I need to buy a nursing bra sooner rather than later. Apparently, I need it while in the hospital and since I have no way of knowing when that day will take place or how long it will take for me to find a bra that fits, I should probably start researching this sooner rather than later. That’s where you come in, Internet. Anyone out there ever buy a nursing bra? Anyone know of any decent brands, places to purchase, or pointers regarding sizes, styles, or brands? I’m now a 36 D. (Yes, they grew when I got pregnant. And the circumference of my chest grew as well because a pregnant woman’s ribcage shifts to make room for what’s to come. Insane? You bet.) Any or all information welcome.

My pregnant body was boding pretty well up until this week. But now I’m 35-weeks pregnant and my body is failing miserably. I can no long walk without losing my breath and the heat is excruciating. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but things are much more difficult than they were last week. And this post is probably going to sound both whiny and graphic.

On Sunday my mucous plug started to break. I use the term started because I hear that for some woman this can go on for weeks leading up to the big day. Had I not known about the mucous before last week, the experience would have totally freaked me out. How is it that people (women) don’t mention such a thing? So, I’m going to put it out there for the entire world to see. The mucous plug is exactly what it sounds like. It sits inside the cervix and protects all the “good stuff” from infection. Sometime during the 9th month, it falls out. This can happen all at once or gradually. Usually it takes place after week 38 – closer to D Day. Mine started to show itself on Sunday. (Gross? Sorry, people!)

In true Michele fashion I panicked at first. I thought I was going to go into labor at any given moment. And then I read the following sentence somewhere: “LOSING YOUR MUCOUS PLUG DOES NOT MEAN LABOR IS IMMINENT.” And I relaxed a bit and let nature take its course. What does the mucous plug look like? Well, like a big chunk of mucous. (If you lose your mucous plug and it’s dark brown or bloody you should call your doctor straight away. That could represent problems.)

I mention the personal stuff because on Sunday I realized that Labor Day is right around the corner. I could have this baby in less than 4 weeks from this very moment. Granted, I could also have this baby as late as 6 weeks from now and that fact scares more of the mucous plug out of me. I would rather he come during the 39^th week rather than the 42^nd. I’m going to start drinking raspberry leaf tea next week. Raspberry leaf tea doesn’t bring on labor prematurely but it does help strengthen a woman’s pelvic and uterine muscles. Once labor does begin the muscles are more efficient. I recently heard that nipple stimulation can bring on early labor, but I think they’re going to go through enough once the baby is born, so I’m going to let them alone for now. Perhaps, if I get desperate, I’ll stick to the old fashioned way of stimulating labor: spicy food and a little sex.

I’m scared, people. And after last night’s Lamaze class, where we discussed all the various medications given during birth, I’m even more anxious. Last night we went over anesthesia, epidurals, cesareans, clamps, vacuums, narcotics, etc. I’m still leaning toward the epidural but I’m not going to lock myself into anything. I’m also not going to try and be a hero and both my husband and my mother are aware of that fact. If I am screaming for drugs, they’re going to agree to the drugs. If I can handle labor drug and epidural free, then I’ll give that a shot. I do not feel comfortable with a cesarean birth, however. Whoever claims that cesarean births are “easier” was dead wrong in my opinion. I can’t imagine having such a major surgery and then having to care for a baby. And for those women (Melissa) who experience 3 hours of actual pushing before having to go through a cesarean birth, well, they now hold a special place in my heart.

My Braxton Hicks contractions began recently as well. They come and go each and every day. They aren’t so bad. They don’t even compare to what I’ve experience during some periods. The only time they become hard to handle is when I’m out walking and it’s hot as hell. For example, yesterday I decided to check out the funeral being held for the local firefighter who died in Williamsburg last week. (Some pictures here.) It was a block from my apartment so I figured I’d be fine. A half an hour later the Braxton Hicks kicked in and I started to sweat profusely. Then I got dizzy. It was on the walk home that I realized how physically challenged I am right now. I simply cannot do what I once was able. It’s really time to take her easy. As stubborn as I am, I have to rest now. My body has given me no other choice.

