John Altman Sellar
born 8:33 p.m. Sunday, March 14. 8 pounds 7 ounces 21" long
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Ultrasound Says
As of today, we're working with an 8 pounder.
Turkeys are 8 lbs!
8 lb turkey.
Turkey!
One Year Ago This Week
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Me and People, Vermont ~ March, 2009 I celebrated my birthday in Vermont with cross country skiing and my ritualistic ragging on the obnoxious folks listed in The New York Times Wedding Announcements. No cross country skiing for me this year; these days if I find myself on my back I scrabble around like a cockroach struggling to flip myself over. I can't sit for very long in one position either. I can, however, still read.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
One Week From Today
Is the day that Operation Baby Drop* is supposed to happen. Now I'm in a basic waiting game, which doesn't feel unlike waiting to be shot in the face.
Rather, shot in the bingbang.
I recall the ride at Disney World called "Tower of Terror," loosely based on and in the famed Hearst Castle which my family talked me --a person whom hates rides--into going on about ten years ago. It started off all cutesy, belying the world Terror in it's name, with cartoony ghosts joking and laughing just before the elevator you're sitting in gives way and you're shot 200 feet down in 2 seconds. This is where you poo your pants.
Remarkably, my family talked me into going on this ride again. Why I went through with it, I'll never understand, because taking the ride the second time was far scarier than the first. When those stupid little laughing ghosts came around, I knew they were up to no good, and I was just waiting for the drop, which certainly came and terrified me all over again.
I also never liked Jack-in-the Boxes as a kid, still don't. You turn the handle and the carnival-like tune starts to play and suddenly, BOOM, a creepy clown is violently shot up into your grill. Fun? Not exactly.
And so we wait.
*coined by newbluebaby
Rather, shot in the bingbang.
I recall the ride at Disney World called "Tower of Terror," loosely based on and in the famed Hearst Castle which my family talked me --a person whom hates rides--into going on about ten years ago. It started off all cutesy, belying the world Terror in it's name, with cartoony ghosts joking and laughing just before the elevator you're sitting in gives way and you're shot 200 feet down in 2 seconds. This is where you poo your pants.
Remarkably, my family talked me into going on this ride again. Why I went through with it, I'll never understand, because taking the ride the second time was far scarier than the first. When those stupid little laughing ghosts came around, I knew they were up to no good, and I was just waiting for the drop, which certainly came and terrified me all over again.
I also never liked Jack-in-the Boxes as a kid, still don't. You turn the handle and the carnival-like tune starts to play and suddenly, BOOM, a creepy clown is violently shot up into your grill. Fun? Not exactly.
And so we wait.
*coined by newbluebaby
An Email From My Sister
I was remarking to someone recently that the websites I read on the baby's in utero- development always use a random item or vegetable I'm not really familiar with for a size comparison: This week your baby is the size of:
- a mondo Brazil nut
- a spaghetti squash
- the length and weight of a Harry Potter book
- a roast
- a burp cloth
- a casaba melon
What the hell???
And today I got the this email from my sister, diligently keeping tabs on her niece/nephew's development:
"So, your baby is the size of a large bunny. they also said giving birth will be like squeezing a grapefruit out of a cherry. don't wo
rry. our bodies were intelligently designed to do this."
Don't worry?
At least I know what a large bunny looks like.
(Casaba melon? Really?)
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Monday, March 08, 2010
They Say It's My Birthday and I'm Gonna Have a Good Time?
I'll do my best. Today, I'm a daughter, a sister, a parent (to Doodle), and soon, I'll be a mother. Holy Mom-oli!
Saturday, March 06, 2010
I'm With the Band
Friday, March 05, 2010
Two Fights in Two Days
When I had braces at 13, my orthodontist Dr. Tenenbaum would twist the little screws on my teeth a tiny bit on each visit over two years instead of jacking them up to 11 all at once, presumably to prevent excruciating pain. Nice man, that Dr. Tenenbaum.
Conversely, my pelvis felt like separated itself overnight on Monday.
It turns out it felt like it did, because it did. I can blame relaxin, a hormone released to make ligaments loosey goosey for the baby's luge run. I guess my body orthodontist doesn't use the same technique as Dr. Tenenbaum. Maybe it's because I don't have two years to work with, perhaps not even two weeks or two days. It's up to baby. At any rate, now I walk like I can't, because my legs certainly can't be very well attached to their sockets.
