A John Irving Novel.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Pregnancy
My friend Lisa predicted this baby: the time of her conception, her gender and the date of her birth. My daughter Erika predicted the circumstances: At three in the morning, with a great big flurry and commotion. And John Irving, apparently, wrote the birth story. At least that's what the L&D nurse said.

I awoke in the dead of night, as usual, to pee, and peevishly (ha!) made a mental note of the time: 2:55 a.m. I made a selection from the bathroom mini-library and lingered for a while over Southern California Curiosities by Saul Rubin, and in particular the entry on Caioti Pizza Cafe in Studio City, the place that serves the legendary Salad, the one notorious in So Cal for bringing on labor with absolute certainty. I pondered a trip to Studio City in the morning: whether I could persuade Ben to make the trip, and whether I wanted to subject myself to Los Angeles County for any reason whatsoever. Then I stood up.

Blood. Oh shit. That's not meant to be there. No contractions, but after a call to the Coochie Doc, we threw the last few items into the Doomsday Duffel and started dressing the kids.

They hustled us into an L&D suite and it soon became clear we were down for the count. The kids quickly got restless and started acting like bored little boys in a hospital room studded with machines that go ping and other fascinating gear -- in other words, like sleep-deprived bulls in an obstetrical china shop. I shouted out instructions and admonitions from the bed, including a request that Ben haul the new John Irving novel from my bag. The nurse turned around and looked at me for a long moment. You guys ARE a John Irving novel, she said.

Well, yeah. But we like it like that.

There's not much to tell. We couldn't raise Erika, who was apparently off doing what any self-respecting 21-year-old should be off doing on a Saturday night, so Ben ended up herding the boys home to bed and missing the actual birth. That's okay; I saw it in a mirror brought in for the occasion. When I caught sight of my femininity spread agape, I gasped out loud. You have to look up THOSE all day? I asked the Coochie Doc. No wonder they pay you the big bucks. I cut the cord myself. Hell, I'll try anything once. And Julia is a petite baby with a nice small head, for which I can't thank her enough, and that head is wreathed with a thick thatch of dark dark hair and a worried Hobbity expression.

She's what people call a good baby. (Which always slays us. As opposed to what? A BAD, EVIL baby?) Meaning that she is fairly quiet, and nurses like she was born to it (which of course she was), and is already hip to the idea of Mommy and Daddy's arms and voices as sources of comfort and general reasons to feel good. We're home from the hospital already; she is not 30 hours old yet. This pleases me. I missed my family. We all need each other to sleep. If there are missing members, no one sleeps right; I've slept about two hours between reading about Caioti's Pizza and right this minute.

We're safe together at home and it's time to rest. She? Is perfect. Worth the wait, and then some. The birth was perfect -- for us, anyway. A John Irving sort of birth into a John Irving sort of life. Lots of slapstick, big armloads of love. Welcome inside, Julia. Our circle is complete.

Imminent Baby.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Pregnancy
So, it's going to happen; this baby will be born. The Coochie Doc did a pelvic on Thursday (violated without even a kiss!) and found me dilated 2-3 centimeters. That's just short of knocking on Heaven's door. So there is an induction scheduled for Tuesday. If she decides to wait that long. I'm thinking tomorrow. Maybe today. But Julia will do what she will. I'm okay with that.

I have a strong urge today to rest, to curl up and conserve my strength. I'm going to do that. I'm still grappling with this flu, and although I am a yellow-bellied coward who absolutely will have an epidural, there will be work to be done. Pushing out a baby is hard work. Caring for a newborn, not so hard; mostly it involves nursing a lot, and God knows I've had enough practice at that. But it also involves a juggling act, a pushing of the envelope of love to let a new life into the circle of our family. I'm worried about Matt. Attached to his mama? You can't imagine. I have to be sure he understands that there's love enough, that adding another child means more love to go around, not less.

I'm feeling hopeful, and happy, and strangely peaceful. Soon enough she'll be in my arms, and I'll deliver that kiss I promised her in January, that first kiss on her fuzzy dark head. (Or redhead? Sometimes I imagine her a redhead.) See you soon, girl child.

And see y'all on the other side.

Four A.M.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Pregnancy
You would think I'd have a better reason to be up at this hour; but the fact I'm writing this demonstrates that I don't have the reason for which I would have hoped.