Last week, at my doctor’s appointment, we discussed delivery day. I filled out my registration form, talked about pediatricians, and prepared for my 36-week ultrasound when the impending birth hit me. Tobyjoe and I signed up for cord blood storage as well, which seems well worth the cost to me. We owe a thousand dollars up front and 100 bucks a year for the actual storage. (And then hopefully the next president of our great nation won’t let his religious beliefs get in the way of any potentially lifesaving medical procedures.) Gotta tell ya, however, riding the New York City subway home carrying the kit that reads “HUMAN WHOLE BLOOD” on its sides was quite an experience. I got some REALLY strange looks and no one sat next to me. (Really. No one.)

^Rant/ Speaking of riding the subway, New York City isn’t very friendly for those of us who have trouble with stairs. Plus, it’s rare someone gives up their seat so that I can sit down. And when that does take place, it’s usually always an African American male. (Second runner up is the 30-something female. White males to date = ZERO.) I ride the 4/5/6, the L Train and the N/R. The L train is where it’s happened most often. The N/R in close second. I have yet to be given a seat while riding the 4/5/6. All that said, if you see a pregnant woman on the subway, for the love of all that is kind, please get up and let them sit down. ^{/End Rant}

We finally got the baby’s room in working order. (Photos to come.) By “working order” I mean that it now looks like a baby’s room. The only thing left to do is buy a changing pad for the top of his new dresser, a breast pump for me, (I’m waiting until after my Saturday breast feeding class to do so) and some bed sheets. The organic mattress we ordered is on its way. And TobyJoe picked up a BreathableBaby Bumper pad yesterday. We still need to hang up his curtains and put his clothes away. I think we’re in pretty good shape. Now, all I have to do is prepare some music for birth, buy a robe for my hospital stay, and prepare my suitcase. Oh, and I have to wait. It’s time to wait.

I write this warily. I am filled with 50% excitement and 50% fear. If I didn’t have to go through the actual birthing part, I’d be singing right now. I simply cannot wait to meet my son. I can’t wait to hold him and see what he looks like. I can’t wait to lose sleep because of him, feed him, and take him on walks through the park. But there’s this big wall, you see, a big wall with the word “LABOR” written on it. That wall keeps me from feeling 100% pure joy.

Julie put it well in the comments section on a previous post: I fear what I know nothing about. If I were one for prayer, I’d be on my knees right about now. (Although, getting up from that position is nearly impossible to do these days.)

A couple of days ago Tobyjoe cooked up our last batch of Copper River salmon for the year. I love the stuff. It’s some of the best fish I’ve ever had and it’s probably the best salmon there is. Given it’s only available for about three to five weeks out of the year, it’s become a special treat for the both of us. We look forward to it each and every year. I guess one might say that Copper River salmon time is a bit of a holiday in our household.

Now, I’m willing to make a bet that some of you have fancied yourself clever, that you’ve put two and two together and figured out how this story is going to end. It would stand to reason that since I’m talking about salmon and the title of this post is “Tuesdays with Murray” that one might assume that Murray ate our precious salmon flanks. He did not. He did something much more peculiar – the little weirdo.

Tobyjoe cooked the salmon using nothing more than a little heat. He also made my all time favorite vegetable, broccoli. He made a small portion of pasta as well. It was going to be a delightful meal. I set the table. I set out cloth napkins, two plates, some silverware and two glasses of ice water. Tucker and Murray playfully danced around, taunting one another like they do, rolling around like two small children. I watched them until Tucker became bored and walked into the foyer where we have a some storage space. I watched as he pried one of the storage unit doors open with his paw.

A few minutes later, the salmon was served and we both sat down to eat. Tucker immediately darted from the other room and assumed his position on one of the free chairs at our table. Usually both he and Murray join us for dinner and become forces to reckon with. They are actually kind of annoying. I have witnessed starving dogs beg less than these two. But I usually don’t have the heart to lock them up. So we fight them off with napkins, toys, or easy shoves.

This time, only Tucker joined us, which was odd given we were having Murray’s all time favorite: food. And usually a house without a Murray in sight becomes a house of question. “Where’s Murray?” But this time, I chose to let it go. I wanted to enjoy my Copper River in peace and Tucker is much easier to handle than Murray.

We were almost finished with dinner when Tobyjoe looked at me and said in the most mundane voice, “It appears someone has brought you a present.” His voice held no hint of humor or amazement to it. I was (still am) flabbergasted by his ability to not spew food before me when he called my attention to what he’d seen.

On the floor rounding the corner of our foyer – the corner leading into our dining room – was one skinny and very determined Murray. Only Murray wasn’t alone. In his little mouth, he carried with him an extra large Christmas stocking. It measures 16 inches from top to bottom. He held it in his mouth by its white fluffy top, as the rest of it dragged between his legs. He waddled into the dining room, ungracefully, all four of his legs far apart to make room for the large sock.

