Outside: Three hot young worker men, glistening in the rain.

Inside: One bulging pregnant woman with a ridiculously full bladder, with teeny baby stomping on said bladder.

Not only am I un-glanceable and de-sexed from the breasts down, but the being responsible for my condition is having a merry time reminding me.

Thanks, you little Parasite(2).

Of course, hot guys are digging around in a sewer. And one of them has long hair. Aaaand the other just scratched his arse with a bulky gloved hand that was just holding a drain hose.

Fantasy so over.

One of the worst — and most visible, unfortunately — side effects of this pregnancy has been acne.

Since the fourth or fifth week, I’ve had red, angry, big bumps on my neck and back. They often don’t even fully form, just sit under the skin puffy and lumpy and make-up resistant and eye-watering sore. My back…well, if you connected the dots, you wouldn’t be able to see much skin. At least nothing really touches my neck — but it’s just ridiculous how much it hurts if a bra or tank top strap sits on top of one of these lovelies.

Truthfully, it’s been embarrassing. For the most part, at 29, I’m past that self-conscious stage of life. But these have really bothered me, mostly because of their location. They’re oddly not on my face at all, but at least facial acne is more…normal and accepted and coverable. I feel like a teenage boy who’s shaved with a dull razor. Or maybe shot with poisonous darts.

(It hasn’t helped that, around 10 weeks pregnant, two people I don’t see very often said — within seconds of seeing me — “OMG, what’s that on your NECK?!”)

I keep waiting for the acne to go away, but six weeks into the second trimester it’s allll still here, and I’ve resigned myself that it’s just gonna be until this baby comes out. My doctor, during my last prenatal appointment, saw how bad it was, and gave me a prescription cream with an antibiotic and anti-inflamallatory. Thankfully, it’s really helping to knock down the little bastards once they appear, although there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to fix the hormonal pregnancy cocktail that’s bringing them on.

My body, however, seems to have its own sense of humour about the whole thing:

A red bump has appeared right in the middle of my bulging belly, directly north of my bellybutton and exactly between it any the centre of my chest. Which means when the bra is off, my torso has two, um, pointy eyes, a bright red bump of a nose, and a wide, stretched-but-not-yet-popped O of a mouth. If I place my hands on the sides of my stomach, it does look very much like him.

Yes, dear lumpy front, exactly my sentiments…

Being the short-term thinker I am, I have yet to fully comprehend that in less than six months there are going to be two children living in my house.

I’m firmly, obliviously entrenched in pregnancy survival mode. It’s sort of nice living in this state of denial.

But the odd time I do let my mind wander into the near future, these are the random things I worry about:

• learning to breastfeed again. My nipples cringe when I even look at nursing bras, remembering how utterly painful the first few weeks were
• sleep. Or better yet, lack thereof. We have been so blessed with Lucy and so comfortable in our freedom from 7:30 p.m. - 7 a.m. that I know this baby is going to kick our asses when s/he arrives. This turns into near panic when I read posts like Mary Lynn’s — then hear it again from Eric (he works with ML’s husband) in the form of Ed’s red, blurry eyes
• two children = four appendages each. Last I checked, despite wishes every night, I only have two hands *sigh*
• baby crap gear clogging up the house. It’s so nice now having Lucy’s toys tucked away beside the sofa out of sight. I think back to the early baby months of swing, bouncy chair, receiving blankets, small trippable toe-stubbing toys and say bye-bye living room
• oh, the screaming and crying around dinner time. Do you remember those?
• Spencer becoming a hermit when he realizes, “ohdeargod there’s another one.”
• Lucy’s reaction in general

But then this afternoon, at the grocery store? There was this frazzled-looking mom, hair in a sloppy pony tail, crusted spit-up down her back wearing mismatched socks, leaning into an infant seat and nibbling on the bare toes of her three-month-old to his gummy-mouthed delight, and I realized all the above doesn’t matter for moments like that one.

The best part about going away is coming home.

I ended up catching an early train/bus, and my Dad and Lucy met me at the station. Lucy kept grinning at me from the back seat, saying, “Hi, Mommy! Hi! Hiiieeeeee!” When we got out of the car, she literally flung herself at me, knocking me over backwards on the driveway. Where Spencer decided to pounce on the both of us, placing a combined 50+ pounds on my boobs. Niiiice.

I think I had one of the best sleeps of my life last night, snuggled down with Eric in my own bed. Bliss.

I’ve the most ridiculous stories to share (GO bus shenanigans, exploding whipped cream, cell phone-licking dude in the Armani suit), but I’m in desperate need of an afternoon snooze while Lucy is down.

Be back soon. Have a nice weekend!

p.s. During the voting for the Bribery contest? There were 3,144 visits to DRB. April 2 alone had 1,547 — the largest one-day number of visitors to the site.

