This girl named Rhonda used to babysit me growing up. She lived a few doors down. I don’t remember Rhonda too much, except she had blonde hair, and taught me how to make the best at-home caramel popcorn ever. Knowing this is the last time I’ll ever be pregnant and figuring this is the last time I can eat whatever I want, I’ve been eating this a lot. If you love sweet-salty, THIS IS FOR YOU.

First step: Assemble margarine/butter and brown sugar — the best combination of food substances EVER.

Next: dump an obscene amount of margarine in a small saucepan over low heat. I’m talking, like, a quarter or more of a cup. It’s not called obscene for nothing. After it’s melted, dump an equally obscene amount of brown sugar (a little less than margarine) into said pot, and stir-stir-stir to get it all melted and mixed. (Hopefully your kitchen is like mine, and your stove faces a wall, so your significant other can’t see how much you’re dumping in the pot.)

While that’s happening, pop your corn. Air popped is best, in my opinion, because it’s fresher. Oh, and it’s better for you. You know, ’cause you should save some calories what with all the obsceneness going on above.

If you can time it right, start drizzling the margarine/brown sugar mix over the popcorn as it comes falling out the popper. This makes for maximum stickability, and keeps everything hot and fresh. Adding it after it’s a big deal, though. You may need some practice to get it perfect. The last six weeks of gestating have made me an expert.

Finally, lean over the bowl of obscene deliciousness and inhale. Don’t let your eyes roll too far back in your head, ’cause you’ll need to see the way to the couch where you’ll stuff your face in bliss.

Enjoy!

• I am mid-tea swallow here. Thanks, Eric
• Need hair cut, stat
• Anne of Green Gables rag doll (which Lucy carried all the way downtown for the 100 Years of Anne festival last Saturday) is most definitely grabbing one of the Girls. Bad, Annie!
• So glad to look officialy pregnant, and not lumpy or like I’ve eaten too many bowls of Corn Pops (not that that’s happened *cough*)
• Still 19 weeks to go. Help.

Last Wednesday I just got home from seeing Carl when the phone rang.

It was my doctor’s office. They were insistent to see me the next day. About my ultrasound, the receptionist said. But it wasn’t anything to worry about, the receptionist said. But yes, I had to come in, even though I was officially transferring to the doctor/obstetrician who will deliver this baby and had an appointment with her the very next day, the receptionist said.

That phone call broke me. I lost it. The stress of work, Eric’s continuing job search, other drama, pregnancy — all of it converged with that phone call. Eric was at his brother’s in Toronto, but came flying home (as fast as one can up the Don Valley Parking Lot Parkway during rush hour) when I called him practically incoherent and sobbing.

(I called my boss and negotiated a break for a few days. Mom’s night out that evening helped immensely. A four-day hiatus from the computer and various fun-ness with Eric and Lucy meant this morning I woke nearly normal and less stressed. Thankfully.)

The short version of Thursday’s appointment was this: My prenatal testing showed a higher-than-normal ratio for my age for Down syndrome; mine was for a woman 34, not 29. Although the overall results pointed conclusively to negative, my cautious doctor didn’t like the number — so this afternoon, we went to the Oshawa hospital for a Level 2 ultrasound to get confirmation that everything is, indeed, all good.

And it is.

And I was completely proven wrong and utterly shocked to learn that Lucy is going to have a little sister.

…she’s pushing inanimate objects in the swing.

Further proof the nickname for my in-utero babies is appropriate:

“Scientists have known for a while that parasites can induce “behavioral modification” in its hosts - but this one is new: a parasite that turns its host into a bodyguard!

Inside the caterpillar host, a cruel drama takes place: the eggs of the parasitoid hatch and the larvae feed on the body fluids of the host. The caterpillar continues feeding, moving and growing like its unparasitized brothers and sisters. When the parasitoid larvae are full-grown, they emerge together through the host’s skin, and start pupating nearby. Unlike many other combinations of host and parasitoid, the host remains alive but displays spectacular changes in its behaviour: it stops feeding and remains close to the parasitoid pupae. Moreover, it defends the parasitoid pupae against approaching predators with violent head-swings.”

• Lucy has an awful diaper rash. Like she’s crying out in pain when we try to wipe her. Poor thing. An early morning poop on a sleep-in day combined with all this heat and humidity created a bad environment. Luckily she’s doing better this morning, and we sent her to Julia’s with some zinc cream.
• Let us all send Jen O. some sympathy as she battles a belly measuring PAST her due date, and that time known as “None of my Clothes Fit the Belly Anymore,” also known as, “Why Can’t I Just Come to Work Nekkid?”
• Know what $213.07 will buy you at the vet’s office? An exam, thermometer up the (not mine, thankgoodness) butt, needle, heartworm treatment and every inch of your clothing covered in dog fur from one freaked-out, shaking Spencer Dog. I don’t blame him: The last time he was there, he earned the knickname The Baconator, came home comically stoned, and now all the vets know him as That Dog
• Driving home from the vet’s, Eric said the words French fries. Do you want to know what we had for lunch today? Peanut butter on toast, marble cheese, spicy oven French fries, fruit, and maple cookies. Pregnant women don’t joke about food. Ever. (upcoming story about this tomorrow…)
• Speaking of food, for dinner tonight we’re having pulled bbq chicken sandwiches with tangy cheese (ok, ok, it’s Cheez Whiz) on onion buns, with tomato and cucumber salad that includes herbed feta cheese and Greek dressing. I may have been thinking of this all day. Well, since the French fries, anyways…
  