Precious Copper River salmon flew out of the holes in my face. I snorted with laughter. Murray looked at me from below all the fluff as if it say, “Why are you laughing at my present, you ungrateful bitch!” He then dropped it at my feet and began kicking it with his hind legs. I laughed even harder and then went to grab the camera. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any funnier, a reindeer popped out of its interior. And then a New York Transit Museum ornament.

Murray has officially turned Copper River salmon day into a holiday, reminding us that everyone could use a little Christmas in June.

There was a period of time when I was a young ‘n where my family and my Aunt’s family (on my father’s side) visited the water themed amusement park known as Action Park. (In 1998, under new ownership, the name changed to Mountain Park.) Not only was Action Park notorious for its concentration of rednecks, it was also known for its dangerous water slides.

But if there is one thing I remember most about Action Park it’s the fact that many of its patrons spent a lot of time skinning themselves on the alpine slide for not following the rules, consuming so much booze they’d end up in bloody brawls in line for the 18-and-over race track, or dying on one of the new slides that may have sounded like a good idea at the time but proved deadly in the end.

Having watched Cops on more than one occasion, I know that rednecks fear very little. Couple that innate fearlessness with booze, and you have yourself one anarchy ridden water park. I think the only humbling aspect for many of the patrons was the fact that throwing down with a man neighbor wearing nothing more than a bathing suit sat a little too close to gay. I think it was the swim trunks that thwarted more fights from breaking out. But unless threatened with The Gay, rednecks fear very little.

Sadly, as entertaining they may be, the rednecks of Action Park aren’t the reason I’m writing today.

The other group of people who loved Action Park was the kids. Generally speaking, the kids enjoyed the smaller, less deadly of water slides. We enjoyed the tubing ride, the wave pool, the bumper boats, and the fresh mountain air. Usually (especially because of my plethora of ear problems), I stuck to the smaller stuff. But there was this one time my cousins talked me into getting on the underground water slide. They used words like “chicken!” and “bwock bwock bwock!”. The underground water slide was horrifying. Of course the more horrifying the water slide, the longer the line of rednecks. This was a slide where an Action Park employee pulled out a giant hose and doused each person with ice cold water in order to lube up the body for the next 1.5 minutes of pure horror as they flew face/feet/ass/whatever arm down and into complete blackness. And that wasn’t all. At the end of that horrifying decent, the person dropped out of the circular underground tube and free-fell ten feet into an ice-cold mountain spring. Talk about breathlessness. Talk about horror. Talk about pure humiliation.

So, picture this: At least a one-hour line stocked with drunk rednecks. Disgruntled park employees. Hose filled with ice-cold water. Underground water slide. PITCH BLACKNESS. Water up the nose, in the eyes, up the ass. No idea which way you had turned. 10-foot drop into an ice-cold mountain spring as friends, family and total strangers stood on a bridge to watch you fall.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you to know that I came out screaming. And I didn’t come out gracefully either. I had turned every which way but straight. By the time it was my turn to fall, my arms were flailing, my eyes were open, my nose was covered in snot, and I may have even shit myself. I was terrified. And it’s a good thing I fell into water; my tears were given a place to hide.

I’m not a very smart girl and I was an even dumber kid, which is why it probably won’t surprise anyone to know that with another heavy douse of taunting, I got back in line a second time for that very same water slide. It’s just that my cousins were really good at taunting. They could tease me into doing anything. So I got back in line with them and the countless number of rednecks and worked myself into an absolute frenzy. And hour later, when it was finally our turn to drop, I told them to go ahead of me. I told them I needed to make sure my earplugs were in. And then I faced the guy with the hose. He looked at me with unforgiving eyes.

“Hurry up!” He blurted out. “There’s a line.”

“Ummmm” I muttered.

“Come on, kid. I ain’t got all day.”

I remembered what it had been like the first time and asked myself, “What good came come of this?”

The guy became more and more irritated as did the line of hairy, bloated rednecks behind me. “Come on, kid!” He said with a nastier tone.

“NO.” I said. “I’m not gonna do it. I changed my mind.”

“What do you mean you changed your mind? You can’t change your mind! There’s no where else to go!”

“I don’t care. I’m not going.”

