October 02, 2008

Digital Epidural, Volume 18

By Michelle Boudreau at 03:36 PM| Permalink | Comments (0)

I've always imagined myself having a boy first. And to be perfect honest, my gender detection instincts tell me that the baby will be a boy. However, these instincts are not based on any kind of fact, logic or track record. However, the other night I had a dream that the baby was a girl. (I've also had dreams of having a boy for anyone trying to dig too deep a meaning.) My dream got me thinking about being a mom to a girl and her looking to me as her first example of what a woman should be. I always looked to my mom as an example of how a woman should act, what she should say, and what she could do.

With that in mind, if our little baby turns out to be a girl these are the things that I, at this point in my life, would like her to learn about what being a woman means:

1.Women are strong, physically, emotionally and mentally. This does not mean that it's not OK to cry or to ask a man to open a jar for you. That does not make you weak. Allowing anyone to dominate you, physically, emotionally or mentally, is what will make you weak.

2. Women and men are not the same. We need to celebrate our differences. Equality with men is important, but equality does not mean being identical.

3. Your career is in your hands. Don't let anyone tell you that you're not qualified to do something because you're a woman. No matter what you choose to do -- astronaut, doctor, lawyer, stay at home mom -- pursue it with your whole heart and full of passion.

4. Being smart and being pretty are not mutually exclusive. One of the most fun things about being female is the fashion, make-up and style that are uniquely our own. Don't feel like you have to forgo those things in order for someone to take you seriously. And, most importantly, don't ever play down your intellectual ability for the sake of a boy's ego.

5. Sports are not just for boys. Both the enjoyment garnered from playing and watching them belong to you too.

6. Women come in all shapes and sizes. Be healthy and whatever body that state of being generates, embrace it. Life would be boring if every woman wore a size 0. Happy people are always more beautiful than miserable people.

7. Do not depend on anyone else to define who you are as a person. Figure out who you are separate and apart from anyone else. The important people in your life will help shape who you become, but it's up to you to put those pieces together to make a whole person.

8. Every girl has an awkward phase. We get braces and pimples and have a bad hair cut and feel like we will never be pretty. You will become more beautiful each day of your life due in no small part to the confidence you will gain along the way.

9. Don't confuse love and sex. If a boy really loves you, he will wait for you. If he tries to get you to sleep with him by telling you he loves you, he doesn't really love you.

10. When you find that man that you will spend the rest of your life with, cherish him. Treat him the way you want him to treat you.

This is the woman I strive to be and the woman I hope I raise a daughter to be.

Digital Epidural, Volume 17

By Michelle Boudreau at 03:24 PM| Permalink | Comments (0)

Stephen and I headed to Denver for Labor Day weekend to hang out with our good friends the Poetschkes. While we were there, my family in Denver threw a shower for me which was lots of fun and my first time to be the guest of honor at a baby shower.

Rosa told me on our way to the shower that she didn't know why, but she always got face-of-the-sun-hot during her showers. I am the type who is typically always looking for a blanket, so I thought it wouldn't be a problem for me. However, by the time I finished opening presents, I must have undoubtedly reeked from the gallons of sweat puddled next to me. I wondered for a second if I could just take finish up the festivities sans clothing. I remembered reading somewhere that getting nude for these types of showers was a faux pas, so I played it safe. I'm evaluating my most breathable clothes for my next shower.

As a side note, one of my cousins brought her 7-year old daughter. Her daughter didn't want to come at first because she thought that everyone would actually be bathing me in a shower. Prettty funny.

Seeing the Poetschkes was lots of fun and made us both miss them even more. Their daughter, Lola, was born last December. Shortly thereafter they packed up and moved to Denver so we haven't spent much time with them in their new role as parents. It was my first time spending long periods of time on consecutive days around a baby since becoming pregnant. That weekend I had moments of great comfort and moments of absolute terror.

