsythia-growing neighbor so that I can recreate that little bit of spring indoors once again.

A gorgeous spring is definitely one perk of Memphis living. This city is so lush and green, and when spring rolls around it is at its finest; even the trees along the highway drip with wysteria! Now if only I didn't have to spend the majority of this glorious time in a windowless office...

Mush

My brain is feeling a bit on the mushy side today. Lots of random thoughts. Lots of forgetfulness. Here's a little sampling of what has been going on up there today:

• I think baby product manufacturers got together and decided that they should make parents feel more unprepared and incompetent by making their products ridiculously difficult to assemble.
• Why do people build really big, fancy homes on the side of a major highway? If you have that much money, can't you afford a lot with less noise?
• I'm concentrating really hard on my walking abilities these days, as I'm afraid that I have officially begun to waddle. The excessive windows in our new building allow me ample reflection space for analyzing my success at non-waddling. So far: fail.
• Why are things so much cuter when monogrammed?
• Will So You Think You Can Dance have a new season this summer?
• Who invented the Bic Wite-Out Exact Liner? I want to hug them.
• Why did they find it necessary to spell Wite-Out like that? What's wrong with the good old-fashioned "White?"
• Did I ever tell you about the lady who came to the optometry school clinic because she put White-Out in her eyes? They were red. Well, of course! What else do you do for red eyes!?! (No, I am not making that up).
• We're going to John Mayer this weekend. Nothing like bobbing up and down to "Your Body is a Wonderland" when carrying an extra XX pounds on the front of my body. Sexy.
• I'm making chicken parmesan for dinner tonight. Feeling pretty excited about it.
• Last night I ate half of a pineapple by myself. It made my tongue hurt, but I didn't care. The other half better watch out.

The End.

A Sneak Peek

Today we had the fun opportunity to see Riggins on 4-D ultrasound! Because of a connection of my dad's at the university where he works, we were able to get a free ultrasound from the ladies who run the ultrasound tech program. We decided pretty early on that we weren't going to spend the money on doing one of those at my doctor's office, so this was an unexpected little perk!

Well, as much fun as it was to see our little boy again, it's a good thing we didn't shell out a few hundred bucks to do it! This little guy is head-down, facing my back, and still loves to keep those hands up near his face, so we really couldn't see a bloomin' thing!

What I can tell you is that he has adorable, chubby little feet and hands, and--my favorite part--hair on his head! Just the other day I told Jonathan, "I sure hope he has some hair!" so when the tech pointed that out when looking at his little head I was just beaming. Oh, and he is most definitely still a little man. ;)

It was fun to confirm all of my guesses about which body parts I am feeling from day to day. Just as I suspected, his little rear end is just under my ribs, slightly to my left, with his feet tucked over to my right side. I feel that bootie wiggle and those feet kick all the time! And no wonder I can't breathe...I've got a butt in my lungs!

We didn't get our pictures electronically, and the only pictures we did get are of a hand, foot, and little boy parts. But it was fun to hang out with him for a bit and it definitely made me even more excited to see his sweet face in a couple of months!

The Hunger Games

This book is keeping me up at night. Anything that can make this fatigued pregnant woman stay up until 12:30, completely unable to turn out the light or restrain myself from just one more chapter, is worth recommending.

I might have been just a smidge late to work this morning because I woke up and decided to read one more chapter before getting up.

Which turned into four chapters. Oops.

Granted, it is Young Adult literature. And it does take place in the future. And it is just a bit weird.

But trust me, you will be hooked.

(And the best part...it has nothing to do with childbirth, breastfeeding, sleep training, vaccinations, or anything related to babies whatsoever! It was time for some good ole fiction after all the parenting reading I've been doing, and this book was just the ticket!)

Excessive Basketure

We are in the final stages of getting Riggins' room all ready for his arrival. The walls are painted, the furniture is assembled and arranged, the bedding is in the crib, and little-by-little we are filling it all with tinsy little baby things.

One challenge in our space is that our home was built in the early 20th-century. You know, back in the days when you had maybe two work dresses and a church dress and that was your "wardrobe." So each of our two bedrooms has one small-ish closet; my things are in our bedroom closet, Jonathan's in the nursery closet. Which leaves no room in the inn for Riggs' things to be stored away.