No, I am awake because remember that thing Sam and Matt were sick with, a week or two ago? I finally came down with it. And now I can understand why the kids were so miserable. Body aches: check. Cough that wakes up the whole family unless you flee the bed and go downstairs: check. Fever: check. Sore throat: check. I'll tell you this much: Sam and Matt handled this tasty little malady with a hell of a lot more style and grace than I'm doing.

Because I am flat-out feeling sorry for myself at this moment. In addition to, you know, the pregnancy thing, I've got a ton of pressure on me at work to finish up certain pain-in-the-ass projects before I go out on leave. A paralegal is a sort of legal janitor; I get stuck with the bad messes, the ones no one else wants to handle or look at or even think about. I'm the guy who used to come with the sawdust and the mop and broom when someone barfed on the floor in grade school. Except he was generally in a better mood than this.

Furthermore, my husband's firm wishes him to travel to San Jose on business. Day trips, true, but they are scheduled for August 10, 17 and 18. My estimated date of confinement, as it's charmingly called, is August 16. That means I've got some tricky scheduling to do in the birth department, because this baby has to be either a week early, or a day or two early, or several days late, if we're to ensure her daddy is in town to welcome her into the daylight. Because a wife about to have a baby any minute is, apparently, not sufficient to get Ben out of these trips. Nothing will do but that the baby's head be actually crowning, the doctor crouching at my knees with the catcher's mitt.

I've been brooding over all this while waiting for the children's cough suppressant (why would there be anything adult strength in the house?) to kick in. And feeling plenty sorry for myself, believe me. The only reason I'm not willing this baby to be born right this minute is because I'm figuring childbirth, and caring for a newborn, and so on might be a little less pleasant while actually sick with the actual flu. That is all.

Well, it's tomorrow than I think; the alarm clock will ring in an hour, and tomorrow -- excuse me, today -- is another day. I'll do the happy thing, because the frustrated, put-upon thing will only bum out the family while improving my circumstances not one bit. I'll smile at the delicious irony of the entire situation. And I will wait for the wind to change direction, because today? God is totally pissing down my back.

Thank you for your time. I promise to snap the fuck out of it before you hear from me next.

Sex Education.
Mood:  flirty
Topic: Pregnancy


Here you see it, folks: Exhibit B. That's B as in blimp, bloated, behemoth and boggles the mind. Do you think I'm ready to have this baby? I feel, and look, like Mrs. Creosote. See what kissing leads to?

Meanwhile, Sam and I had the following discussions.

When Ben arrived home, the four of us took Nicky for a walk.

Sam: I saw Daddy's balls. They look disgusting.

Me: Well, honey, all guys have balls. You have them, right behind your peepee. Matt has them. And Nicky has them. See?

Sam [giggling]: No, I don't have them. The girls don't like you if you have balls.

Me: But baby, all guys have balls. The girls will like you anyway.

Sam: No they won't. Girls don't like balls.

Me: Well, just don't show them your balls, and the girls will like you just fine.

Later, we talked about what will happen when Julia is born.

Me: I'll go to the hospital, and the doctor will help Julia come out of my belly, and Daddy will stay with me. You and Matt will be with Erika and Joel. Then after Julia comes out, Daddy will come home and bring you and Matt to come see us.

Sam: I don't want to watch the baby come out. It will be too gross.

Me: Well, honey, Daddy doesn't watch either. He just stays with me and helps me. And then Julia will come out, and they will check us out and make sure we are doing okay, and then Julia and I will come home and we will all be together.

Sam: Okay. Just don't let Daddy see her coming out of your belly. It will be too gross for him.

I wonder how he thinks she gets out of my belly? I once mentioned it to him in passing, but it's not the sort of thing you want to focus on. You know, he's a boy, and he's only four. Who knows how he pictures it?

You Ain't Going Nowhere.
Mood:  a-ok
Topic: Pregnancy
Okay, Gretchen. Look at the tattoo on your lower belly, for which you will need a complicated system of mirrors, and read aloud. Om. Omm. Ommmmmm. The Coochie Doc says this baby ain't going anywhere any time soon, and mommy is just going to have to chill her big fat ass out.

It was a most unproductive conversation, but not an unfamiliar one. Not unfamiliar, because I had the same conversation with my former, retired Coochie Doc once in mid-2001 and once late in 2002. But definitely unproductive.

Me: Me = done being pregnant.

Coochie Doc: Nonsense. You're only 36 weeks.

Me: But. Isn't my blood pressure high? Do I have toxemia? Don't you need to induce me?

Coochie Doc: A little high, yes, but your urine is clear as a bell. You're fine. Lots of amniotic fluid. Heatbeat sounds great.