I’ve been blogging for almost three years, and this is the first time anyone has ever tagged me for a meme. Thank you, Mary Lynn, for fulfilling my biggest blog fantasy. What a sad blog life I lead…

Here are six seven eight geezus, NINE quirky things about me:

1. I love and eat with small utensils. Like dessert forks and mini spoons. I never use large spoons like normal people for things such as soup or ice cream. These and dinner forks feel foreign in my hand and mouth. I do not want to know what Freud would do with this.
2. I own all seven seasons of the Golden Girls. They are my comfort food in TV form.
3. Speaking of food, one of my favourite sandwiches is Cheez Whiz and sliced sweet or bread and butter pickles. Trust me — it’s delicious!
4. I just turned 29, and I still sleep with a stuffed animal, a soft brown bunny named Earl. It’s not because Earl holds any real sentimental value — although I do think fondly of my sweet bowling school friend Leanne who gave him to me years ago — but because I actually need to have something pressed up against my belly when I sleep.
5. Although I sleep sans un pyjama, I sleep with a cotton training-like bra. It started when I got pregnant with Lucy (thems were some sore booblies!), continued while breastfeeding (the first night my milk came in, I went to bed as usual and woke up in a pool of wet — gag), and has continued since, as I’m just used to it now, and really, The Girls need as much support as possible as Those Who Breastfe(e)d know.
6. Remember the crazy husband in Sleeping with the Enemy? How he obsessively lined up all his canned good and towels and that’s how Laura knew he was back because she came home one night and opened the cupboards and all the labels were lined up and the towels were straight and OMG THE SUSPENSE? I’m not THAT bad, but here and at others’ houses, I straighten towels and face cloths when they’re hanging on a bar. It drives me bonkers to see them tousled or not lined up. Also, Eric got a label maker for Christmas, so we have been labeling a lot of our baking etc. goods in our cupboards, and the labels must face out.
7. I cannot swim the front stroke with my face in the water, breathing to the side. I flip my head side to side with each arm stroke instead. Like a flailer. Thus I do the breast and side stroke a lot.
8. My sister dug this one out of the closet: If I try a cookie and I don’t like it, I put it back — with a bite taken out — in the bag/box/tin. My father, and now Eric, are my designated Carly-cookie-with-a-bite-out-of-it eaters.
9. Ditto, Michele: If I change the toilet paper roll at your house, I put it back on My Way, or The Way It Is Supposed To, or With The Piece Hanging Over The Top

I am tagging Jen O. and Karla because I adore them, and they are both looonnnnnng due to update! No pressure, ladies…

Lucy has always had milk before bed, whether it came from a boob or a bottle.

But last week, after yet another report about the dangers of bisephenol A in hard plastic baby bottles (among other things), I said screw it and chucked Lucy’s bottle in the garbage. I literally stood up from the computer, walked into the kitchen, and threw the Avent 10 oz. bottle in the trash.

I decided it would be worth the battle to switch Lucy to an unheated cup of milk, rather than expose her to potentially any more toxins than we had been over the past year of microwaving a bottle.

We told her the bottle was broken. She kept looking around for it, standing in her footie pajamas staring at us like we were pulling a fast one (which we were), but finally clued in that no bottle was going to appear — no matter how many times she asked or made the sign.

She drank about 3/4 of the cup. The night after, half. The night after that, just a few sips before tossing it to the ground with a resounding “no cup.” On Saturday night when Lucy stayed the night with my parents, my mom didn’t even offer the cup to Lucy. And Lucy didn’t ask.

We tried the cup again on Sunday, as she didn’t have much dinner, but she again rejected it. And last night while brushing her teeth, she told us again and again with a shake of her head “no cup.”

So: We’re off the bottle. And we’re off the cup.

I was never in a rush to wean her in the first place. Her bottle provided comfort and was ingrained in our night time routine. And because Lucy sleeps for 12 hours at a time, I am a firm believer in having something in a baby’s belly before bed. But we also eat dinner late — sometimes only finishing about a half hour before she goes down for the night — and my daughter sometimes out eats me.

Needless to say, she’s slept through all these nights with no problems. She is, however, waking up pretty cranky. She normally comes into our bedroom and gets me out of bed after Eric changes her, but today was crying and wanted to go straight downstairs to eat. Again, not surprising, seeing as she hadn’t eaten in 13 hours.

No more sleep in for me. But no more bottle, no more toxins, no more milk on her teeth all night. It’s totally worth those extra seven minutes in the morning.

*February’s newsletter is all about bisphenol A and other hazards in feeding products and toys. Look for it this week.

