I'm preoccupied with my weight.  Not enough to be detrimental to my health, but more than enough to classify me as technically vain.  Anxious to get a handle on how long it's going to take the weight to come off post pregnancy, I devised the following mathematical equation.  Who knows if it's accurate, actually pretty excited to find out.

You can use your own figures, but for the sake of this exercise let's work with a woman who has gained 35 lbs in 9 months of pregnancy and gave birth to a 7 lb baby.  The equation assumes that the mom isn't working out, but is breastfeeding and is taking in roughly the same amount of calories she was when pregnant.

Total Pounds Gained:  35 lbs

Subtract the Following:
-  Baby:  7 lbs
-  Placenta:  2 lbs
-  Amniotic Fluid:  2 lbs
-  Increased Blood Volume:  4 lbs
-  Uterine Enlargement:  2 lbs
-  Fluid in Maternal Tissue:  4 lbs
-  Breast Enlargement:  1 lb

This leaves 13 lbs of fat that has accumulated over pregnancy. 

Breastfeeding converts about 400 calories of stored energy into milk a day.
There are 3500 calories in a pound.
Therefore, breastfeeding converts a pound of fat into milk every 8.75 days.
At this rate it would take about 3.4 months for breastfeeding to burn the remaining 13 lbs of fat.

Taaadaaa! 

http://www.bellyarmor.com/

Ok.  Let me get this straight.  This product claims to protect my unborn baby from radiation emitted from my laptop and cell phone?  You mean to tell me that in my 7.5 pregnant months I've researched enough to know to hold the queso sauce on my burrito, but no credible source bothered to inform me that I needed to be draped in yards of this magical fabric in order to get near Apple products so I can do things like, oh,  MY JOB?

If these people are dead set on using their wizardry to create textiles of this manner I wish they would try to focus their attention on inventing an invisibility cloak.  I have a wedding to go to in two weeks and it would be peaches if I could find something to wear so that no one can see my giant body from the neck down. 

In the meantime, good effort trying to get my $109, but I'm not buying it.

(Why do I have the feeling that some internet archeaologist is going to dig this post up in 50 years well after it's been confirmed that every day radiation is indeed harmful to unborn babies and publish it via some sort of futuristic medium to demonstrate how ignorant we once were.  People will scough at me like I scough at Betty Draper when she's knocked up and smoking a pack a day.)

Here it is, the week 34 belly shot.  After seeing photos of myself from my bridal shower I've been avoiding cameras like the plague.  Realizing that I indeed look every much as big as I feel was a very bleak point in my pregnancy.  I guess no one ever claims this to be the most flattering thing that happens to a lady.

You'll notice that I'm trying something new in this photo- I'm smiling.  I find this irony somewhat haunting.  Have you ever noticed that it's rare to see a smiling pregnant lady?  Pregnant ladies don't smile unless they feel like they have to.  Or if you give them a piece of flourless chocolate cake...OR if you were to tell them that the FDA just released the results of a new study that claims that contrary to previous evidence, wine consumed in large volumes is actually GOOD for unborn fetuses.

Another ironic thing about this photo is the tampon dispenser in the background.  I totally forgot about those things until the other day when a friend was complaining to me about a wicked case of PMS she was experiencing.  I guess I'll have to deal with that whole scenario again, right?  Wonder when that freakish operation will resume.  Just thinking about this makes me want to scream obsenities at the next man I see.  How do they get off so easy in this life?  Please tell me there's some sort of cross they have to bear that evens the score.  If anything I guess it would have to be balding or ball pain. 

Well, not tecnicaly,  but I did write some lyrics to a song about my pregnancy experience.  It goes to the tune of "TiK ToK" by Ke$ha (here's the link for the song reference)

“PregPop”
To the tune of Ke$ha “Tictok”
Lyrics by Rachel Timmerman

Wake up in the morning feeling like Delta Burke
I throw on a circus tent and then I’m ready for work.
Before I leave I can’t help cursing this little boy or girl
‘Cause I can’t leave the house before I totally hurl.

I’m talkin’ I can’t hardly see my toes, toes
Can’t fit into my clothes, clothes
Cravin’ chocolate scones, scones.
Crop dustin’ and feeling all bitchy and sassy.
Just trying to keep it classy
But I’m feelin’ just a little bit GAAAASSSSSEYYYYYyyyyyy. 

Oh stop I have popped
Doctor, ultrasound me up!
Oh man, it’s a sight!
Why is the bra so tight?
Oh stop I have popped
Doctor, ultrasound me up, yo!

Ohhhohhohohooo!
Ohhhohhhohohoo!

I’m freaking out just a bit because I can’t have a beer
And I’m holding out on wine because my due date is near
Getting ‘round is hard because I don’t walk, I waddle.
I swear I’ll kill the next person who asks me “Breastfeed or bottle?!”