“Well, then you have to go back the way you came!”

And so I did. I walked right back through that long line of kids and rednecks, head down, dry as can be. I had changed my mind.

On Tuesday night Tobyjoe and I had our second Lamaze class. It was four hours long. We went over breathing techniques. We went over what will happen that day, labor, and how long each phase of labor can last. We went over pooping during labor, the afterbirth, breastfeeding, and some more breathing techniques. We went over everything having to do with natural childbirth. After we were done listening to the registered nurse, we asked questions. After we were done asking questions, we watched a video featuring several different women going through all three stages of labor. After we watched all three stages of labor, we watched a woman go through natural childbirth. I was in the fetal position sucking my own thumb by the time it was over. Holy shit, people, giving birth appears to be nothing other than terrifying.

So, I’m writing this today to say that I know I have been standing in line for the past 8 months and I know it sounded exciting at first. But I don’t care how many women have done this before me and how many of those women have gone back for seconds (and more).

What I’m trying to say is, “NO. I’m not gonna do it. I changed my mind.”

Murray is getting bigger by the minute. I’ve never seen something so small get so big in such a short amount of time. (She writes this 6 weeks before the baby is born.) And the older he gets, the more helpful he tries to be as well. For example, he has a fascination with water. Whenever I clean out the kitchen sink, he hops up on our washer to watch. (Video: 676 KB) Sometimes he tries to kill the water and that makes me crack up.

And the shower blows his little mind. After I’m finished showering, he immediately climbs into the bathtub and stares at the drain. (Video: 292 KB) And then I spend time trying to figure out what he’s thinking. One day, I left the door to the bathroom open while I was showering and he came in and began yelling at me. MEOW! MEOW! And so I peeked out from behind the curtain and asked him, “What do you want, Murray?” And he wobbled his head as if shaking it free from the most perplexing thought, and then ran out of the room. Two minutes later, he was back and we had the same interaction. This went on over and over again until I was finished showering. Murray likes water but he doesn’t understand why I need to be that close to it. I think he worries about me and the water.

One day, Tobyjoe came into the bedroom and said, “You know, even sweeping is fun when there’s a kitten around.” And I knew exactly what he meant. For some reason, Murray must be directly on top of anything that moves across the floor. It doesn’t matter if it’s a wet mop, a Swiffer, or a broom. Murray is on it (Video: 340 KB). It doesn’t matter if he’s deep into one of his power naps – the kind of nap that knocks him completely useless – if the Swiffer makes an appearance he reports for duty. And I’m not sure what’s funnier, watching Murray chase a Swiffer around, or watching Tobyjoe act like Murray chasing a Swiffer around.

As of Friday, June 15, 2007 at approximately 3:00 PM EST, I officially became Mrs. Boudreaux.

Congratulate me, people. I braved the streets of New York City, the obscenely long lines at the DMV, the extremely irritable government employees, and black Superman all while 8 months pregnant. If I could drink a beer right now, I’d have three.

I have been trying to capture this for weeks now and I still haven’t had much luck. I thought that my son would eventually get a kick (hehe) out of how much he abused me while in the womb. This kid moves like you wouldn’t believe.

In the video, Tobyjoe can be seen in the background at the computer, and David Letterman is on the TeeVee. And that dark ring around my bellybutton is my once small, now GIANT, tattoo. And I’m not that yellow in real life. Or orange. Without further ado, here is a very short, uneventful video of my belly getting kicked and kneaded from the inside out.

^{P.S. If you can’t see anything kindly let me know so I can take this thing down and not waste my husband’s precious bandwidth.}

^{P.P.S Yes, we currently have a TV in our bedroom, which is going bye-bye once the baby is born.}

I like to bake. I am not great at it, but I’m learning. There was a even time I almost went to pastry school. I took a tour of ICE almost a year ago and fell in love. I was absolutely sure that’s what I wanted to do. Wachovia offered me a student loan. Then I realized I’d be putting my family 30 thousand dollars into debt so I backed away from the idea. I realized a few days ago, had I actually gone through with it, I’d be graduating from culinary school right about now.

But instead of entering a world of debt, Tobyjoe purchased some awesome literature and baking supplies for me. Now I bake on my own. I read up on food chemistry, study techniques, and watch TV shows. I genuinely enjoy it. Tobyjoe says I’m at my happiest when I’m baking. And he’s probably right. There isn’t much in life that continually amuses me; baking happens to be one of those constants.