I’m in the midst of production of the magazine right now, so the spot in my brain where blog ideas normally brew is currently taken up by “structural changes” “overruns” “ad roadmaps” and “godhelpus this doesn’t fit”.

So I will bring you morning nakedness a la Chez McDougall-Foster instead. Happy Thursday.

Each morning, Eric plucks Lucy from her crib, changes her diaper, and brings her back to me in bed where I am curled up around Spencer Dog praying there is a time shift so I can get 2.5 extra minutes of sleep. I’m not a morning person, and although having a baby forces you to get up early every. single. day. it doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.

In order to trick my body into thinking it’s still sleeping, I’ve let Lucy establish the book routine. After she joins me in bed, I play fetch make her run errands ask her to gather a selection of books to read (tell her a title, she’ll bring you the book. Amazing mini-librarian I have here, hmmm?), during which time I doze.

When we finally have six or so, she heaves herself back on the bed and we read. Remember I’m still a vision of half-sleep, all crusty-eyed, mouth guard in place, hair wild, so I’m slurring words and skipping pages with my eyes half open. All the while Lucy is intently following along with nods and smiles, as if to say, “I know you are half in la-la land and your breath stinks and you’re totally making shit up that’s quite clearly not on the page, but I love you anyways.”

As payback, every now and then she reaches down and pulls down the top of my sleeping bra. Jabbing her finger onto my boob, she gives Spencer and I an anatomy lesson: “Buhb-buhb-buhb” and will not stop until I acknowledge her: “Yes, honey, that’s Mummy’s boobie.” Snapping the fabric back in place, she returns to the story without skipping a beat.

Babes, books and boobs. Motherhood at its finest.

Note that these are cut and pasted word-for-word from my stat log, as they were typed into a search engine.

pole dancing classes in durham ontario: This isn’t baby as in, “Mmmmm, hunka-hunka baby.” Although the classes do sound hilarious

ikea in the durham region: We can all dream, can’t we?

liquid hand sanitizer daycare alcohol drunk: Check

feeding babies babybel cheese: You put it on a spoon and insert it in the mouth. Or, if you’re feeling adventerous, slap it on a cracker and watch ‘em go nutty

toys that make kids sick if you suck on theme: Too many, lately

melissa from canada courtice beer model: Dude, Melissa is not here. I’m sure she’s hot and would love to hear from you (*cough*), but I guarantee you I dunno where she is

diaper composting durham region: I wish, wish wish. We just built a brand new composting facility from scratch in Pickering — tell me why the powers that be didn’t make diaper composting part of it when we had the chance?

eric close: if Eric is getting close to you, honey, then my hubby has some ’splaining to do

ugly baby attractive adult: Are you alluding to something? Come here and I’ll make you ugly…

canadian boobs: Got a pair!

look how cute these baby legs are on: This reminds me of Engrish

free baby ontario: Yeah, I’ve wanted to put up an ad like this before. Usually pinned to Lucy chest when I put her at the end of the driveway ’cause she’s being an ass

beddie poop car: WTF? I’ll let y’all take a stab at this one…

Now that Lucy is walking and talking and generally acting like a wee girl, we’re starting to get the inevitable “when’s the next baby coming?” question.

I know many women are offended when people ask them this, but I never am because I ask the same question to moms all the time. I met a woman at an insurance convention yesterday and we’d only been chatting for an hour before I asked if another sibling would join her two sons. It seems like a natural question if there’s already one child around (asking newlyweds about babies is a whole other issue).

My answer is not yet. As much as my body has recovered enough to be sillily craving pregnancy again (although a read through of this site’s archives is enough to kill that one), it’s so not the right time yet.

I cannot imagine dealing with Lucy and a newborn, even if it was nine months from now. Most days I hardly have enough patience to make it to her bedtime, let alone if there was an additional baby in my radius. A breastfeeding baby. An-only-sleeping-in-three-hour-spurts baby.

Plus two in diapers? Not ever ever. Ever.

Daycare Debbie has a new charge, a baby boy named Alexander who shares Lucy’s exact birthday. And Lucy is Jealous. Capital J Jealous. She wants up when he’s up. She wants to be fed when he’s being fed. One day this week Alex was getting his diaper changed and hovering Lucy actually lied down on the floor next to him wanting HER diaper changed.

No, it’s not the right time around here yet.

(Let’s hope hitting publish doesn’t cause some freak accident…)

(And for the record, I’d like three kids and Eric wants two.)

Lucy is home with me today (who’s bright idea was that??) and is currently trying to use my slippered foot as a step stool to climb my leg so she can play with the mouse. So posting abilities are, well, nill.

I went downstairs this morning and Eric had my Golden Girls ready. Sweet! But…the card said “Happy Birthday Day 1″. Hmmmm???

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