Little bookworms

Yesterday, I picked up Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox at the library. And yesterday, Bekah made us read more than half of it to her. Apparently she likes it. Or she likes that she gets to watch the movie after we've read it. Either way, she insisted that Seth read some more to her before bed last night. And, for some reason, he ended up snuggling with our two girls in our bed while reading.

It was a sweet scene, so I stole downstairs to grab my camera. Unfortunately, Ana saw me coming and dove under the covers. Bekah was too enthralled with the story to duck in time.

Ana (under the covers), Seth and Bekah enjoying Fantastic Mr. Fox.

Ana attempting to re-hide after I threw the covers off her.

Bekah trying to hide under her blankie.

33 weeks and counting

What I thought would be a typical check-up at my OB/GYN's office turned out to be slightly non-typical. Everything was as expected at first. The perky nurse asked how I'm feeling ("Tired, but otherwise fine, thanks."), took my blood pressure (normal), weighed me (not gonna admit what I'm up to, even though I have a perfectly good reason) and deposited me in an exam room.

Then the doctor came in. He asked if I had any questions ("Can I please fill this prescription so I can breathe?"), looked over my chart ("Looks like you're at 33 weeks." "Yup.") and told me to climb up on the exam table. He pulled out his trusty measuring tape and I pulled up/down my various layers of maternity clothes so he could see/feel my belly. He felt around for my uterus, measured it, felt around again, remeasured it, felt around YET again and re-remeasured it. "Hmmm," he said.

Just as I was about to yelp, "What?! What's up with my baby?!" his phone rang. If he were anyone else but my doctor, I would have picked it up and thrown it across the room, but I suppose that doctors need to answer calls while at work. He finished his phone business and turned back to me.

"You're baby's measuring at 29 weeks. Is this your first?"

"No, my third."

"How big were the other two?"

"My first was 6 pounds, 12 ounces. My second was 7 pounds, 9 ounces."

"Is this one a boy or a girl?"

"Girl."

"Hmmm. Girls tend to be a little bit smaller, and your first baby was a little small. It's probably nothing, but I'd like to make sure that this baby isn't TOO small. Is it okay if we do another ultrasound?"

"Yessir, doctor, sir. Whatever you say." (Or something like that.)

So away I went to the ultrasound room.

My super-ultra-perky ultrasound technician took one look at me and my chart with the "growth assessment" sticky note attached and said, "Dr. Baker just likes to be careful. My bet is that your baby's fine. You're just tall."

I lay down on the table, once again burrowed through my layers to expose my belly, and received a generous helping of "slime," as the technician referred to it. She whizzed through everything: "Whatcha having. A girl? I'll double-check that for ya. Water looks goods. Baby's sitting low. Head down. Yup, definitely a girl. Wow. You're baby's head is big. Can't see her face. Her arms are crossed in front of it. Femur's the right size. She's right on target. Right now she weighs 4 pounds, 10 ounces. Due date doesn't change. She's just so low that her head is wedged in your pelvis. Everything's perfect."

Whew.

I didn't really expect anything to be wrong, but every "hmmm" from a doctor to a pregnant woman sends her into a tizzy. And as far as the head being wedged in my pelvis, I could have told you that. By the time I'm finished grocery shopping, I'm limping like an 80-year-old arthritic woman.

Only seven(ish) more weeks to go!

chocolate strawberries

The other night I got home from work and sat down to eat dinner with Andrea and the girls. Andrea had undertaken, with the Bekah and Ana's "help," to make a batch of chocolate-covered strawberries as her Valentine's Day present for me. She had, of course, sworn the girls to secrecy.

As we sat at the table, I asked, "So girls, what did you do today?"

Bekah reported some of her activities to me, then Ana excitedly blurted out "And chocolate strawberries!!!"

Andrea put her finger to pursed lips and said, "Ana, shh!" in hopes that I hadn't heard or understood.

Ana, confused, lowered her voice and whispered "Chocolate strawberries." The poor girl was bewildered about why Mommy wanted her to say it more quietly.

Slowly, however, it dawned on her what she'd done. Her brow furrowed and her little mouth turned into a pout. Despite Andrea's attempts to prevent the flood, soon big, round tears were rolling down her little cheeks. She eventually calmed down and her usual smile returned, and Andrea and I had a good laugh later about it.

Anyway, it doesn't have to be Valentine's Day for me to realize I'm the luckiest man in the world, with the three best Valentines a guy could hope for.

A little pre-Valentine's Day love

We're suckers. Or, at least, we're impatient. We couldn't wait until tomorrow to give the girls the Valentine's Day surprise that Seth had lovingly picked out for them. So this morning before we got dressed or ate breakfast, Seth unveiled their present: little frog princes (accompanied by heart chocolates) that make smoochy noises when you squeeze their knees.

We had watched the new Princess and the Frog movie just last week, so the girls are on a frog-princess kick. And Seth well knew that they'd be head-over-heels for the dolls.

After lunch, the girls had to change out of their jeans and T-shirts so they could play the part completely. Out came the oft-worn princess dresses that Grandma Scott made for their birthdays last summer, and consequently, out came my camera.

Ana inspecting her frog while Bekah shows me hers.

The girls giving their frogs smooches.

Ana and her prince.

Bekah and hers.

Open mouth, insert foot

You'd think Seth would have realized by now (after more than six years of marriage and three pregnancies) that you never EVER make comments that can in any way be misconstrued by your wife as being derogatory in the weight department. You'd think. Then why has he made the following THREE comments on THREE separate occasions?

#1
Me: "I wish I had some bigger pants."
Seth: "Bigger than MATERNITY PANTS?!"
(The maternity pants fit me just fine, by the way. I was referring to pajama pants.)

#2
Me: "I look like a beached whale."
Seth: "You're not beached."

#3
While sitting on the couch after the girls' bedtime watching T.V.
Seth: (Scoots closer to me) "I'll come over to be in your orbit."

So apparently now that I'm seven months pregnant and my girth has exceeded what even super-stretchy maternity pants can handle and I've adapted to living out of the ocean, I now have my own gravitational pull. Swell.

(But honestly, after shooting him a crusty and pointing out the error of his ways, we have both had a good laugh over Seth's slips. I'm not posting this to exact revenge or tattle on my husband; I just think that these are too hilarious to remain unpublished. Love you, Seth. ;-))