We are having to get creative with our storage options by using the changing table (formerly known as MamaDot's dining room buffet), under-the-crib drawer, bookcase (handmade by Jonathan as his first Christmas gift to me when we were dating), and amoire (thank you, Craigslist!). And every woman knows that to organize each of these spaces to its maximum potential, there is one essential:

BASKETS.

Over the past few weeks, I have been on a mission to find the ideal storage solutions so that everything in Riggs' room has its place. Thanks to a good stash of gift cards, I have been able to fill his armoire with the perfect arrangement of baskets. After that, the only thing missing was just a few more to put on his bookcase so that I could hide away some of the smaller items that--let's just face it--don't look as cute on display on a bookcase! (i.e. lullaby cd's, small cardboard books, tinsy toys, etc.)

Yesterday, we trecked out to Garden Ridge to purchase an area rug. After loading the rug in our cart, I insisted on doing a little "drive by" the organization section to check out their storage containers. Bingo! Three ivory canvas boxes...perfect for the book case.

I turned around and saw a horrified look on my husband's face.

"What is it, honey??? Are you having hesitations about the rug?"

(He had been nervous about keeping it clean and such, and I thought maybe he was getting cold feet about our new 8x10 shaggy pet).

"No," he replied. "It's not the rug."

"Well then, what is it?" I asked.

"It's the excessive basketure."

I'll spare you the gory details of the conversation that followed. It may or may not have included a segment along the lines of:

"Riggs needs to learn that everything has its place! I'll be able to teach him how to put all his little things away in the right spots!'

"And it is no longer ok to just put a book away on a shelf? It now has to go in a basket?"

"Excessive Basketure? That would make a great blog post title!"

In essence, it involved my confession that, yes, I have a crazy obsession with hiding away things that don't look nice on display and that, yes, it is silly that this obsession requires the purchase of special containers.

I think my self-awareness counted for something, because the baskets are now at home on the bookcase. As long as I can admit my delusional idiosyncracies, my sweet husband seems willing to entertain them every once in awhile. (Provided that indulgence is cheap at Garden Ridge).

And let me tell you...those baskets, excessive though they may be, look just right!

Denial

Every few days I have a moment. It can be triggered by any number of things: baby clothes, a baby in the grocery store, a glimpse in the mirror, a particularly noticeable movement in my belly, a chapter on childbirth.

Something will remind me that in a matter of only two months, I will give birth to a baby.

And that baby will be ours.

And we will take him home.

And we will be responsible for keeping him alive and making sure he becomes a functioning, capable human being.

And after those thoughts go buzzing through my head, I often think:

"Nah...No way. That can't be possible!"

In those moments, I just can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that this is all going to happen. And soon. The reality of it is so huge that I just can't quite grasp it.

I welcome it.

I'm excited about it.

I'm terrified by it.

But sometimes I just can't even believe it.

And here is where all you veteran moms tell me that these moments of utter denial are completely normal.

Right?

Hello????

Anyone out there???

Its That Time Again!

I always love a good blog award, but I love them even more when I'm in a blogging rut and the award comes with instructions! Thanks, Erin, for enabling me in my lazy blogging!

The "Honest Scrap Award" comes with a caveat or two. First, you have to tell your readers ten things about you they may not know, but that are true. Second, you have to tag 10 people with the award. Third, let all the people you've given the award to know they've gotten in (comment on their blogs or something). And, finally, make sure you link back to the person who awarded you.

Here's hoping that I don't repeat myself from a previous post!

1) Between my Air Force upbringing and the crazy events of the first 5 1/2 years of marriage, I have moved a lot. This means that I am really good at packing and unpacking. That skill was glaringly apparent this week when my coworkers and I moved into our offices in the brand new University Center (and lemme tell ya, the new digs are sweet!). Before the movers had even finished delivering our department's boxes, mine were unpacked, pictures frames arranged, bookcase organized, bulletin board dotted with pictures and mementos, and candy dish filled on the conference table. Everyone who popped their head in my new office looked at me like I was a psycho. But if you've lived a lifetime of moving every couple of years or so, you realize the importance of making things homey fast. You never know how long you'll get to enjoy it!

