When It All Doesn't Smell Like Roses

First things first...as you might have heard (which I am assuming you have, because if you are taking the time to read my blog, you probably are a really good friend or a stalker - either way, thanks, please continue, and I accept gifts) Robby and I are proud to announce Peanut now has a gender and a name.  The Shim is a Him (thanks Crystal for this gem) and his name is Wyatt.  Wyatt Shelton Allen to be precise.  And yes, we are sure.  I reassure you as to him being a him because both of my grandmothers questioned our certainty.  One by asking if we were sure he had a peter and the other by wanting to know if we were sure he had a tallywhacker.  I guess this stems back to when ultrasounds weren't quite as detailed as they used to be, but I am almost positive that what we saw was a peter/tallywhacker/baby boy part. 

The whole "gender revelation sonogram appointment" is quite an odd experience.  Or maybe its just because of what I do for a living - but I just felt a little perverse and twisted the whole time.  I mean, we went in there and she starts showing the different body parts and measuring them.  Here's the head, looks good; here's an arm, a kidney, his foot, blah blah blah.  And you are just laying there wanting to scream SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THE GOODS ALREADY - I WANT TO SEE THE CROTCHAL REGION! THE CROTCH LADY, JUST SHOW ME MY CHILD'S GENITALIA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. 

But eventually, she did show us the crotch and the tallywhacker hanging out there on display.  Its truly amazing because after all the hours of wondering and pondering and guessing and praying, I knew in that one instant, that I was supposed to have a little boy.  And that his name would be Wyatt and he would be the most fun adventure I have ever embarked on. 

NOTE: the following is the third sentimental thing you will read on my blog.  Or maybe the fourth because that whole paragraph prior was pretty gushy I have to admit.

I actually got all giggly the other day driving to work thinking about my perfect little boy and thinking about all the times he is going to pee all over me.  I am literally turning into R. Kelly right in front of you - I am looking forward to being peed on.  And its going to happen because I have changed exactly one little boy diaper in my whole life...and guess what...he peed on me.  And I don't mind in the least.

Now, back to the very serious topic of today's post.  In honor of Valentine's Day, I think it is only appropriate to completely squash every romantic thought you might have had floating through your brain and inform you of the worst pregnancy symptom I have yet to come across.  They don't warn you just how bad this symptom is, and its bad.  Bad for you and everyone you love.  Bad for your friends, coworkers, and complete strangers. So bad its just downright cruel.  This is the only way to perfectly describe it:



**By the way, I found this imagine on a website entitled "motivational posters."  I am not sure what this is motivating but I find its inclusion under this title disturbing.  Now back to its significance.

Hmm, how can I put this delicately.....lemme think for a second.  I got it! There are toxic fumes coming from my body that have actually knocked my sweet, dear husband to his knees.  I am not making this up - he got up to attempt to run away from me and my noxious aroma and fell to his knees before hecould make a clean exit.  I don't know what to do about it either - no matter what I eat, what I drink, what I do, I am incapable of stopping it.  Its like a law of physics, the greater the mass my uterus takes up, the more disgusting the odors coming from my direction are. 

My dogs won't even sit by me any more because they are embarrassed for me and tired of being blamed for the offending smells. So, whats a girl to do?  I pull out my handy dandy What to Expect When Your Expecting book and look up "horribly offensive gas" in the index.  It is not listed there but under the innocent listing of gas.  I immediately know they do not appreciate the severity of the situation but read what they have to say anyway.  And I read it to my husband as he writhes on the floor from the pain of it all, unable to find a unpolluted place to flee at this point. 

And do you know what they have to say to me?  Basically that your gassy, oh well, take comfort in the fact that your baby is probably comforted by the gas bubbles gurgling in your tummy.  REALLY? Peanut (yes, he still goes by that) probably feels like he is in the middle of the Haitian earthquake with all the rumbling and grumbling going on in there.  He is most likely trying to take cover under the nearest organ for safety.  And really, do you think anyone else cares if my baby is comforted by my gas bubbles?  Ask the fine folks on aisle seven at the Oxford Kroger.  If they made it through the blast, they will tell you no, they are not comforted.  Only traumatized, angry, and highly suspicious of the pregnant lady waddling very quickly towards the check out line with two boxes of Double Stuff Oreos and a gallon of ice cream.