Me: But! Swollen!

Nurse: Ha. That's nothing. We get people in here with ankles swollen up as big as your calves.

Me: But! I'm FAT.

Nurse: Well, of course you feel fat, dear. You're pregnant.

Me: I want her OUT.

Nurse and Coochie Doc [smiling indulgently]: See you in a week.

Me: Fat. Still pregnant. SHIT.

I will go to the Orange County Fair this weekend, and I will walk and walk and walk. I will sexually assault my husband, although I fear intercourse is a physical impossibility unless we enlist the aid of teleportation and/or mechanical apparati. I will do jumping jacks. (If I do, they will register on the Richter Scale.)

But mostly I will bide my time and aspire to be Buddhalike in my fatness, because I know from experience that none of these things will make a whit of difference. When it comes to this birth and its timing, Julia Rose Kathleen Crumpacker is definitely the boss of me.

I Am So Done With This Pregnancy Thing.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Pregnancy
During the past week, I have abruptly blown up like a balloon. You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. My fingers look like sausages. My rings don't fit. My feet, by the end of the day, look like my grandmother's feet used to look, rising from my darling leopard sandals like ugly little loaves of bread swelling in their pans. My face is pudgy. Remember that smug little photo from a month ago, with the tiny butt and the cheekbones? Gone. All gone. I look like a fucking hippopotamus. The Michelin woman. In short: I AM FUCKING SICK OF BEING PREGNANT.

This particular brand of insanity always sets in for me around week 36. I am not a patient girl, as I think we've established. I want to go on Weight Watchers yesterday. I want to see my feet other than in fleeting glimpses. I want to bend over and tie my shoe without audibly grunting. I want to go three hours between mini-meals without my blood sugar plummeting to hell.

Oh, I know. She will come out and she will want to to be held and cuddled and rocked and swaddled and nursed around the clock. So bring it on! I'll do all that if it means not weighing 800 pounds anymore. If I can put on my wedding ring in the mornings fully trusting I'll be able to take it off at bedtime. Please, I want my thin self back. I don't want to waddle anymore. I don't want to sweat like a motherfucking sharecropper. I don't want to take five minutes just to climb off my bed. I am SO DONE WITH THIS.

Julia. Sweetie? Anytime from 38 weeks on is considered full-term. You're welcome to remain through the end of the month, but after that? I want you to come on out. Give your mama a break. I may not be a beautiful girl, but in certain ways I'm a vain girl, and I don't do chubby. Enough is enough.

Wild And Restless Heart.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Pregnancy
My Julia is knocking at that door for sure; I feel her every minute of every day. Funniest physical sensations, like at any moment she may burst, Alien-wise, from one bit of my anatomy or another. At the moment my money's on the cervix; judging from the tussling pressure in my pelvis, any old time now she's going to pop out from between my knees, strike a pose and sing an aria at my feet. Isn't she?

Good Lord, little girl, so close you're getting now. I'm impatient to meet you -- and you seem impatient to meet us, too. Will you come out looking cranky like your sister? You sure feel cranky in there. But you've got just a bit longer to bake, see. So settle down. Let me get a cut and color this weekend, maybe even some precious time lying back with Matt against my shoulder and the new John Irving balanced atop Belly Mountain. Not much longer now, you wild girl. Calm your restless heart and pull your feet out from my cervix, now!

The Virtual Nursery.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Pregnancy
A dear friend of mine is expecting a baby boy, right around the same time Julia is due. Today she put up pictures of his shiny new nursery, all decorated in blue and dancing with creatures of the sea. Aquatic paradise in the great American Midwest. It's impressive, a labor of love from a mommy so pregnant, but so far away from me.

I recently realized that little Julia, so near to be being born, had almost nothing to wear. And so we went to Babies R Us, that Mecca of the burgeoning belly club. A good third of the store is dedicated to nursery trappings: to cribs and changing tables and darling bedding sets, all in soft pinks and blues, bright sunny colors, cuddly things and dangly things. We didn't venture into that bit of the store. Never have. No need for it.

No glider rocker. No Moses basket. No changing table. No crib. No bassinet. No dust ruffle or mobile or Johnny Jump-Up. But here, Julia: Here. This big family bed, so often laughed in and loved in and barfed on and slept in by your mom and your dad and your brothers, this is for you. These tired but grateful arms, here to hold you every hour of every day. This sling where both your brothers curled against me, this nest, this home, this greying mommy, this grey-haired daddy, this bed. These are for you. Can't wait to bring you home, sweetheart. So much love has gone here, and so much more to come.