Being pregnant is starting to get pretty physically uncomfortable. I think I may have pulled a muscle under my rib cage from all the stretching my body is enduring. There's a part of me that's just ready for pregnancy to be over so I can lie on my stomach, drink alcohol, play soccer, and run without it being uncomfortable. Watching Stephen and Rosa with Lola, I had moments of, "Hooray! I can't wait to meet little Horace (my new code-name for our child). Being a parent looks like it's fun."

But, those moments were closely followed by thoughts of, "How many times a day does she eat? Do you get to do anything but feed her? When does she wake up in the morning? Does that include weekends? How much spit can she possibly create and why does none of it stay in her mouth?"

I think the closer we get to B-day, the more I realize how completely unprepared I am to become a mother. But, is anyone ever really prepared to enter that world? Since I've never done it before, it's so foreign and it's completely unnatural to my current state of things. I'm not saying I'm not excited to meet little Horace and take him or her home with us, I'm just saying that maybe I'll deliver a little late. . . like two or three years late.

September 09, 2008

Digital Epidural, Volume 16

By Michelle Boudreau at 05:34 PM| Permalink | Comments (2)

So, I did it.

I became one of "those girls". The ones that get overly anxious about nothing and make the answering service at their doctor's office page their doctor so she can ask her a ridiculous question. Without going into too much personal detail, on a Wednesday afternoon not so long ago, I felt like something was not right "down there." Like maybe there was too much fluid or something. Again... the details aren't essential.

So I did what any proud member of the Age of the Internet would do: I Googled my issue. Within about 15 minutes, I was convinced that my amniotic sac had broken and I was leaking amniotic fluid.

Now, for the sake of full disclosure, I confess that I am a worrier. I worry about Stephen if I can't get in touch with him within a 2 hour period. My over-reactions aren't limited to Stephen, though. I once made Stephen drive out to Rockwall to make sure my mom was OK because she didn't call me back within 24 hours. Apparently I like to give myself a time schedule on which insanity is permissable.

In spite of these stories, though, I'm generally pretty even keel when it comes to medical issues. I have previously read stories about women who had their doctors on speed dial in the event of any and all pregnancy-related concerns. Working for a company where the people I deal with are located all over the globe, I have first-hand experience of how frustrating it can be for someone to expect you to be available at all hours of the day and night. So with that in mind, I try to be respectful of the fact that my doctor has family, friends and a life outside of being my personal answering service.

Back to the story, then.

After my Google research, I called my doctor's office only to discover that it was already closed. The message said to dial 911 if it was an emergency (I was still rational enough to know that wasn't necessary) or to dial 0 to to immediately speak with a doctor.

I wasn't sure.

Did I need to immediately speak to a doctor? I felt like that statement should be followed by, "Reasons you would NOT need to immediately speak to the doctor and should probably just calm down and stop overreacting include..." The problem would have been solved right then and there as I'm sure my issue would have been on that list.

So being unsure of whether to press 0 or not, I hung up and called Stephen. Keep in mind that Stephen has no formal medical training.

I explained the situation to him he recommended I call back and talk to the doctor if I was this nervous. So, I called back and pressed 0 and here's what happened next:

Answering Service: "Good evening, Dr. Krum and Dr. Carmichael's answering service."

Me: "Um, hi. The thing said to press 0 if I wanted to talk to a doctor immediately."

AS: "Is this an emergency? Would you like me to page the doctor?"

Me: "I'm not sure if it's an emergency."

AS: "Well, what's your issue?"

Me: "I think I might be leaking amniotic fluid."

AS: "Would you like me to page the doctor?"

Me: "I guess."

They paged the doctor. The one on call that night was not my doctor, but he responded to my page rather quickly. I guess leaking amniotic fluid at 25 weeks isn't exactly in the realm of "good for the pregnancy."

The doctor was nothing but sweet as he went through my issue with me. He told me that leaking amniotic fluid usually means fluid running down your leg. When I explained to him that my issue was not even in the same time zone as that, he kind of chuckled and said, "This is your first one isn't it?"