Most recently, I have taken on the task of perfecting flaky pie crusts. So last week when Tobyjoe suggested I make something for “Fat Friday” (a new Barbarian Group tradition), I jumped at the chance at putting my crust before a couple of hungry judges. I decided to try a 9-inch, sweet cream pie crust to go with a dark chocolate mousse pie. The crust recipes in the Pie and Pastry Bible are not easy to do well. They take a while to perfect. And if one thing goes wrong, the whole thing fumbles. But I wanted to try it out so I hit the store, got the right ingredients, and set out to make a chocolate pie.

I made the crust first. I measured every ingredient out in grams. I made sure everything was exactly right this time. I wanted it to be nearly perfect. The crust took me about 6 hours to make from start to finish. Granted, that included chilling time, baking, and windowsill waiting. But it took a while nonetheless. I finished the pie shell by 6 PM. As it cooled on our windowsill, I made the filling.

The filling took a while as well. I had never made a pudding type pie filling before and wasn’t sure just how well it’d hold together. Most of the process took place over the stove. And I stupidly didn’t have all my ingredients ready for each step. One step called for adding the ground chocolate and then immediately removing it from the heat in order to strain the mixture. By the time Toby walked in, I was all over the place. I put him to work immediately.

With his help we finished the filling and it tasted pretty good. It was good enough for me to scoop a big spoonful out for myself, (which later gave me some extreme heartburn). Tobyjoe took in a few as well, slurping each gulp in through his lips, slapping them together before reassuring me, “This is really good!” I was excited. Everything seemed to be going as planned.

I loosely covered the mixture with plastic wrap to avoid having a skin form on its top, and placed it in the refrigerator. As it cooled, the pie crust sat on our windowsill atop a tall wooden table.

I fell to the couch, exhausted. I don’t do too well these days after spending too much time on my feet. It’s not uncommon for Tobyjoe to give me evening foot rubs after I do a lot of walking and/or standing. He sat down to rub my feet as the pie filling cooled. About 20 minutes later, I realized that I hadn’t seen a certain member of our family for a while, i.e. the smallest member of our family.

“Oh crap!” I blurted. “Where is Murray?” (I’m pretty sure this is going to be our son’s first words.)

“I haven’t seen him.”

“OH SHIT!!!!”

I jumped up from the couch and ran for the kitchen. I knew what I was going to see. I just didn’t realize how absurd it would look once I got there. Standing before me on the windowsill was my pie shell, my perfectly flaky pie shell. INSIDE of the pie shell (yes, his entire body was inside of it) stood a small kitten. He looked up at me, crumbs fell from his whiskers, his cheeks, and his eyelashes. His expression said, “Please, DO NOT interrupt me, WOMAN! I beg of you. Give me just five more minutes with this thing.”

A quarter of my pie crust – the edge, the best part – had been chewed off like one does corn on the cob. Crumbs were strewn about as if someone had placed it on a spinning record player. My pie crust had been destroyed.

We were able to sample the unchewed sections before tossing it into the trashcan and much to my pleasant surprise the crust had turned out almost perfect. And Murray, who was thoroughly annoyed after having his dining experience prematurely interrupted, decided to climb inside the trashcan and continue eating. (Seriously. I turned my back for five minutes and had to dig the little guy out of the trash.) In the end, Tobyjoe made a mad dash for the grocery store. My pie filling ended up in one of those ready made, trashy graham cracker crusts and Murray is a little fatter today because of it.

I started to feel sick on Thursday. And then sometime right around 2 AM on Friday I was hit with a brutal chest cold. I slept for a total of four disjointed hours. When I finally gave up on sleep, I could barely talk and my throat hurt. The worst part wasn’t even the cold, however. The worst part was The Reflux. Every time I coughed, I ended up throwing up. Who knew that one’s own mucous could actually further irritate acid reflux? They don’t mention MUCOUS on the list of foods to avoid if prone to acid reflux but they really should. I have been shocked before by the amount of mucous my body creates when I have a cold, couple that with the pregnancy hormones, and I’ve broken a world’s record for sure.

Here’s how it worked. I would cough, mucous was enter my throat from my lungs (oh, lungs, I am so sorry I put you through at all that stupid abuse), my esophagus would succumb to a million little daggers, the reflux would bubble up, meet up with the mucous and I’d throw up. I did this a dozen times. I did this until there was nothing left in my belly to throw up. And every time I tried to lie back down to rest, empty stomach or not, the acid would rise up again. I was digesting my esophagus, neck, and face.