There She Goes.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
There she is, my beautiful baby, as seen on ultrasound this very morning. Measuring right on target, estimated weight 4 pounds 10 ounces at 33 weeks gestation. Hi there, Julie-Boo. Can't wait to meet you.

Watching The Insides Of My Eyelids.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
Back in January, just barely pregnant, I wrote about how sleepy this baby was making me, which was overwhelmingly so. Nearly six months later, I'm back where I started: nodding off at the office, dreaming of bedtime.

I took most of a sick day on Friday so I could go home and get some rest, thinking it would help if I could just get caught up. It didn't. I sent my kids to the park with Ben and his mother on Saturday so I could take a nap. It's just past summer solstice, and these are the longest days of the year; the sun sets past 8 p.m., and us? We're in bed by that time. My favorite show is, once again, the one on the insides of my eyelids.

I don't blog, much. Hell, I barely work. I wait, and I worry, and I pee a lot, and I look forward to bedtime. Someone tell me this will pass, because I've only got so many weeks left until I'm the harried working mother of three kids under the age of five, and I don't want to miss those weeks by sleeping through them.

Because I'm Wearing A Path In The Carpet.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Pregnancy
Julia. Sweetie pie? Could you please get off my bladder for, oh I don't know, maybe half a second even? Because I sure am tired of peeing, and can't see spending the next seven weeks in the ladies' loo.

Belly At 31 Weeks.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Pregnancy
Bless Ben's heart, he cut off the top of my head. But my ass looks really small in this shot -- hell, next to that belly, North America looks small -- so in it goes. 31 weeks, 20 pounds and counting.

New Coochie Doc.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Today I met with my new Coochie Doc, Gregory DiRocco, M.D. He's a peach. My baby will be born at Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian in Newport Beach, overlooking the blue Pacific. That's right, I will grunt out this puppy with an ocean view.

Right now we are looking at a scheduled induction. I know, I know -- this is contrary to everything my crunchy mommy friends would be advising, but it works for us. We hope to welcome Julia Rose Kathleen to the family on or about Sunday, August 7, 2005.

Life is not predictable, and babies seldom are. Me, I'm a creature of habit and structure. The idea of having a baby on a date certain has a powerful appeal -- maternity leave, care for my sons while I'm in labor, everything falls gloriously into place. Miss Julia may yet throw me a monkey wrench (breathes there a child who hasn't disappointed his or her mother even before birth?) but let me tell you, a tentative schedule is better than no schedule at all.

Oh, and my coochie was pronounced in good working order. I am officially Dr. DiRocco's oldest obstetric patient. Whee! Listen to this, he told the nurse. Forty-four years old and pregnant naturally.

Not just naturally, I pointed out. Accidentally, too. The two of them stared at me. I grinned. It's fun to be science fiction incarnate!

That Thing She Does.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
What is it babies start doing in utero in the third trimester that feels like they are digging their heads into your cervix? (Or, as Jim Morrison mused in the lyrics to Love Street: I wonder what they do in there.) I just now asked a coworker who is pregnant with her second child, and she didn't know what I was talking about. Don't all fetuses do that? Who knows? The only phenomena as subjective as pregnancy are love and marriage.

Subjective or not, my three youngest all mastered the third-trimester trick of making me believe at times, through intense pressure, that they were preparing to burst right out into the world and sing an aria at my feet. Julia Crumpacker, at your cervix.

It's going to be a long 12-13 weeks. Somehow, my old mantra, It's okay -- this is my last baby, seems less magical the second time around. Still, and despite the kvetching, I'm savoring this time of carrying my second daughter around inside me. It's so short, and they're so much less manageable once they're on the outside.

Here Is My Money. There Is My Mouth.
Mood:  chillin'
Topic: Pregnancy
In the interest of finally putting my money where my mouth is, I give you: The Belly At The End of the Second Trimester, in order to prove once and for all that I do not have a single stretch mark to show for the three puppies I've already grunted out and the final puppy I'll be grunting out later this summer. The navel may be half-inverted and beak-shaped, the tattoo faded and stretched and barely visible, but of stretch marks there is not a one.


