So, here's the thing about plans...

That's me up there. Well, it's my belly. With my son in it.

(Whoa. There's a baby in my belly. Even at 38 weeks, it still feels a little surreal.)

Anyway: If you go by the floating-baby-countdown-thingie over there to the right, you'll see we have 14 days left. Two full weeks to go! Yay!

Except that floating baby is a big old liar head.

***

If you're one of the 12 people who read this blog "regularly," then you'll have noticed I haven't blogged much during this pregnancy. This is primarily because my day job, while thoroughly enjoyable, has been especially demanding during the entire run of the pregnancy. In fact, while in utero, this child has been on more trips than he likely will ever take again in the course of a year. (Seattle twice, Delaware twice, zip zap zip, plus he attended an NKOTB concert in there, too; don't ever say I don't expose my children to high culture).

And, I'll confess: Part of why these baby update blogs have been so few and far between is that there...hasn't been that much to report. I have been blessed with an extremely easy and uneventful pregnancy, and I've been reluctant to jinx it by giving voice to it. "Why, no, I'm not feeling nauseated, my feet aren't swollen, I haven't gained 60 pounds, I don't have gestational diabetes or high blood pressure and the baby is flourishing. Please, STRIKE ME, LIGHTNING!"

In fact, the only wrinkle came in the form of an ultrasound that one of my OBs scheduled as an afterthought. I'd asked if she thought it was strange that I'd only gained about 10 pounds in the first eight months of pregnancy, and while they only wanted me to gain 15 to begin with (I'm a curvy girl), she thought it best we just check on the baby's weight.

Thankfully, the baby's weight came in exactly at the 50th percentile, meaning he was exactly average for eight months in utero, and all seemed well. The doctors were a little concerned, however, that my amniotic fluid was a bit on the low side. "It's not so low that we're panicking," the doctor told us hastily, since I'm sure our faces read, "WE! ARE! PANICKING! OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR BABY?!" "But it's low enough that we just want to keep an eye on it."

Which is how we've found ourselves in the doctor's office twice a week for the last three weeks, having non-stress tests (where a fetal heart monitor does its monitor-y best to determine that our baby's heart is strong and responding appropriately when he moves) and ultrasounds (where, depending on the ultrasound tech, the levels are either low or high and we either freak out or feel reassured).

(Note to ultrasound techs everywhere: TELL THE PARENTS WHAT YOU'RE DOING AS YOU'RE DOING IT. And if you see something that concerns you, either tell them flat out or don't let the concern show on your face. I was about ready to drop-kick the tech one week who flew through the measurements but said nothing except, "When are you going over the results with the doctor? Because...you know...the sooner the better." WHAT IS THAT ABOUT?)

Anyway.

The upshot of three weeks of testing is this: Everything looks normal. The non-stress tests were all fine. The fluid level results from the ultrasounds are mixed -- they go up and down -- but never so low that the doctors were freaking out. Cervical exams showed I'm not dilated or effaced. We were well on our way to reaching our March 5 due date, and we were relieved that no one was talking induction anymore (we really wanted to let this baby come in his own time, unless there was a real medical reason to induce).

Then, on Friday, the doctor marched in and nonchalantly shot all that to hell.

"I've scheduled you for induction on Feb. 28th!" she said, with a smile, in lieu of "hello" or any other kind of normal greeting. "Your fluid levels are OK, but if they go down any more we might start to worry, so I decided that 39 weeks is far enough. Let's get this baby out of you!"

And then she left the room, leaving us holding an appointment card that said, "Induction: 2/28" and, hilariously, "If you're unable to keep this appointment, please cancel within 48 hours."

Yes, thank you, I'd like to cancel this induction and just keep my baby nice and toasty in my womb for another month or so. Laters!

So we gaped at each other and tried to come to terms with the fact that A) our baby was going to have a February birthday, B) anything we'd been planning to get accomplished in that last week before my due date was going to happen NOW or not at all, and, oh yes, C) OUR SON WAS GOING TO COME OUT OF ME IN ELEVEN DAYS.

(Well, now it's eight days. Oh my God.)

***

Things that are bumming me out about this turn of events:

1. First and foremost: I really wanted this baby to be born in his own time. I hate the idea of "forcing" nature's hand. If he's meant to be "overdue," then so be it. Let him pick his own birthday.



2. I'm sad that we'll miss the excitement of "Contractions! Is it time? Let's time them out. MY WATER BROKE! Where's the bag?! Where's the camera? Aahhhhhhhh!" and all those other things that movies have assured me are part of all births.



3. We have one less week to finish a few minor home improvement projects, and I have one less week to train my maternity leave coverage at work. I'm someone who needs to know things are done and done right before I relinquish control. (This never annoys my husband or co-workers, EVER.)

Things that, to my surprise, I'm actually liking about this whole scheduled induction thing:

1. It greatly appeals to the planner in me. Instead of telling family and friends to expect a call "sometime" that the time has come, everyone is well-informed and knows just where to be and when.