I’m talkin, my mood is down and sunk, sunk
I think I’m in a bit of a funk, funk
‘Cause I’m gonna squeeze a baby out my junk, junk

Now, now I’m gonna get this thing out, out
Gonna push and scream and shout, shout.
Push and scream and shout, shout
Push and scream and SHHHHHOOOUUUT

Oh stop I have popped
Doctor, ultrasound me up!
Oh man, it’s a sight!
Why is the bra so tight?
Oh stop I have popped
Doctor, ultrasound me up, yo!

Ohhhohhohohooo!
Ohhhohhhohohoo!

We were going to record and do a music video shoot, but I'm really uncomfortable in front of the camera these days.  SO, just throwing it out there, if you're reading this and you're pregnant, can sing and you don't mind being in front of a camera we should talk about YOU being the talent.  I can't pay you in money, but isn't the opportunity to portray a pregnant version of Ke$sha enough??  Ha!

A warning to those close to me.  You may meet a similar fate of my mom and sister and get your very own crochet flowered flapper hat one day very soon. 

Doing laundry for someone who isn't even born yet is surreal, like the opposite of packing up someone's house after they've departed.  Only difference is in that scenario you know you're dealing with belongings that someone chose for themselves and then cherished for a long time.  In this instance you're preparing things for someone you've never met and they are things to your liking that you've chosen.  This whole thought process makes the "day of the dead" themed burp clothes seem pretty ironic. 

I hope she likes all the clothes and blankies we've picked out for her.  We can't stop looking at them and imagining memories.  

(download)

Click here to download:

First_Laundry.zip (279 KB)

Let's get this straight, Google.  I don't need another gaddamned article on "how to avoid heartburn during pregnancy."  If you give me ONE more link about proper acid reflux avoidance behavior I'm going to throw my laptop out the window.  Maybe if I had access to a time machine I'd go back to lunch and NOT order that steak sandwich and carbonated beverage.  But I have no time machine, instead I have heartburn.  REALLY REALLY REALLY bad heartburn and I need you to tell me how to get rid of it RIGHT NOW.  Oh, and don't tell me to eat Tums.  I've already had a bottle of Tums and if I eat one more I think I'm going to throw up.  In fact, for the past 5 minutes I've been sitting here with two Tums tucked inside the left cheek of my mouth because I can't bear to chew them up and actually swallow them. 

Mark my words.  When I figure out how to un-damn myself from this plague I'M going to write a post about tried and true ways to get rid of pregnancy heartburn.  At the end I might include some tips on how to avoid it in the first place, but only at the very, very end because you and both I know that NO ONE SEARCHES FOR ARTICLES ABOUT PREGNANCY HEARTBURN UNLESS THEY'RE SUFFERING FROM PREGNANCY HEARTBURN.  You better make it #1 in your search results, Google.  You better or I'm switching to Bing.

Here I sit on my super comfy couch on Labor Day.  My friends are all off doing fun things like camping or golfing or going on trips to France, but not us.  We're eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and attempting to crochet Abominable Baby Booties (I'm doing that, Steve's not.  They're BOOTIES that look like Abominable SNOWMAN FEET.  Come ON!).  Later we'll go to IKEA and browse for the baby's room followed by a trip to the grocery store for chocolate chip cookie supplies.  This is our life now.

I spent the past few days at home alone while Steve traveled.  I was dreading the time alone.  I thought I'd be lonely and jealous of everyone elses' Labor Day weekend plans, but it was actually kind of nice.  I did some yoga, snuggled with Gretel, cleaned and organized the house, got to watch all the trash TV I wanted and took up the whole bed at night. 

I'm enjoying this new pregnancy coma thing I've got going on.  This level of acceptance and enjoyment has been the result of a long journey of learning to surrender to my delicate condition.  A lot of my mojo is gone, but it's been replaced with new kinds of mojo.  Like, the ability to have blood drawn without passing out and the rainman-like way I can organize a room in my mind and then make that organization a reality in less than 20 minutes.  Not to mention I have Christina Hendricks-like boobs (makes me wonder what kind of boobs Christina Hendricks would have if she got pregnant.  Woah.).  Of course, nothing trumps the feeling I get when I feel the baby girl flipping around in my belly.  I'm not sure what kind of mojo this would be called, but it does feel pretty powerful to be able to give my child a happy and healhty place to live INSIDE MY BODY.  Weird.

All that being said, I can't wait for this to be over. 

I think this photo artistically portrays the great amount of distress my belly button faces these days.  She looks sad, as if she knows her best days are behind her.  Fond memories of silver naval rings and sun tans, Button.  Never forget the good times. 

Steve's just one estrogen surge away from getting a matching hat of his very own.