2) I only wash my hair two or three times a week. Go ahead. Make your disgusted face. But give it a try and I promise it will change your life! Now you may be thinking, "That's nice and all, but my hair is way too oily to ever pull that off!" Not so fast. You actually have to train your hair to do this and it will adjust over time. Trust me. Wash and fix it one day, wear it again the next, add a little bit of hair powder and half-up or ponytail do on day three, and then if you can handle one more day work that ponytail again! Now that I'm in this routine I get so annoyed when it is a wash and fix day...I just can't be bothered!

3) My family's nickname for me is Pooh. Variations on the theme include Princess Poopoolie and Poosie-doodle. Contrary to what you might expect, this nickname was derived from Winnie the Pooh and not my childhood bowel functioning, thank you very much. If you hang out around me with my parents for any length of time, you'll probably hear it a time or two.

4) Speaking of nicknames...my maiden name is Horn and my married name is Poe. You understand why I didn't hyphenate. Another intricacy of this name combination is the fact that if you rearrange the letters of the names you get "porn" and "hoe." Awesome. So if you're hanging out with my college girlfriends and hear me called "Porn Hoe," it is simply because of the names, not because of any earned reputation.

Note: I have sufficiently provided you with ample ammunition for embarassing me in a variety of social situations. Please take this privilege seriously. If you yell "Pooh" or "Porn Hoe" across a crowded room, do not be offended if I pretend we have never met.

5) I really love being pregnant. I told Jonathan the other day that if I love motherhood as much as I love pregnancy we might just end up as the next Duggar family. I'm being dramatic, of course, but still, it is such a blessing to have been able to enjoy this process and all of its ups and downs. I know that not all women get to enjoy pregnancy, so I am very thankful!

6) Related to #5, I actually don't mind when people touch my pregnant belly. In fact, I kind of enjoy it. Unless, of course, that person is creepy. In which case I am kind of up a creek, because you can't exactly let everyone touch your belly and then when that one person who weirds you out makes an attempt say, "Ummm...except for you." For example, when the sorority girls were fussing over the belly and some crazy kicking recently it didn't bother me a bit, but when one of the fraternity men (who regularly pushes boundaries anyway) walked up and put his hand on my belly, I wanted to punch him. So basically if you are a female or a male that I actually know, pat away! But if you are a dude that I don't know, hands off.

7) I am a selective neat-freak. My office: always pristine. My car: almost always a dump. My house: fluctuates from perfection to chaos in a matter of hours, and then back again just as fast.

8) My favorite breakfast that I eat almost every day is some variation on fruit, plain yogurt, a drizzle of honey, and something crunchy (Kashi Go-Lean, chopped nuts, etc.). I never get tired of it.

9) I cannot stand seeing a grown person (on tv, in person, or myself) with a top on but no bottoms. Think Risky Business. If I am dressing, the bottoms must always be on before the top, and vice versa. Here's the deal: if someone is not wearing bottoms, all I can think of is a little kid waiting for a diaper change with nothing but a top on. And then I get a mental picture of a grown adult getting a diaper change. And then I get the heebyjeebies. Yes, I realize that what I just disclosed to you is completely irrational; yes, I am embarassed that my mind even works that way. Nevertheless, please don't come near me in an oversized t-shirt and mini-shorts.

10) To date, I have 1,417 Facebook friends. I am often paranoid that people will notice this number and think I am some sort of pitiful Facebook junkie. Unfortunately, this is just what happens when you have spent the past five years working with college students. Here's the deal: college students may meet you once--scratch that--college students might see you across the student union once, and they will send you a friend request. And if you work with college students, you don't always recognize every name or face, so when you get a friend request from any student at the university, you feel an obligation to accept. We student affairs administrators already give students enough reasons to get mad at us...we really don't need friend request denial added to the list. And honestly, we actually use Facebook for work a lot. So there you go...my lame attempt at justifying my ungodly number of friends. I'm really not a loser. I'm promise.

I'm supposed to tag other people to do this, but in keeping with the tradition of my lazy blogging I'm going to skip it! Such a rebel...