Naming

Talking about her name insights more real excitement than most other conversations that I can have about this life brewing inside me.  It's a piece of her that can exist outside of myself.  I can say it out loud and it will be that same name when she is born.  It's as if I can have a piece of her now that can be shown and shared, like maybe I am already getting to know her a bit.
Naming her also makes her inevitable presence in our life more real.  She's not just a phantom idea or a big 'ol belly.  It allows her to take up space.  It allows us to get used to her a bit before her scrunched up face becomes all we want to look at for awhile.

Rosanna's first moments

Tantrum, at long last

So we had our first 'real' tantrum today.  It was gonna happen, as today started out sketchy and just kept on that way until the end.

Pre-tantrum we had a morning of furrowed brows, snappy comments and the whine-factor was high.  I braced myself because I knew this would be a no-nap day and we already seemed to need one.  Both of our social events went well, shockingly; it was the in-between times that got our patience muscles some good practice.

We were in Target.  I told her that she could choose one thing from the dollar bins.  She waffled, she asked for two things, she finally chose a purple plastic cup.  As we wandered on through aisles of crap we really wanted and didn't need, she re-employed the snotty voice and stinky attitude.
Warning number one: lose the 'tude or lose the cup.
Response: I want my cup!
Rebuttle: Great, I want you to have your cup too.  Please change the way you are speaking or we will put it back.
Fast forward 60 seconds.  Snotty McSnotterson is at it again.  My worst nightmare happens: follow through.  OK, I say, let's put the cup back then.
Oh, man.  It's on.  Tears, big fat heavy tears.  Screaming about how she wants her cup.  Me: holding the cup in one hand and wrangling the writhing child as she tries to escape my intentions to scoop her up and replace the cherished cup.  I was THAT person.  All eyes on me.  My kid screaming about a dumb purple cup, me trying not to drop her, my bulging belly not helping one iota.  I chose not to look around, not to make direct eye contact and I could see them watching me.  Reinvented screeches as the cup actually makes it back to it's home, piled with other purple, blue and green cups.  Pleading and promises of her new found attitude blocking out all other sounds.
Wow, I think, this is shitty.

Again at bed time, we had a similar incident.  Warning, continued pushing of the envelope, consequence.  Melt down.

Now she's asleep.  I wish I felt relief, and I do a little, but I feel more like I want to hug and kiss and cuddle her.  To have her tell me that the crappiness that happened today was perfectly handled and any other response wouldn't have helped her along the path of being the best person she can be.  I feel in my gut that this is true, or our house wouldn't operate this way.  It doesn't make my heart feel less heavy though.

Musings from behind the belly

I seem to have more value to the general public when I am pregnant.

I'm sure you (others who have come before me) have had this same experience, it never fails to amuse me.  In large part, I gladly accept the extra fawning and added care taken to accommodate my blossoming self.  Other times I just think it's silly and weird.

Early the other morning, as I walked up the street to meet a friend to go for a walk, a gentleman (who knows me) asked what I was doing out "in my condition".  I smiled and told him I had to, "keep this body movin'!" and as I continued on my way thought, well what the heck am I supposed to do?  Stay indoors?

Another time I was working (a job that essentially requires me to sit and wait for people to make a purchase) and asI went to stand and add up a lady's treasures, she was horrified that her actions were making me have to move.  Note to world: pregnant does not equal crippled.  I can, and appreciate, and opportunity to move about and get my blood moving around.  If I didn't, it certainly isn't *insert customer here*'s fault that I am choosing to work and therefore must stand up and punch numbers on a calculator.

I've noticed too that pregnant ladies are nearly on the level with saints as a virtue of being pregnant.  I get smiles and high quality courtesy that doesn't exist as a woman with a baby in the breathing world.  I can do no wrong and all of my woes are of extreme importance to passersby.  If only this love extended beyond the belly and into the (in my opinion) more challenging realm of hauling that sucker around manually.

'Tis a funny world :)

Emotional vomit

It's either pregnancy or I'm just a bummer.

I feel on the verge of crying half the time and I have to talk myself into being patient with Rosanna like it's a chore.  I don't want to have the same "I don't want to close my eyes" conversation every freaking night.  Especially when I've never, not once, told her she has to.

Watching her tonight dance around to the music on the credits of a movie I thought to myself, "this won't last forever.  Soon enough she'll be too self-conscious to be silly".  That made me sad.  She was so joyful.  She jumped and flitted and fell and laughed herself into hiccups.

Right now I'm questioning my place in this house.  How much of my responsibility should I expect to shift as a result of my "condition"?  So far it would seem that zero of it will.  Be prepared for this place to become the sty of a pig upon the arrival of #2, I don't really see any way around it.

And on a final random note, how is it so danged warm outside?  I don't own warm-weather maternity clothes and I am certainly not going to go buy any just for a few weeks of my life.  This was an unexpected turn of events and I'd really love it if I could get four more weeks of chill.  Fingers crossed....