Sometime early Friday, Tobyjoe decided that I needed to see our primary care physician just in case I was coming down with something worse than a common cold. The doctor told me my lungs sounded fine. He suggested I drink a ton of fluids, take her easy, and avoid taking too much in the way of cold remedies. He wrote me prescription for some antibiotics but suggested I not fill it if things started to better over the next day or two. (I ended up not filling the prescription.)

I’ve been sick all weekend. And because the acid reflux was so bad last week, Tobyjoe has me on the most intense (and boring) diet. Basically, it’s a low-fat, no B.S. sort of diet. I can’t eat sweets. I can’t eat cheese. Each meal has to be small and I have to eat about 6 of them a day. Since Thursday, I have eaten nothing but raw fruits, vegetables, dry rye toast, fake hot dogs (sans the condiments), juices, a vanilla soy protein drink, scrambled eggs (without butter), grits (without butter), and some more fruit. It’s been a rough couple of days, to say the least. But I have lost 5 pounds of my pregnancy weight and the acid reflux? TOTALLY GONE.

I’m terrified of introducing new foods back into my diet because I finally am able to lie down for several hours on end without tinge of pain. But I’m not sure how much longer I can eat apple sauce and dry polenta.

But enough about me? How about that series finale, people? On second thought, keep it to yourself. So many folks ain’t seen it yet, including Tobyjoe who is in San Francisco.

Tobyjoe and I have this game we play (well, I have this game I play) where I ask him “How much to eat that?” Or, “How much to have sex with that person?” And he rolls his eyes and gives me some obscenely high dollar amount. (Although, now that we’re trying to save up for a house, he’s a little cheaper.) The other day I asked him, “How much to eat the placenta after I give birth?” And he didn’t answer me, just pretended I hadn’t said anything at all. That’s when I knew I’d asked something so repulsive it was beyond any dollar amount.

“I’d do it for 20 grand.” I proudly declared. “I bet it tastes like bacon. I am not sure why I think that, but I bet it’s really salty like bacon.” When we play this game, he usually ends up calling me weird. But I’m not so much as weird as I am unbelievably whorish. I’m weirdly whorish. If the price is right, I’ll pretty much eat anything.

Jen sent me a link today about a woman who tried to make (and eat) Paneer from her own breastmilk. (It didn’t work because it doesn’t curdle, apparently.) But let’s say that it had. I love Paneer. I haven’t been able to consume Saag Paneer since I got pregnant. And I miss it. I miss that yummy soft cheese and that creamy spinach. At this point I’d consume my own for 20,000 bucks. (In all honesty, I’d probably do it for free just to FREAK YOU ALL OUT!) Like I said, I’m whorish. I imagine the rest of the world might find it totally gross and repulsive. But that won’t stop me from asking the question. How much would it take for you to eat your own (or your wife’s/significant other’s) freshly made, breastmilk paneer?

^{(Tobyjoe must answer the question above.)}

How can a person running for president not believe in evolution? This was the biggest question I was left with after having watched the Republican debate last night. Overall, I wasn’t that angry about it. I didn’t scream at the TV. I rolled my eyes several times but nothing too, too bad. I was a little shocked about how obscenely large a role religion plays in many of the Republican candidates’ political agendas. In my not so humble opinion, nothing good can come from that. Anyway, here is a really condensed breakdown of some random thoughts I took away from the however many number of hours they spent tootin’ their own horns.

Rudy Giuliani: Stated he was against abortion personally but thought that the states shouldn’t have the right to interfere with a woman’s right to choose, that it should be left up to a woman’s doctor. Talked a lot even when asked to stop. Oh, and he seemed really uncomfortable when he had to talk about God, which made me giggle a little bit. He’s not the best actor, which probably means he doesn’t stand a chance at winning. Personally? Giuliani frightens me a little bit because he’s a no nonsense type of guy, which works if you’re nonsense and his nonsense are the same. But if you’re on the other side with some other nonsense, he’ll burn down your nonsense; he’ll run your nonsense out of town; he’ll pay to have your nonsense killed. I am a little wary of how he might conduct business with other leaders should he find himself oval office bound. But he’s certainly not the scariest Republican candidate. And I do appreciate his sense of humor.