2. My husband's parents, who are coming in from out of town, won't have to camp out potentially for weeks, waiting for the baby's impending arrival.



3. T has gotten the necessary kick in the pants to finish the last touches to our humble little nursery so I can finally share some pictures with you all this week.



4. More than anything else, I know precisely when I'm going to get to hold my son for the first time, and watch his daddy stare at him in awe, and finally share his name with everyone who already loves him.

Eight days from now, our lives will change, ready or not, floating-baby-countdown-thingie be damned.

Don't ask me if we're ready. It's a silly question, the answer to which is "no" and "yes" and "maybe" and "DUH."

The nursery is done, the clothes are washed and put away, the bag is packed, the childbirth classes have been had (more on those later), the house is ready, the grandparents are alerted and the dogs...well, they're oblivious, but they've been informed of their new little brother's arrival, too.

Our lives are ready, by all outward appearances.

Let's do this thing.

***

One last plea from a first-time about-to-give-birther: If you were induced, how was your experience? I'd love to hear about it. How long did it take, how did you react to the Pitocin, etc. Lay it on me.

Trend I Don't Get #734

The black-tipped French manicure:


Or, if you're really fancy:


I just think it makes it look like you have dirty fingernails! I'm sorry. I just don't get it.

Am I alone in this??

(I do like the chick's ring in the first picture, though.)

Part 1: Showdown at the Dollar General

Disclaimer: This is kind of a long one. You may want to grab some coffee and a snack.
Disclaimer #2: If you are my mother, one of my mother's friends and/or someone who is easily offended by colorful language, please forgive the quotes below. I try not to bring that side of my vocab to this blog very often. But sometimes there's just no way around it.

I've always been of the belief that most people are basically decent. Basically polite, basically respectful of others, basically...NICE. Or, at least they will be if you're decent, polite, respectful and nice to them.

And most of the time, it works. And maybe it's because I don't work in the food industry or in retail sales, but I choose to believe it's the Golden Rule or karma or whatever you want to call it making the Universe right.

But every once in awhile, I have an experience that challenges this theory. And Saturday was a humdinger.

On a quick Kroger run, I overhear a woman saying that Dollar General is having a huge sale on all manner of things. So, I'm thinking, what the heck: I'll stop by, pick up some cheap shampoo and see if I can find any stocking stuffers for my niece.

The store is packed, and I see several people with baskets piled high, so I grab my shampoo and a $1 Tinkerbell puzzle and I hit the checkout lines.

Two lines, each with at least four people in front of me. But, no big deal. I don't really have anywhere to be. I choose a line with three elderly patrons in front of me, capped off by a woman who's currently checking out a cart filled with food. We will call this woman Psycho Lady. (A moniker that will make sense soon, dear readers.)

Old Man, Old Woman, Older Woman and I (each with only 3-5 items in our arms) wait patiently. We wait while Psycho Lady stacks item after item on the conveyor belt. (Hey, it's a sale -- who can blame her for stocking up?)

We wait while she roots in her purse for additional coupons.

When she leaves the line to retrieve something she forgot from the other end of the store, and it takes her five minutes to return, no one complains. Old Man rolls his eyes, but continues to wait patiently. I sigh. Older woman reads about Kate Middleton's wedding dress in US Weekly.

PL finally finishes checking out, grabs her receipt and bags and heads for the door. We all breathe a sigh of relief. Old Man checks out, and heads for his car.

But lo, PL intercepts him on his way out. "I saw you got {Coupon XYZ} when you checked out. I left mine at home. Would you mind if I used it to buy {XYZ product}?" Old Man, being lovely and patient, says "Sure" and hands it over.

At which time PL darts over to the register (where Old Woman is now being checked out) and demands that the cashier check her out. Again.

"Ma'am, I'll be glad to let you use the coupon, but you'll have to get back in line," the cashier says, a little wearily. PL stares at him.

"You've got to be kidding me," she snarls, her voice dripping with venom, and she eyes the rest of us in line like we're vermin. Vermin preventing her from saving 30 cents on a bottle of detergent right.this.minute. "WHY can't you just do it NOW? You want me to go stand in line behind all these people AGAIN?"

The cashier looks uncomfortable, and Old Woman looks panicky as Pscyho Lady tries to edge her back in line. Older Woman, who is at least 85 and has now been standing in line for 15 minutes, just shifts her weight uncomfortably. "This is ridiculous!" PL is now saying, getting louder by the second.

As she continues berating the cashier, I find myself doing something I never, ever do.

"Ma'am, the rest of us have been waiting a long time," I say -- politely -- before I can stop myself. "The people in front of me have easily been standing in line for 10 minutes. We waited patiently while you finished, and now it's our turn."

Instantly, Psycho Lady turns on her heel. I swear I can see delight in her eyes as she lights upon her next victim: Me.

"Well, I was already finished checking out, MA'AM," she says sarcastically. "How about you mind your own business? This doesn't concern you." She dismisses me by turning back to the cashier, but when it becomes clear he's not going to budge on the cutting-in-line rule (which we all learned in kindergarten; I mean, really), PL storms to the back of the line. Older Woman and I breathe a sigh of relief.

