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If you’re pregnant, you need these shirts. I promise.

At the beginning I ordered 4 tees and tanks to wear under my existing non-maternity tops. They’re the longest maternity shirts I’ve found, going down below the bottom of the zippers on my pre-pregnancy pants. I’m getting large and in charge and I can still wear my pre-pregnancy pants with the zippers open and an elastic band to hold the buttons in place. I then wear one of these shirts and top it off with one of my old t-shirts. Buy them for you shall love them. They’re $5-$10 each and have saved me a ton of money on maternity clothes so far.

*I have no affilitation with Downeast and have received no free product from them.*
Click to Read My Product Review Policy

Today is the day of days, the morning of mornings, where Dan and I go to participate in the time-honored tradition of having an ultrasound past the 20-week mark to see if we can catch a glimpse of our baby’s leeeeeetle tiny gonads… and also, like, see if it’s healthy and stuff.

I was telling the kids on Tuesday that Daddy and I were going tomorrow for a test where we’ll see how the baby is doing and hopefully find out if it’s a girl or a boy. They were ecstatic. Laylee wants a girl but will settle for a boy, as long as it’s a baby. Magoo originally said he really wanted a baby sister but now that the day of knowledge is at hand he’s hedging his bets, saying he wants a boy OR a girl.

Laylee says, “No Buddy. You have to pick one. A boy or a girl?”

And he says, “Yeah. I want a boy OR a girl.”

I thought I’d have a wee teaching moment with the kids so I said, “The ultrasound doctor just looks at a picture of the baby and can tell what gender it is. How do you think you can tell if a baby’s a boy or a girl just by looking at it?”

Easy, right? Especially for little kids obsessed with all things bodily function who live in a house with a very open mom who let them bathe together until a couple of months ago. Not so much.

“Ummmmm,” Laylee stalled, “Their hair?”

I informed her that baby boys and baby girls have pretty much the same hair as each other. She came up with a few more guesses. I think one was height. Something about how the baby was moving. So I thought I’d invite Laylee onto the clue bus by dropping a major hint.

“The baby’s all naked in there. When the doctor looks at a naked baby, how do you think he can tell whether it’s a boy or a girl? What’s different about a boy’s body and a girl’s body?”

She squinted her eyes and moved her pursed lips from side to side.

“Iiiiiits personality?” she ventured with a grin and a shrug.

Yes. When the doctor sees little Jimmy’s personality bobbing around in there, he’ll definitely let us know.

Ahhhh, I love that kid. She’s the one with the personality. I’m almost considering pulling her out of school and taking her with us tomorrow.

Laylee had to fill out a survey about me in her kindergarten class for Mother’s Day.

Favorite Color: Blue

Favorite Sport: Yoga

Favorite Thing to Do When She’s Not Being My Mom: Work on the computer (I really like that she uses the word “work.” Good girl!)

Favorite snack: Nothing because she’s pregnant

Yeah. She knows me pretty well.

When I was a teenager driving my parents’ cars around, I would periodically hear a strange noise. After listening to it for a few days, I would get around to describing the noise to my skeptical dad. He would then take a ride in the car and of course the sound would be nowhere to be heard.

The same thing is happening now with the baby’s movements and my baby-daddy. I’m past the 20 week point and feeling the baby move a lot. He seems to especially love when I work on my laptop. It’s possible also that he hates it but when I’m typing, he’s on the MOVE. I chose to believe he’s having a geeked-out party in there, excited for the day when he will sit on the couch with the rest of the family, all be-lap-topped himself.

One night Dan came to bed after I was already asleep and he says he thinks he felt the baby move when he put his hand on my belly. Since then, I’ve been excited to share these moments with him. Whenever I feel “Big Cheese/Lightbulb” move or hiccup, I grab Dan and pull him over. “He’s moving. Feel the baby!”

He quickly puts his hand on my baby and the baby plays dead. Complete limpness occurs. I am suddenly a liar. All I can feel is my own heart beating. Dan humors me and moves his hand around a bit before smiling and continuing on with what he was doing before my false alarm.

Texting While Pregnant

I have to tell you how much better the pregnancy is now that I can feel the baby moving around inside. The barfing all seems just a bit less annoying now that I can feel a person moving around keeping me company. It really is like carrying around a little friend for a few months, a secret friend, a friend who hides out when anyone else comes near. He’s kind of like an imaginary friend who makes me nauseous.