John McCain: Was attacked for not believing that immigration was the absolute worst thing in the whole wide United States of America. It was brutal and entirely absurd. Personally? Not sure why, but McCain will always bug me. I think it’s his cheeks.

Mitt Romney: Will NOT back down away from his faith in order to appeal to the masses. Is very much against abortion. Has the answer to health care reform. Ran some of his campaigns in Spanish because he wants all the votes he can get. Personally? He flip-flops endlessly for votes. He’s pretty and that’s about it. His Mormon faith is at the forefront of his campaign. Like the fundamentalists, I think he’d bring too much of his religion into my government.

Mike Huckabee: Believes God created the world and us in whatever amount of time (an amount he’s unsure of because he wasn’t there). Does NOT believe in evolution. Is very much against abortion. Surprised me when he stated something I have argued in the past. He stated that being pro-life should mean more than just caring for a fetus. That Americans should care for all human life. Personally? Had he not been so über religious and had said what he said above, I might not be totally terrified of the guy. But as it were, this dude will haunt me for days to come. I think preachers should stick to being preachers and avoid politics all together. Please, America, do not vote for this guy. He’s too Christian to separate church from state.

Sam Brownback: Doesn’t believe in evolution. Thinks God is the creator of all and everything and all of everything. He also stood up and stated that the Republican Party BEST NOT nominate someone who is anything but pro-life. Which pretty much means Giuliani. If I were the GOP, I’d be all like, “Hey, Brownback Mountain, you threatening me?” And then I’d have him aborted. Personally? Plain and simple: homeboy scares the shit out of me.

Ron Paul: Barely spoke and when he did speak, I found him well informed, the most impressive of the bunch. He seemed intelligent and actually appeared to answer each question. Personally? Knew nothing about him before last night. I am interested in finding out more.

The other four guys (Duncan Hunter, Tom Tancredo, Jim Gilmore, and Tommy Thompson) I paid little attention to and quite honesty, I think that’s what the media would have preferred. It seems to me (just like we saw during the Democratic debate) CNN gave more airtime to those they feel have a chance. Everyone else gets put to the side, literally. All of the candidates spoke, but there was a reason Romney, Giuliani, and McCain were front center. In the end, the candidates either stood out because of how scary they were, how awesome they were at NOT answering the questions, or how much their answers pleasantly surprised me.

Seriously, though, how can a potential president NOT believe in evolution? Doesn’t this haunt you? Even the religious you?

I’ve grown really attached to Murray. I simply cannot help myself. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that my “Motherly Instinct” scale currently goes all the way up to 11. And all that motherly concern I have brewing for the baby is going directly toward Murray. One of the side effects to all the pampering is the constant worry. I worry nonstop that he’s going to drop dead and/or hurt himself at any given moment. I worry he’s not eating enough, eating too much, getting into too many playful fistfights with Tucker. I’m worried about his ringworm, which has yet to go away. I worry about him all the time.

In spite of all this worry and concern, I still make some really careless mistakes. A couple of days ago as I sat in front of the TV watching the best show on television, I saw a small green rubber band on the floor at my feet. Instead of getting up off my lazy ass and putting it in the trashcan so Murray couldn’t get to it, I decided to put it on the green desk, which was at arm’s length. Murray is still very small so I figured he couldn’t get to it up there. (And I’m going to be a mother soon? Are you kidding me?)

Last night we attended our first Preparation for Parenthood class at Cornell. At one point the instructor had us go around the room and share with everyone our biggest fear. I said the first thing that came to mind, probably the most cliché response possible. I said, “My biggest fear is being totally and completely responsible for another life for the rest of mine.” And that’s true. But I have a new biggest fear every minute of the day. Last week, my biggest fear was potentially shitting myself during delivery. Yesterday, my biggest fear was bringing a child into the world. My biggest fear changes every day. I don’t have a biggest fear; I have ever-changing ones.

The class went until 10 PM. By the time it was over I was exhausted. Tobyjoe was as well. As we stumbled home from the subway, it suddenly occurred to me that in just five small minutes I was going to see Murray. My spirits rose. I hadn’t seen Murray in almost six hours. I never spend that much time away from Murray.

When we got home I immediately did a cat check. Tucker? Foyer. Pookum? Bed. Murray? Hmmmm. Where was Murray? We found Murray resting on top of the green desk.

“That’s weird.” I said to Toby. “I wonder how he got up there. I wonder why he’s up there.”