Thus, for the purpose of this post, please picture a wobbly-legged woman smuggling a men's NBA over-inflated but regulation-sized basketball under her coat. That's me. Now picture me yesterday, fresh off the 5 train waddling my way through Grand Central for my now weekly visit with my obstetrician. As I passed Papyrus, the stationery store, I noticed a youngish woman pushing one end of a valet cart stacked with recyclable boxes. She had a helper in tow who was carrying a garbage bag. At some point during my waddle, I heard in a very bitchy Valley Girl tone, "Excuse me!"
In New York, we're unofficially trained to ignore people, so natrually, I ignored this.
"ExCUSE me!"
Certainly this person couldn't be talking to me.
And a third time, "EXCUSE ME!"
At this point, I assumed I dropped something, so I turned to see not someone running up to me with my wallet--or my uterus--but the woman with the cart and the helper, right behind me, totally up my ass. Really? Grand Central is such a tiny place that my path is the only one to wheel your shit around in? Is it not called GRAND Central for a reason? Her "excuse me" was essentially a "Beep beep!" for me to get out of the way, and not a friendly "Beep beep" which wouldn't have mattered anyhow. My fuse is short these days. I responded in kind at the top of my lungs with, "I'M EIGHT AND A HALF MONTHS PREGNANT, AND YOU'RE A BITCH!" As she passed, she had no comment, obviously.
That was yesterday. This morning, I had another adventure. I walked onto the 6 train and stood in front of two occupied seats in the corner. A teenage girl and a man in his 20's. Both saw me, my belly, and quickly closed their eyes to pretend they were sleeping. I felt like tapping the one chick on the shoulder to ask her how her fake nap was going, but I was more concerned with monitoring the rest of the train as we approached the next stop to see if any seats would open up. One did, and I approached it, as fast as I could waddle.
I wasn't fast enough.
A tall 30-something hipster dude with Peter Jackson hair and a stupid trendy raincoat started his descent into the seat. Before his fat ass could touch the plastic, I tapped him with, "May I sit down?"
"Umm...But I was going to sit down," he said incredulously, snarkily, totally prepared for a confrontation.
I paused.
"Are you also 8.5 months pregnant?"
"OH! So sorry, I didn't notice. Yeah, sorry about that. And I get really mad when people don't give up their seats and yeah, sorry..." his voice trailing off as he stood in front of his lady friend whom he was hoping to sit next to.
"Thanks," I quipped, as I whipped out my copy of Pregnancy & Newborn. Needless to say, the small talk between him and his lady friend was awkward at best. On their way off the train to catch the express, he tapped my knee with another apology, "I'm really sorry about that. Have a great day."
"Yeah. Thanks." I wanted to then say to his lady friend, "He's a keeper!" in the most sarcastic tone I could muster (my specialty). Fighting a petite woman who politely asks for a subway seat you know you're only using for two more stops? Then to give it up only when I tell you I'm with child? I've got to provide a doctor's note? A-hole.
I hope his trench got caught in the subway doors trying to squeeze his ass onto the 4Train and his body was violently dragged down the platform ending with a big splatter of brain matter and Peter Jackson hair, but it probably didn't.
I guess I'll have to wait for him to develop an enlarged prostate.
Conversely, my pelvis felt like separated itself overnight on Monday.
It turns out it felt like it did, because it did. I can blame relaxin, a hormone released to make ligaments loosey goosey for the baby's luge run. I guess my body orthodontist doesn't use the same technique as Dr. Tenenbaum. Maybe it's because I don't have two years to work with, perhaps not even two weeks or two days. It's up to baby. At any rate, now I walk like I can't, because my legs certainly can't be very well attached to their sockets.
Thus, for the purpose of this post, please picture a wobbly-legged woman smuggling a men's NBA over-inflated but regulation-sized basketball under her coat. That's me. Now picture me yesterday, fresh off the 5 train waddling my way through Grand Central for my now weekly visit with my obstetrician. As I passed Papyrus, the stationery store, I noticed a youngish woman pushing one end of a valet cart stacked with recyclable boxes. She had a helper in tow who was carrying a garbage bag. At some point during my waddle, I heard in a very bitchy Valley Girl tone, "Excuse me!"
In New York, we're unofficially trained to ignore people, so natrually, I ignored this.
"ExCUSE me!"
Certainly this person couldn't be talking to me.
And a third time, "EXCUSE ME!"