But PL is not finished. Oh, not by a damn sight.

As soon as she gets to the back of the line, she starts in. "I hate this g--damned town. Stupid bitches like you up there. Sticking your nose in my business. What the f--k do you care? I'd never let you cut in front of me in line, you know that? Stupid bitch. Look what you're buying -- looks like you have a really exciting life to rush home to."

I turn to look at her and make my first mistake: I engage. "Ma'am, under any other circumstance, I'd gladly let you go in front of me," I say, and I mean it. "But the rest of us waited patiently while you checked out and did whatever you needed to do, and I'd appreciate it if you'd extend us the same cour-"

"Shut up, you dumbass bitch," she says, and I blink in surprise. "I shop in here all the time, and I've never seen your fat, stupid ass in here before."

"I'm sorry, how is that relevant?" I manage to say, still completely stunned by this verbal barrage.

"Shut up. Just shut up," she spits. "Turn around. I don't want to look at your stupid, ugly fat-ass face."

At this, I immediately realize three things:

1. This lady is psycho.
2. When the other person has nothing to come back with but "Shut up," it usually means you've won the argument, so, go me.
3. I am really not cut out for this type of confrontation.

And how do I know that third thing is so very true? Because after I finally pay for my shampoo and puzzle with shaking hands, make my way to the parking lot and finally sit in my car? I burst into tears.

Oh, and also: My hands are still shaking as I'm typing this, two days later.

People like Psycho Lady represent something that I can't reconcile with the universe as I know it. I don't understand entitlement -- thinking you are OWED something just because you think you deserve it -- and I don't understand bullies -- that desire to tear into another person simply for the sake of making yourself feel big and making them feel small. I'm far from perfect, but I'd rather tear off my own arm than think I made someone feel the way Psycho Lady made me feel on Saturday.

I would certainly consider myself a religious person, but I don't even think it matters if you believe in a higher power or not. I cannot imagine worshiping at the Altar of Me at the expense of everyone else in the universe.

I get frustrated, I get annoyed, and sometimes, yes, I find myself feeling entitled to something. I've worked hard -- I deserve this! But I have to draw the line at infringing those feelings on the rest of the world. It's no one else's fault that I am frustrated or annoyed, or that I feel entitled to something. And even if I'm frustrated or annoyed by someone else's actions, only I can control how I react to it. Only I can decide whether to perpetuate the problem or stop the chain of nastiness and handle myself like a rational adult.

If I had it to do over again, I'm not sure I would have done the same thing. I'm glad I stood up for what I felt was right, but in the grand scheme of things, was it such a big deal? Was it worth the verbal abuse and shaky hands?

It's entirely possible that I'm just too sensitive. This has bothered me now for nearly three days, and I'd be surprised if Psycho Lady gave it a second thought once she made it out of the store. But I think -- well, I know -- I'd rather be overly-sensitive than make someone feel that small.

Please stay tuned for Part 2 of this story, which I'll post on Thursday. It's both more positive and much shorter than Part 1. Doesn't that sound nice?

Sort of gross. Sorry. But I need your help.

So. Are we all familiar with the Neti Pot?

No?

Well, allow me to provide you with a visual:

(I love the guy's super excited expression. Considering that his account of using the Neti Pot includes phrases like "nasal burning/drowning sensation," I don't trust that perky thumbs-up so much.)

Anyway.

It's supposed to flush out your sinuses. And friends, gross as it may be, that's what I need. The things happening in my nose and beyond would frighten small children.

I've tried things like Mucinex in the past -- it serves only to move the problem from my head to my lungs, which, frankly, I can do without. I've tried nasal sprays, both saline and prescription (antihistamine and steroid). I've tried blowing my nose until it's raw and I'm lightheaded.

It ain't working.

Please tell me someone out there has either tried this, or has some kind of advice about this, or has some other, better, preferably-homeopathic remedy for sinuses filled with rubber cement? (I know. Ew. Sorry.)

Because before I try something called The Nose Bidet, I really feel that I need a personal recommendation.

Ideas, ideas for the writer...

I haven't talked about it for awhile, but for the past year, I've been writing some children's books.

Five of the ones I've written so far are based on some characters my dad invented when I was a little girl: Three animal friends who learn about friendship and lying and all kinds of other things while gallivanting around a barnyard somewhere in the countryside. And while I'm figuring out what to do with those, I've decided to keep writing.

This time, I'm tackling sleep. Or the lack thereof.

The little boy in my story refuses to sleep because he doesn't want to miss all the cool things he imagines the grown-ups are doing. He does practically anything to avoid bedtime so he can make sure no one's having too much fun without him.

Here's where I need your help...

All you parents, aunts/uncles, big brothers/sisters out there: What do the kids in your lives do to avoid going to bed? Drinks of water, trips to the bathroom, checking for monsters...

I'd love any and all ideas, even if you just make them up. :)