My sisters were in town all last week along with my cute niece, feeding me, cleaning the house, taking care of the kids, playing games, initiating crafts, giving hugs and in all other ways reminding Laylee and Magoo what it’s like to have a fully functional mom and reminding me what it’s like to have family close by. Then they got in their car and drove 14 hours back home. Darn those ship-abandoning do-gooders.

They even kept the kids overnight so Dan and I could get away to the Salish Lodge for some posh relaxation time. I loved having them, the giggling, the love and care, the female energy in the house right at a time when Dan is working crazy hours and my pregnancy sickness is having a regrettable resurgence.

I really needed them. I miss them so much already. I want my girls back!

I recently had a lot of fun going through this guy’s stuff. Thanks to Stephanie for pointing him out to me.

Every day when Laylee gets off the bus, she and Magoo run down the hill to our house at top speed, scaring me to death and forcing me to cup my hands and yell, “SLOW DOWN. YOU’LL FALL AND BREAK YOUR ARM.” I mean it in the, “You’ll poke your eye out” sense. I don’t ever really expect them to break their arms.

So yesterday she got off the bus and Magoo took off like a shot. Laylee soon followed after him but hadn’t gone 10 feet when she tripped and went sliding down the asphalt. She began to scream as she often does when road rash attacks. I sort of pregnant jogged over to her to offer some sympathy and she sobbed, “Please carry me down the hill. I broke my ARM!”

“Yeah,” I thought, “I broke mine too.”

“Okay, honey. Let’s walk home and we’ll have a look at your arm, maybe put some arnica on it. I can’t carry you because I’m pregnant and you weigh too much. You can make it.”

She was a bit hysterical and I could see scrapes all over her legs. I knew they stung but I just couldn’t face carrying her the long way home.

“CARRY ME PLEASE! IT’S BROKEN!”

Then she rolled over and I saw her arm, all sort of wavy and visibly broken.

I carried her.

I was fairly calm, telling her it would be okay and commanding Magoo to go next door where our neighbor was working from home and tell Steffen we needed him. Steffen came out and offered to come with us to the ER but I asked him to take Magoo for me instead and went inside. When Steffen was so concerned and sweet to us, I fell apart and started bawling, which did not do much to calm Laylee’s fears.

Friday had been my big cleaning day and I was greasy and sweaty and wearing a tent-like shirt and low-riding old sweat pants. I had no makeup on, having planned a shower as soon as the house was clean.

I laid Laylee on the couch with my friend Candice whom I was paying to clean the bathrooms at the time and went into the other room to fall apart a bit more, while calling Dan on every number I could think of. I was not un-hysterical and he wasn’t answering so I got the patient into the car, reclined her seat, elevated her arm and ran inside to at least change out of my sweats.

For the last week or more I had gotten up every morning, showered, dressed, blow-dried my hair, curled it and put on make-up, whether I was going out or not. The one day I didn’t, I had to take my baby to the ER. It’s not just vanity that made me take the extra 2 minutes to change. There’s a part of me that thinks our care won’t be as good or they’ll be more likely to suspect abuse if I look like a shlep.

In the car, I took a mini shower with baby wipes while driving and calling Dan and all of his co-workers repeatedly. My tears were silent and Laylee was calming down. As I dialed I reassured her that it would be fine, and how cool that she would get a cast, and I’d always wanted a cast, and Daddy would meet us soon and he’d bring us lunch. As I drove by the fire station, I realized that I had not put any ice on the injury so I pulled in and flagged down a couple of fire fighters who were walking into the building. Again I lost it and bawled and begged for ice. They offered to drive me to the ER in the rig and spoke calming words to Laylee. When I declined the “rig” offer, they looked me in the eyes and walked me through the steps I needed to take to get her safely there. It’s like they were trained or something. “You know her birth date and medical history, right? You know where the hospital is? See. You have all the tools you need. You can do this. Just concentrate and stay calm and you’ll be fine.”

So I did. Eventually I got ahold of Dan and a few minutes after Laylee and I were checked in, he arrived with a Happy Meal that she was not allowed to eat because they were worried she’d vomit or pass out or something. They didn’t ever really explain, just said she couldn’t eat or drink until they were done. I slipped into the hall to chow… for the baby while Dan chattered away, ignoring her twisted arm, lying limp under the ice pack.