At this point, I assumed I dropped something, so I turned to see not someone running up to me with my wallet--or my uterus--but the woman with the cart and the helper, right behind me, totally up my ass. Really? Grand Central is such a tiny place that my path is the only one to wheel your shit around in? Is it not called GRAND Central for a reason? Her "excuse me" was essentially a "Beep beep!" for me to get out of the way, and not a friendly "Beep beep" which wouldn't have mattered anyhow. My fuse is short these days. I responded in kind at the top of my lungs with, "I'M EIGHT AND A HALF MONTHS PREGNANT, AND YOU'RE A BITCH!" As she passed, she had no comment, obviously.
That was yesterday. This morning, I had another adventure. I walked onto the 6 train and stood in front of two occupied seats in the corner. A teenage girl and a man in his 20's. Both saw me, my belly, and quickly closed their eyes to pretend they were sleeping. I felt like tapping the one chick on the shoulder to ask her how her fake nap was going, but I was more concerned with monitoring the rest of the train as we approached the next stop to see if any seats would open up. One did, and I approached it, as fast as I could waddle.
I wasn't fast enough.
A tall 30-something hipster dude with Peter Jackson hair and a stupid trendy raincoat started his descent into the seat. Before his fat ass could touch the plastic, I tapped him with, "May I sit down?"
"Umm...But I was going to sit down," he said incredulously, snarkily, totally prepared for a confrontation.
I paused.
"Are you also 8.5 months pregnant?"
"OH! So sorry, I didn't notice. Yeah, sorry about that. And I get really mad when people don't give up their seats and yeah, sorry..." his voice trailing off as he stood in front of his lady friend whom he was hoping to sit next to.
"Thanks," I quipped, as I whipped out my copy of Pregnancy & Newborn. Needless to say, the small talk between him and his lady friend was awkward at best. On their way off the train to catch the express, he tapped my knee with another apology, "I'm really sorry about that. Have a great day."
"Yeah. Thanks." I wanted to then say to his lady friend, "He's a keeper!" in the most sarcastic tone I could muster (my specialty). Fighting a petite woman who politely asks for a subway seat you know you're only using for two more stops? Then to give it up only when I tell you I'm with child? I've got to provide a doctor's note? A-hole.
I hope his trench got caught in the subway doors trying to squeeze his ass onto the 4Train and his body was violently dragged down the platform ending with a big splatter of brain matter and Peter Jackson hair, but it probably didn't.
I guess I'll have to wait for him to develop an enlarged prostate.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Where's Doodle-O
Doodle, NYC ~ March 2, 2010My furry baby is as wigged out about the arrival of the hairless baby as I am. Look at this place. Are we ready? Please! I guess we could put baby in the corner, on the balance ball maybe? Whether or not she's mimicing my mood, Doodle can't get a grip on the chaos. Sitting atop the bookcase as uncomfortable as can be, longing for normalcy. The normal show's over, Dood.
I'm Pleased to Report I'm Pleased with My New Driver License Photo
Having your picture taken when you're weeks away from delivering a human into the world can be uncomfortable. Specifically, a head shot picture, because let's say your face is bloated from your pregnancy, but the rest of you is hidden from view.
For eight years you must to explain the big face to bouncers, cops, bank tellers, and of course, your kid: "Mommy doesn't look like Mommy in that picture because that picture was taken when Mommy was pregnant with you. When you ruined her body. Remember? Of course you don't."
Luckily, save for the turbo pumpkin in my midsection, the rest of me remains relatively unchanged. I've definitely added some padding to my face, but at my age, I consider it a wrinkle-filling youth boost. And two weeks ago when I had this photo taken, I was probably a few pounds lighter. The man behind the DMV counter who took it said after he snapped it, "You'll love it. It looks nothing like you." He's right! It's a great picture. I'm really terrible at a lot of stuff but apparently really good at taking an excellent DMV shot. I'd teach a class, but I don't know my own secret.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back my lunch of an oatmeal raisin cookie which is the size of my dome piece.
For eight years you must to explain the big face to bouncers, cops, bank tellers, and of course, your kid: "Mommy doesn't look like Mommy in that picture because that picture was taken when Mommy was pregnant with you. When you ruined her body. Remember? Of course you don't."
Luckily, save for the turbo pumpkin in my midsection, the rest of me remains relatively unchanged. I've definitely added some padding to my face, but at my age, I consider it a wrinkle-filling youth boost. And two weeks ago when I had this photo taken, I was probably a few pounds lighter. The man behind the DMV counter who took it said after he snapped it, "You'll love it. It looks nothing like you." He's right! It's a great picture. I'm really terrible at a lot of stuff but apparently really good at taking an excellent DMV shot. I'd teach a class, but I don't know my own secret.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back my lunch of an oatmeal raisin cookie which is the size of my dome piece.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Monday, March 01, 2010
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