What good this does me, I am not altogether sure, and furthermore, I am far too sleepy to work it out -- it's not quite midnight on the West Coast and I was only startled awake by the transition from Matt kicking my belly from the outside to Julia kicking it from the inside. Perhaps that's how they communicate with each other? But earlier this evening (or does that count now as last evening?) I asked Ben to photograph my belly, to prove no stretch marks. And here is my proof. One doesn't need to have stretch marks to have babies, and one needn't be awake or coherent to blog, either, apparently. So it's back up to bed with my warm little Matt and my Julia-laden belly. Good night, kids, and easy on the kicking, please.

Good Morning, Julia Rose.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
My baby is getting strong in there, and she's kicked me into reluctant wakefulness around 4:30 a.m. these last two mornings. Can't a girl get any rest around here? It's raining and windy today, and Matt opened his eyes briefly and smiled his biggest smile at me before cuddling back down -- tough to tear yourself away from a friendly bed like that one, but Julia Rose assures me it's morning and no time to still be in bed.

Outside, the house finches are already singing and farting around in the feeder. I'm embarrassed to admit that up until yesterday I believed them to be the purple finch, and it bugged me for years: Why in hell is it called the purple finch when the coloration is clearly orange to red? Well, now I know. I could have identified the little fuckers by their calls, which are said to be distinct from those of the purple finch (wheat versus churlee). But I have certain boundaries when it comes to bird geekery, namely that I do not go trying to distinguish among various sandpipers and I do not kill myself trying to hear and sort out calls. There is such a thing as taking things too far.

(The Louisiana Ornithological Society has a detailed article in one of their winter newsletters on sorting out the differences among the three common U.S. rosefinches, namely the house finch, the purple finch and Cassin's finch. Apparently making this ID is an issue even for really extreme Southern birding geeks, so I don't feel quite so bad. Thanks, guys.)

Well, there's one mystery less, Julia Rosefinch, and now it's off to face another day. Maybe it's not so bad being kicked awake before dawn; together we've sexed the tarantula and hit the rosefinch problem clean out of the park. What a team. But if you wake me up early again tomorrow, we're going to have to cure cancer or something. These things can only be taken so far.

Public Service Announcement.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Pregnancy
To everyone who stared at my belly today (and yesterday, and last week) with their mouths hanging open:

Yes, I'm pregnant! That's right. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant! Yes, that's why my belly is so big. Wow! You figured that out by yourself? Yes, I sure am pregnant, and guess what? I'm going to get a whole lot more pregnant before I'm done. In fact, I've got a whole bag of pregnant with your name on it! All for your staring at my belly with your mouth hanging open like an idiot pleasure!

Yes, I sure am big. Thanks! No, it's not twins. Yes, we're sure! Yes, they checked! Thanks! By the way, is that half a roll of Tums in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? I mean, as long as we are talking so personally about what bits of us are big.

Yes, it's a girl. Yes, we were sure ready for a girl after two little boys! Thanks! Yes, mmhmm, they sure are energetic. Thanks! We hadn't noticed! No, we don't watch Nanny 911. Do you watch Richard Simmons? 'Cause your big fat ass sure could use some help! Thank you!

Yes, Daddy's been a busy boy. You're right -- we sure do have our hands full! Wow, you're right! We sure are old to be having kids! No, we didn't need medical help to get pregnant! Did you have medical help getting those boobs? I'm just asking! 'Cause they sure are lopsided! And by the way, if you light that cigarette before I get upwind of you, I'm going to shove your Zippo up your . . . Thank you.

If, on the other hand, you want to smile at us and tell us we've got beautiful kids and congratulate us that a new one's coming: Thanks. We enjoy them. And you enjoy your Sunday afternoon.

I Hope Their Babies Pee All Over Them.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
My office building circulated a memo earlier this week indicating they were about to remodel the lobby of the seventh floor, which as you may have guessed is the floor on which I work. Rock, I thought. Until I read the fine print on the memo, which indicated that the restrooms on the seventh floor would be included in the remodeling process, which would take six to eight weeks (translation: three to eleven months), during which time seventh floor tenants would be required to use restrooms on other floors.

Whatever. Right? Except for the fact that 28.5% of the full-time female employees in my office are pregnant. Well, okay, there are only seven of us. But two of us are pregnant, and if you've ever had a tenant in your uterus, you know what that involves: Peeing. Lots and lots of peeing.

Honestly, I'm all about progress. I think the remodel is a wonderful idea, but it only began this morning and already it's clear that the guys doing the work are evil, evil people. They showed up at 7:30 a.m., gutted and disabled the women's restroom, then left and haven't been seen since.