When we checked in, they asked her what her pain level was from one to ten. I explained what that meant and she said, “Oh, I guess it’s kind of medium. Like a five.”

We talked to about a million check-in people, nurses and doctors and each one would ask her why she was there. She’d tell them her arm was broken and they’d give her that sweet, “Yeah sure” smile and say, “Oh yeah? Let me have a look.” Then she’d pull back the blanket, they’d flinch just a bit, replace the blanket, nod and ask the next question, “How did you do this honey?”

Her answer was the same every time. “I had just started. I wasn’t even going that fast.”

Then they’d look at me and I’d fill in the blanks. “Every day I tell her not to run so fast down the hill or she’ll break her arm and she’s just telling you that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was running down the hill.”

Then came the fun part, the part when they needed to insert an IV. When I told her we were going to the hospital, she balked. “Don’t put a needle in me!” she begged. I promised her that I wouldn’t, not mentioning to her in her hysterical state that someone else might have to.

She’s inherited my tiny, rolly veins and the last time someone tried to insert an IV in her arm, she was 18 months old and 4 nurses and 11 needles later, they gave up, leaving the terrified baby sobbing on the ER bed.

I warned the doctor that it might not be pretty but they started to try. The first nurse inserted the needle and dug around for SEVERAL minutes while Laylee screamed and Dan and I held her and tried to comfort her. When she gave up, I went in the hall to “check on something” and sobbed my eyes out while nurses passed me tissues and told me I was doing just fine. The second nurse asked Laylee to try not to scream because it made it harder to get the needle in the right place so Laylee asked Dan to please hold his hand over her mouth. We did Lamaze breathing and as the nurse pulled out and dug in and poked and dug, Laylee breathed and her eyes darted around in sobbing panic like a frightened animal who’s being tortured to death. Her face shook violently and she sobbed almost silently but she kept her hand perfectly still with no one holding it.

Several minutes later they gave her another break and called down a nurse I assume was from pediatrics. She slipped it in first try and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

They needed the needle in her hand so they could pump her arm full of lidocaine to numb it for the setting of the bone. Once her arm was numb, she watched cartoons and could not care less about who was touching her, which was amazing because from check-in to X-ray to the orthopedic specialist, she had been unwilling to let anyone but me manipulate the arm. She trusted me to move both halves at the same exact time without jarring the bone that was broken and poking up at a 30 degree angle. The other arm bone was broken through but staying together.

Now the orthopedic guy was flopping her arm around like a rubber chicken, bending it various directions to get the bone set just right and she didn’t even give him a glance, so engrossed was she in her PBS cartoons. Thank heavens for modern medicine. I got some pretty freaky video of the bone setting that will go in her digital scrapbook. So bizarre to see what he’s doing to her while she just lays there zoned out like a TV zombie. He checked the alignment with a portable CT scanner, gave her a temporary splint and invited us to come back to his office in 6-10 days for a real cast once the swelling had gone down.

We were sent home with a new stuffed animal and a prescription for liquid vicodin.

As I was starting the car, Laylee commented enthusiastically, “Well that was quite an adventure! That was pretty cool. I bet when you were little and you wanted a cast, it was because you imagined having an experience just like the one I had.”

(That is a direct quote. She really speaks like that. Pretty much always has.)

“Well, I did always want a cast,” I deflected.

“Well, you probably didn’t imagine the needle part. But the other parts were really cool.”

“Nope. I didn’t imagine the needle part.”

We went home where Magoo was having the time of his life with the neighbors who had made us a wonderful dinner and special dessert for Laylee.

So now I just need to keep a 6-year-old from bumping her arm or getting it wet for the next week, while finding shirts that will fit over her giant splint that goes up past her elbow.

She warned me that she may not do her best work at school since she’ll have to write and draw with her left hand. I told her that would probably be okay.

Today the school had a dress code. It was Mismatch Day.

Laylee wears the absolute craziest outfits to school almost every day, plaid pants with floral top, pink and red together with an orange skirt over top and purple socks, etc. I let her pick what she wears on all but school picture days, right to choose and all that jazz.

So today I told her to get dressed in something crazy and totally not matching.

She came down in navy slacks and a crisp white shirt. She was shocked when I told her it matched. I tried to explain fashion and color theory to her, then sent her to try again. So she came back with pink shorts, a green shirt and blue argyle socks, not as crazy as her usual creations but not bad.

