This weekend, GTB and I hosted a small BBQ for a few friends. As I made the pre-party run for bags of ice, I fantasized about the beer I would crack open as soon as I got home. It was hot as fuck outside, and a nice cold brewsky was just what the doctor ordered. Then I remembered that MY doctor, or at least my OB/GYN, would probably disagree. As the evening wore on, my husband and friends got more jovial, more boisterous, and more tolerant of the heat. I sat there swollen, sober, and hating it.

And that’s when I realized something both terrifying and heartbreaking: I will have to go all summer without a drink.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the pregnant woman’s occasional white wine spritzer or swig off of GTB’s beer. My friend the-doctor-who-is-also-a-mother told me it’s OK, and I trust her completely. But last summer’s nights of sitting around the firepit, drinking whatever cocktail I could construct out of what we have in our liquor cabinet combined with what we have in the fridge, going to bed before all the guests have gone home because I’m one of those fun drunks who doesn’t puke but does fall asleep midsentence, will not be repeated during the summer of 2008, i.e. the Summer of Signe.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m that much of an alcoholic, but the idea of surviving the next 70 days (and then some, if you consider how warm it stays through September and the fact that I’ll be breastfeeding then) sans whiskey sours, margaritas, and ice cold Miller Lights makes me weep.

During the first part of my pregnancy, I heard and read that when you finally sport a noticeable baby bump, the world treats you differently. Men give up their subway or bus seats for you. People hold doors open. Strangers smile while staring at your stomach. For the most part, I’ve found this to be true. However….

On Monday, a co-worker I don’t know very well came into my office and asked when I’m due. I told her early September.

“Whoa,” she said. “You’ve still got got a few more months!”

Thinking she was referring to the coming heat wave and how miserable that could potentially be for a pregnant woman, I said, “Yeah, pretty much the whole summer.”

“No, I mean, you look like you’re ready to pop now!”

What the F?

First of all, no I don’t. Second, even if I do, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Why, oh why, oh why do people think it’s OK to comment on the size of pregnant women? To be fair, I’ve had as many “Wow, you look great; you don’t look like you’re already seven months” as I have “Wow, you’re really getting big” comments, but the latter hit me harder. And it’s not just because it’s a blow to the self-esteem. It’s also kinda shocking that people can be so incredibly rude.

It’s considered bad form to call a fat person fat, even when they are fat. Or to flippantly tell someone she is overusing the tanning bed or bronzer. But calling a pregnant woman “huge” or “ready to pop”…for some reason, that’s OK.

I never know how to respond. Should I have replied to above-mentioned co-worker, “Actually, I’m not that big. I just think you, like a great deal of society, have no concept of what a fully pregnant woman looks like.”? Should I have told her she’s a rude ignoramus and that I now get to feel like a cow for the rest of the day (as if I wouldn’t have, even without her comment)?

Instead I smiled and said, “Yep, the baby is healthy and growing in there.” And I’ve been avoiding that co-worker ever since.

As a Portlander, I strive to be as green as possible. And, for the most part, I think I do OK. Not great, but OK. GTB and I carpool to work as often as possible (which is usually at least three times a week). We only drink out of reuseable water bottles. We recycle way more than we throw away. I carry reuseable grocery bags. I buy as much local meat and produce as possible.

That said, I’m pretty sure this event is going to annoy me. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of living in a walkable neighborhood. And I’m a sucker for pretty much any community event. But this sweet little idea is going to suck for me for a couple of reasons:

-I don’t ride bikes. This isn’t just a pregnant thing. I have no balance. I’ve broken my nose at least once riding a bike. Last time I rode a bike, I lost control and drove over the side of a dike and into the Columbia River. Me and bikes, we don’t get along.

-Walking pretty much anywhere for more than 10 minutes gives me almost unbearable round ligament pain. Even on the treadmill, in gym clothes and running shoes. So you can imagine my enthusiasm at the idea of walking to New Seasons and back with full grocery bags on one end of that journey. All the while trying to look cute, i.e. not wearing running shoes, because this is a community event. And people might see me.

-I have shit to do on Sunday. Most importantly, I have a pedi appointment and a haircut. Only one of them requires I pass through the no-cars zone, but I’m still convinced people are going to be in my way. And you just don’t get in the way of a pregnant woman in need of a little beauty and pampering. Especially when her last haircut was over two months ago and she can no longer reach, let alone paint, her own toes.

I embrace this idea of Sunday Parkways, I really do. But I’d like it a whole lot more if they were doing it in Southeast Portland.