• We were disappointed — but not terribly surprised — when our local Farmer’s Market was not yet open this Sunday, even though it’s opening is labeled as June. I can’t wait until we can walk over and get local produce again. Is anyone else counting down until strawberry season kicks in? Don’t forget you can find local retailers and markets on the Durham Farm Fresh website
• Do you know what third-party administrators do? Four interviews later, and I still don’t. Yargh. Also: help.
• Look! It’s my Golden Girls!
• Best sentence via email today: “Drunk monkeys randomly typing at a keyboard would require less editing.”

I got to go pee TWICE during my ultrasound in order to help the Parasite2 shift around in various needed positions to measure the heart and ribs and head and bones. Considering how small my bladder is and the fact I was so full it made me want to barf, this was the biggest relief ever.

Neither time helped with proper bit identification, though: The little bastard jerk Parasite2 was either spine up, crossed-legged, or sitting breech with her/his bottom firmly planted on my cervix, hiding the goods.

I know it’s ridiculous because the baby appears healthy and I’m healthy and we’re all healthy and there are compelling reasons to be all surprised in the waiting room, but I’m so disappointed. I feel silly even saying it when there are many other things in the world to be upset about, but I am.

Like I said with Lucy almost three years ago, there are so many uncontrollable things about pregnancy — what and how your body grows, the symptoms, when you go into labour, when and how the baby will be born. For me, there is something comforting about knowing this one thing about the new addition to our family.

But, I’ve got another 20 weeks to get used to the surprise and come up with a boy’s name to go along with the girl’s one we’ve had for a long time. The nursery was going to be green anyways, and I’m sure we have some neutral-coloured outfit kicking around to bring the Parasite2 home in.

And hey: Now the delivery will be just like the movies, when the doctor yells, “It’s a X!” and Eric will get to rush out and tell everyone.

(I still think it’s a boy. And I’m waving to you, too, you bit-hiding pipsqueak, but only with ONE FINGER.)

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.

Tomorrow morning is my mid-point ultrasound, where we hope the Parasite2 is healthy and limber.

Keep your fingers crossed (or maybe wide open?) that s/he’s bits are on full display.

I will honestly be completely shocked if this is not a boy. There are either male bits inside me, or this is one evil girl. At least I am finally off the Diclectin (although mid-afternoon can still be a nauseous time), and the painful acne has been beaten down. Note drugs were needed to combat both.

Share: Did you find out the sex of your babies while pregnant? Why or why not?

All of you, for the most part, have at least one child. Some, I know, have more, or know they want more, or are pregnant with subsequent kids.

So I’m really curious to know — being pregnant with our second, and last, child — how will you, or did you, decide the age spacing of your children?

We always knew Lucy would be at least 2 before we’d want to be pregnant again. “At least” turned out to be “within days of her second birthday,” but I am loving how it turned out. At 27 months, Lucy is just adorable right now. She’s still controllable, she’s a cute chatterbox, she listens and plays make believe and generally is completely edible. Lately I’ve been saying if I wasn’t already pregnant, I’d want to be.

I’m also loving the seasons of this pregnancy: I went through the real crappy times when it was still cold out, and am now in the energized second trimester in late spring/early summer when I can still easily run after Lucy and garden and paint and travel in the nice weather. This *should* also play out well with transitioning Lucy into a big girl bed, and potty training her this summer.

I also needed to make sure that life could — and would — return to some semblance of normalcy, even if it is a “new normal.” You know, that our evenings would once again be free (Lucy now goes to bed around 7:30 p.m., and sleeps until 7 a.m.), that we could do stuff with and without her, that my sense of self wasn’t lost (just altered) and that the world really does continue to exist and function after kids.

Finally, from a completely selfish, body perspective, I got tired of being in limbo: Knowing that I’d be pregnant and breastfeeding again, that my body would change again, that my boobs would change again. I felt like I couldn’t invest in nice clothes or bras knowing that my body wasn’t done morphing. And working out, in some respects, began to feel a little pointless knowing what was (hopefully) right around the corner.

But I think even if you aren’t able to plan your pregnancies — either they’re surprises or take longer than expected — or you adopt or whatever, whatever the age spacing turns out to be is the right one for your family.

Discuss.