I think we would have been better off if I’d just told her to go get dressed… no special occasion… just get ready fro school.

Magoo is experiencing an explosion of language lately. I know the words have been hanging out in his little noggin for quite some time but they’ve finally overflowed and are tumbling out all over the car, house and the great outdoors. The kid almost never stops talking. At times someone else is talking and he seems not to notice at all, just starts in on a long and detailed discourse on the bad guys and stuff and what he’s playing with and where the good guys are until they got squished by the giant bad guy refrigerator.

I love his stories, which are usually prefaced with a coy smile and the declaration, “Okay guys? I’ve got a story to tell you.” Then the most bizarre tales ensue with really no end in sight until you cut him off or he passes out or an ice cream walks by.

And he makes up explanations for things.

“Mom. Did you know that frogs’ middle names are ”˜Toad?’ That’s why sometimes they call frogs a toad. That’s the sing. Okay?”

He even talks when he’s “sleeping.”

Me [lying next to him in bed]: Go to sleep buddy.
Magoo: I AM asleep.
Me: No you’re not.
Magoo: Yes I am.
Me: No you’re not.
Magoo: My eyes are closed and I’m resting. That means I’m asLEEP!

The thing is, although he chatters away with abandon pretty much all the time, he doesn’t have the greatest capacity for listening. A couple of nights ago at dinner, Dan was explaining to Laylee how airplanes work. It was a table-side science lecture and although it was a bit on the dry side for me, Laylee was eating it UP. She soaked up every word and jumped in with her own bits of wisdom. They were using big words and demonstrating how wing flaps worked and Magoo sat staring at them, a look of growing confusion on his face.

Finally he shook his head and blurted, “TOO many words. Way too many words!”

There are way too many words sometimes. I concur.

Today I moved, I really moved for one of the first times in 4 months. Magoo was at preschool a 20-minute walk from our house and there was a smattering of sun peeking through the clouds.

I was out of breath in less than a block, surprised at how weak and puny and scrawny and pathetic and other words generally used to describe nerdy 7th grade boys I was. But I made it to preschool, sure that Magoo would be enraged when he found he’d need to walk home.

You see, my lay-about lifestyle has become the family lay-about lifestyle and my kids, especially Magoo, are sadly out of shape. Actually, even when I was fit, the kids weren’t all that fit. We’ve spent most of the winter inside and although I’d been going frequently to the gym before the sickness, Magoo doesn’t get much opportunity to get his body moving. I need to be more proactive about it. I didn’t have the pregnancy excuse all winter long but I’m happy to use it now.

He wasn’t that resistant to walking home, until we’d traveled about 50 feet, at which point he asked that we walk home in the car next time. But we pushed forward with little to no choice, up the high hills and even made it to the park for 20 minutes before we had to walk to the bus stop to pick up Laylee.

When I got home, I found I had used every speck of strength and energy I had in my body. I fell asleep, impervious to the mounting disaster that is my home.

I was awakened by the sound of my kids opening the door to one of my dinner co-op buddies. She’s a new co-op buddy and this is only the second time she’s been in my house. The dining room table had dinner dishes from last night stuck to it. The sink was full of filthy dishes, every counter was covered in filth and Magoo led her happily into the kitchen to bring our dinner. But she couldn’t find anywhere to set it down so she stepped over the caked-on spaghetti sauce on the floor and placed our dinner on the cold stove, the only clear place in the room.

I wandered downstairs in a post-nap haze and promised her that although my house had looked like a condemned building the only two times she’d visited, it was the exception, not the norm. (Maybe it’s the norm these last few months but over the course of my lifetime, on average, this is definitely a freakish level of filth that I am in no way comfortable with.) She hugged me and said it didn’t matter and when she left I held back my tears while I read Flylady.com for an hour and then scrubbed the everliving cheese out of my kitchen.

It looks good. And the laundry’s done. For just 30 seconds I considered calling up my friend at 10pm and asking her if she wanted to come over and share some jellybeans… in the kitchen. That seemed like a stupid plan but, unsure of what my house will look like next Wednesday night, I went to get my camera so I could email her a picture of my great feat of progress.

I somehow stopped myself… barely. My kitchen may be clean but that doesn’t make me unpathetic.