Now officially in my third trimester, there’s no hiding the pregnant. Also, hot pink…not the best disguising color. Not that I’m interested in disguising anything at this point.

This past Friday, GTB and I went to the doctor where I was handed a little bottle of orange drank. Drinking what tasted like flat Orange Crush was the first step in a test to determine whether or not I’ve got gestational diabetes. Apparently, they test pretty much every 28-weeks pregnant woman for it now. The orange drink tasted pretty good at first, but by the last gulp I was having some trouble getting it down. Ten minutes later, I was lying on the exam bed with a gut ache. An hour after that, someone was drawing blood from my arm.

And today, I got the results back and I do not have gestational diabetes. Nor am I anemic. My doctor said to keep up the healthy diet.

Naturally, I celebrated by eating a handful of peanut butter-filled pretzels.

One year ago today, I made my hair all big, put on an ivory dress, and promised to love GTB for the rest of my life in front of my friends and family. I don’t want to get all smooshy and say it was the happiest day of my life, but it was a pretty fuckin’ great party.

June 9 marks the day that I made the smartest decision of my life by choosing to spend the rest of it with GTB. It also serves as a reminder that time flies when you’re having fun. I can’t believe it’s been a year already.

There are moments when I think to myself, “Really? This, for the next 50 years?” E.g. when GTB is just about finished brushing his teeth and hawks one last loogey with a throat clearing that can be heard three houses away. But the vast majority of the time, I can’t believe I got so lucky.

So, GTB, thanks for a great year. Thanks for making me feel pretty and appreciated even though I look like I’m shoplifting a soccer ball under my shirt, burp and fart on a regular basis, and sometimes (gasp!) don’t wear makeup and a push-up bra. And thanks for putting up with me when I’m hormonal, feeling assy, or am otherwise less than fun to be around. And thanks for making me laugh all the time. And for driving 47 miles per hour in the right lane in cop-heavy areas of I-5. And for not judging me when I want to go to bed at 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night. And for wishing that if you had one superhuman power, it would be superstrength so you could keep Signe and me safe and protected.

Here’s to the next 50. Loogeys and all.

One of the best things about being pregnant is the vivid dreams I have. Sometimes they are strange, sometimes they are beautiful. Sometimes, they are a brilliant mix of the two.

For example, last night, I dreamt that George Clooney took me to afternoon tea at a bed & breakfast on the coast and then asked for my advice about sex.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed to wake up.

Last night, GTB and I went to visit some friends who had their first baby on May 23. She is adorable, and tiny. She weighed exactly 7 pounds when she was born and being only a week old, she isn’t much bigger than that now.

As we drove home, GTB kept talking about how little she is. Despite my assurances that she is perfectly average size for a newborn, he remained in a state of awe over her petiteness. This, of course, prompted a conversation about how big he thinks the Blueberry will be. “Huge,” was his response, if I recall correctly.

A little background: GTB and I were both large newborns. I weighed 10 pounds 12 ounces (and yes, my mother did it completely drug free, because she’s a rock star) and he weighed over 9 pounds. So, if that sort of thing is herditary, we’re (or I should say I’m ) in for a whopper of a kid.

“What’s huge?” I asked. “How much do you think she’ll weigh?”

And so commenced our latest bet. $50 rides on whether she’ll be more or less than 9 pounds. Bigger than a breadbasket nets GTB a cool fifty bucks. Less heft means I win.

So, what do you think?

Though I have to side with Radiohead on this one, I think the only way to truly resolve this dispute is to have Thom Yorke and Mr. Raspberry Beret have a falsetto-off.

Donchya think?

A couple of weeks ago, our real estate agent asked if we would be willing to be featured clients in an ad she was doing for one of the small weeklies in town. I, of course, said yes. Seeing my name in print…sign me up!

The ad consists of a questionnaire with things like “Favorite Room” and “Favorite coffee table book.” For the question “Guilty Pleasure?” I responded, “Being pregnant, nothing makes me feel guilty right now. Ice cream? Yes, please! Another handful of peanut butter-filled pretzels? Of course. Greg is only too happy to indulge.”

They changed it to read “Being Pregnant. Nothing makes me feel guilty now! Ice cream? Yes please! Another handful of peanut butter filled pretzels? Of course. And Greg is only happy to indulge me.”

Though the change was minor, it now looks like being pregnant is a guilty pleasure of mine and that my husband is only too happy to indulge.

Who am I, Angelina Jolie?