I switched on the light to get a closer look at the green desk. Lying before me was half a green rubber band.

“Oh my god,” I gasped.

“What?”

“I think Murray ate a rubber band. What do we do now?”

“Well, if you’re sure he did, then we have to take him to the ER.”

“Mother[expletive]. This can’t be happening. What the [expletive] are we going to do now? We don’t have another six grand to spend on the cats. [Expletive!]”

“Call the ER. See what they say.”

I called the 5th Avenue Vet Specialists, the same emergency hospital who took care of Schmitty when he was sick, and the same hospital who put him to sleep a week later. I managed to get a doctor on the line who told me to wait it out. He told me to see if the little guy vomits and if he does so to bring him in immediately. He told me that if there’s any diarrhea bring him in right away. Otherwise, the rubber band fragment had a pretty good chance of passing right through him.

I listened all night for a fit of vomiting. I waited with flared nostrils for the smell of kitten diarrhea. Thankfully, neither came. I didn’t sleep at all last night, but my Murray seems to be doing just fine today. And I was reassured of that fact when he made this face during a one of his vicious morning hunts.

Today my biggest fear is that my son will eat a green rubber band and I’ll have to rush him to the ER in the middle of the night because I had been too lazy to pick it up off the floor.

Or perhaps by the time he comes, by the time I give birth, I’ll be better prepared for parenthood due to the delicate instruction of 2-pound kitten.

I read somewhere recently that a woman can destroy her boobs if she doesn’t breastfeed properly. This perplexes me. What can go wrong? I mean, how can they get any worse than they already are? Does it have to do with poor pumping techniques? Scheduling? Poor suction? Is it the baby’s fault? And what does “destroy” mean anyway? Do they sag more? Turn into cottage cheese looking ornaments? What do they mean by destroy? I have so many questions. I should probably just wait and ask them during class.

I plan on breastfeeding. I have said as much before. And I’m scheduled to take a class in order to learn how. But I am a little worried breastfeeding will further destroy the boobs currently being destroyed just by being pregnant.

Last night Tobyjoe and I had got some snacks at a new restaurant in our neighborhood called Parish Diner. While we were there, they played the song by Ben Folds Five called “Brick”.

“This is probably one of the saddest songs ever written.” I said. “Have you ever heard it?”

“No.” He answered.

When I was 23 I beat the living hell out of that song (and cd) with my discman. And up until last night I hadn’t heard it in years. I hadn’t felt particularly depressed, like, no conscious thought came to mind and made me think, “Michele, you’re sad right now.” And the song brings back memories but not memories of any one specific incident and I don’t share the same experience the Ben Folds writes about. But the tears began to pour out of my eyes. The physical response had become completely unavoidable. I tried to stop listening.

“Cant you see. Its not me you’re dying for”

My nose started to run. I had trouble speaking and fully believed that if I did so the tears would turn into sobs. Tobyjoe looked at me from across the table confused. What was I repressing? I wondered. Was this reaction the offspring of hormones?

I am no longer feeling particularly bored. It was a week-long fit. I seemed to have entered a new section of my pregnancy called, “I Can’t Stop Crying.” And it hit me in the head on Saturday night with a Brick.

Last Sunday I woke up bored and that feeling hasn’t gone away since. I am bored by everything. I’m bored by waking up, showering, making coffee, breakfast. I’m bored with the television and movies and I can’t seem to break inertia in order to get into another book. I am bored by myself, my daily routines, washing the dishes, making lunch or dinner. Showering bores me. I can’t even get up enough energy to bake, which is the one thing that generally cures boredom for me.

I’m bored. I’m bored of everything.

I’m bored with eating. The computer bores me. I’m even bored with cupcakes and vinegar. And it’s too hot to take a stroll. Plus, my body doesn’t allow for too much mobility these days especially under extreme heat.

Is there a pregnancy hormone for boredom? I have felt sad, angry. I have even lost my cool a couple of times and lashed out at complete strangers. I have become overprotective, which I am told is normal. I have become intensely frustrated. I have felt like crap, both emotionally and physically. I have cried for no apparent reason whatsoever. But this boredom? This boredom is new. And the book didn’t say anything about boredom. There’s no chapter for that. I haven’t felt this way since I was a teenager.

I’m so sick of being bored. Maybe I should go sit on the toilet.

^{(P.S. I am having technical difficulties today. Should have avoided posting all together. It seems.)}