I hereby place the following hoodoo upon those guys: I HOPE YOUR WIVES GET PREGNANT AND HORMONAL AND MAKE YOUR LIVES A LIVING HELL AND INSIST ON STOPPING TO PEE EVERY SEVEN MINUTES WHENEVER YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE. I HOPE YOUR BABIES' DIAPERS LEAK BADLY EVERY TIME YOU HOLD THEM. I HOPE THEIR POOP SMELLS WORSE THAN KERN COUNTY. AND I MEAN THIS IN THE SINCEREST AND MOST LITERAL WAY. HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, ASSHOLES.

I hope you, on the other hand, have a truly good weekend.

The Coochie Doctor.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
My ob/gyn, aka Dr. Jellyfinger or the Coochie Doc, who delivered both my sons, announced today at my monthly preggo exam that he is retiring as of the end of this week. This freaked me out. At not quite six months of pregnancy I'm faced with finding a new doctor for my hey-nonny-nonny.

In recent memory, only four males have been anywhere near the Holy of Holies. One is, of course, my husband. The second is Patrick Quigley, M.D., the ob/gyn who is leaving me high and dry. And the third and fourth are my sons, who were only permitted in the area long enough for Daddy to put them in and for Dr. Quigley to take them out. I'm reluctant to expand the circle, but expand it I must, and fast.

So, this afternoon I set out to find a new doctor. And I chose him the same way I chose Dr. Quigley some six years ago: By his name.

(Some people may already believe I'm a completely reprehensible person, and here comes more proof: What I'm about to say may convince you that I both deserve, and am partially responsible for, everything you hate about both the Bush Administration and the Vatican. Here goes.)

The only type of doctor with whom I feel comfortable is white, male, and preferably Catholic. The sort of doctor I was raised with. Female doctors are groovy for other people; I don't like going to them. Nor do I want a doctor whose native language isn't English; I want there to be absolutely no ambiguity in my verbal communications with my treating physician. Bear in mind that being an HMO subscriber and chronically pressed for time, I have to pick my doctors from a catalog; I don't have time for personal interviews.

Therefore, Patrick Quigley. Good Catholic; he's even been to the Vatican. And now my new doctor, Fred Galluccio. I have high hopes for him, despite the perhaps questionable wisdom of allowing an Italian guy anywhere near my coochie, something I swore off upon separating from Anthony.

Wish me luck. In three to four months, Julia will make her appearance, and Dr. Galluccio will be waiting at the entrance to the Fun Zone with the catcher's mitt. I hope his aim is true.

Monstrous Pregnant.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
By the calendar, I won't even hit the third trimester of pregnancy for another couple of weeks. No matter; yesterday I felt myself move into the final stage. I've done enough of this to know the signs.

Physiologically, it's perfectly understandable. The uterus, in its undisturbed state, is about the size of a plum and nestles safely behind the pubic bone. My uterus, as of this morning, topped out about three inches above my navel. I'm a short girl and short-waisted; there's not a lot of space between my ribs and my pelvis. What this means is that not only do I have a belly the size of a Volkswagen, but all my internal organs are being shoved about rather rudely.

The practical result of all that is chronic heartburn, shortness of breath and backache. My belly has developed corners; it seems to move independently of the rest of my torso. And the Braxton-Hicks are not so much contractions as a perpetuity. I spent enough fruitless time on the fetal monitor during my last two pregnancies to know that this is not a sign of premature labor, just my peculiar version of normal.

Does this sound like endless kvetching? It's not, really. There's a fair amount of discomfort, true, but mostly I find it fascinating to have my body taken over by another entity, its form and function changed so radically by someone who weighs, at this point, only a pound or two. She moves in me, and I try to guess from the sensations what she is up to in there. As I told Ben this morning, it's a lot like the movie Alien, only with luck my little Julia won't actually burst through my abdominal wall to make her appearance.

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Babylon And On (1987) by Squeeze. At this point, the band's lineup included Jools Holland but not (thankfully; my God, that guy is tiresome) Paul Carrack. I think this is Sam and Matt's favorite Squeeze album; listening, Sam remarked, "I like Squeeze. They're very good at singing."

The track Some Americans features not a guitar break but a sitar break by the adorable Glenn Tilbrook. The best-known single, Hourglass, spawned a cool, trippy music video; five years later, the movie Toys (1992) would feature an ersatz MTV video that echoes many of its visual elements (and also borrows heavily from the painter Rene Magritte). (Reader Challenge: If you can procure for me the Hourglass music video on DVD in Region 1 format, I will give you oral. I'm only about 65% kidding.)