rigmarole

For you, Shauna. Apparently I exist so you can feel good about yourself.

Bruce snapped this last night just before bed. I can't believe I'm posting this. I'm not even in a cute maternity outfit (do those even exist?) or something. Stretchy black pants and all my pregnant, pj'd glory. Hey yo. But 17 more days. These will be the longest two-and-a-half weeks of my life. My back is always on fire. Last night, Bruce was like, "So is it kind of like being sore?" Ha. I wish it was just sore. We are talking acute, excruciating, my-back-is-broken kind of pain here. When I shared this with him, he laughed and I wanted to punch his face. If the roles were reversed, he'd be crying rivers.

I'm still at the gym making a spectacle of myself. But my visits are getting less frequent. In fact, I only went on Tuesday and Wednesday of last week and then meandered around my neighborhood on the other days. But every time I'm in the free weights section, I get dirty looks, concerned looks, looks of unabashed disbelief. Whatever. So I stare back at them and waddle confidently out when I'm done with my sets. I save the limping for when I'm home in private. Vanity.

A word on Latino doctors. I love my doctor here. He's great. He's warm. He's kind. He's professional. He went to medical school in the U.S. and practiced at Memorial Hermann Hospital in Houston for 15 years before making his way back to Mexico. He also wears a cross around his neck and leaves the top three buttons of his shirt undone. Seriously.

But every time I see him he asks me about my weight, because they are obsessed with that here. And if I've gained more than 2 kilos (4.4 pounds) since my last visit a month ago, he's all, "So... you've gained 2 1/2 kilos. Let's watch the carbs, okay?" But at least he doesn't give me magazines with tiny, non-pregnant, bikini-clad women on the cover for "inspiration" like one of my friends received from her Latino doctor. True story. (For the record, I've gained about 8 kilos - or almost 18 pounds - at this point). One visit, my doctor was measuring my belly and said, "So are you putting on creams?" (in reference to the fifty gazillion stretch marks etched across my abdomen). "Well," I responded, "Yes, but they obviously have never worked for me." "It's okay," he said. "We'll find you a great plastic surgeon."

Er, thank you.

Let's make the pregnant lady feel even more insecure about her appearance than she might already be. Oh, Latinos.

This is the weekend I've finally committed myself to setting up the crib, washing baby clothes and organizing Baby's drawers. General Conference weekend seems like a good time for that. A time for semi-annual cleaning, organizing, and re-prioritizing of my home and soul. Speaking of, who did not love President Monson's talk during the Relief Society Broadcast Saturday night? Loved it so much. I scribbled down so many favorite lines (If you judge people, you have no time to love them. or To pity distress is human; to relieve it is God-like. Beautiful.) If you missed the broadcast, check it out here:

President Thomas S. Monson - General Relief Society Meeting, September 2010

So just a little while longer until our lives are changed forever and we forget what life was like before with just three babes in tow. With three babies, I sort of felt we were riding the fence of social acceptability. Like having us over for dinner or out water-skiing on your mid-size boat might still be manageable. But now with four... I feel like we are entering the realm of social un-acceptability. Like it might as well be twelve kids. But it's alright. I can deal. I'll just have to throw the parties from now on.

Dearest Baby Boy,

M might jump you, but your brothers got your back. And Dad and I will do our very best to avoid unconsciously sabotaging your life... but we're not making any promises. Our only guarantee is that we love you already. Social acceptability can go jump off a cliff. You're worth it, Little One.

Love,
Mama