It was then that I knew it had happened. I had become one of "those girls."

How had that happened? I've prided myself throughout my pregnancy on not getting worked up or worried about anything silly and here I was taking away precious personal moments from this doctor because I was experiencing a pregnancy symptom that every pregnant woman experiences and, to be honest, that I've been experiencing since finding out I was pregnant.

"I was just worried," I told the doctor.

He assured me that he was glad I had called to assuage my fears and that if I was still concerned tomorrow, they would have no problem with me coming in and running a test.

So, I learned two valuable lessons that night: (1) I am not immune from being "that girl" and (2) never, ever, under any circumstances, rely on Google for answers to your medical questions.

Digital Epidural, Volume 15

By Michelle Boudreau at 05:28 PM| Permalink | Comments (4)

Stephen and I were talking the other night about having a baby and how it would change our lives. We both understand that we'll be losing the freedom and flexibility our current lifestyle affords. In principle, this concept is easy to understand, even if it is overwhelming. Specifically, though, what makes me nervous is that I can't really understand how much of this freedom we will lose until our little guy or girl is born. And even then, I imagine it is an evolving process, not just an event.

So while I can prepare myself to go out less, get up earlier, be covered in baby spit up -- I won't really know what my life will be like until the baby is outside of my womb. Not being a huge fan of the unknown (unless it comes to not finding out the gender of my baby), this is an overwhelming thought.

With that in mind, I thought I should start getting myself ready in other ways. I was talking to a co-worker of mine the other day who has a 5 year-old. She was telling me how she had to discipline her child because he said the word"stupid". Apparently "stupid" is not a word that is allowed around their house.

That got me thinking about all the words I use on a regular basis that are probably not baby appropriate. I try not to use profanity, but freely confess that traffic and machines that do not do what they are supposed to do (even though I'm, of course, doing everything correctly) sometimes inspire a rage in me that can only be quelled by uttering words from the forbidden pages of the dictionary.

This habit seems a lot easier to cure, though, than some of the words that are more firmly planted in my vocabulary. For example, I often refer to things (or people) as "retarded", "stupid", or "dumb". I often say "shut up" and I regularly threaten to beat Stephen up (which causes him great fear. . . I'm sure) when he doesn't obey my benevolent and loving commands. As a child, these are all words and phrases that I remember being off limits (especially before we were exposed to the more egregious curse words).

So now, when I find myself saying "that's retarded" or "that's dumb" or "I'm going to kick your butt, Stephen" (which is usually followed by a "you wish you could" and me responding "you wish I couldn't" and this goes on for awhile as you can imagine), I realize I'm going to have to change the way I speak . . . very soon.

This realization also led me to the realization that my sense of humor is not necessarily G rated. If you've ever been out in public with me (and especially if you're the Poetschkes), you've no doubt been victim to one of my too loud, inappropriate jokes (usually induced by wine). I also find bodily functions hilarious and good topics for conversation (sometimes even meal conversation).

Now, you may be thinking – "What's wrong with her?" If so, we probably haven't spent enough time together. Seriously, let's hang out and you'll see how hilarious poop can be.

Or, you may be thinking – "She's right, that kid is going to be MESSED up." In which case you've probably spent too much time with me and probably wish you could erase from your mind some of my off-color jokes for which I apologize.

In any case, the clock is now ticking down for me to learn how to sensor and/or change myself. At the rate I'm going, my child's first phrase will be "mommy is dumb" followed closely behind by a poop joke.

August 26, 2008

Digital Epidural, Volume 14

By Michelle Boudreau at 12:10 PM| Permalink | Comments (1)

I posted a couple weeks ago that shopping is no longer as fun as it used to be. This statement is still true when it comes to shopping at my favorite non-pregnant stores. Last week, though, I experienced maternity clothes shopping for the first time.

I had held off on this endeavor because I didn't want to spend a lot of money on clothes that I won't be wearing very long. However, after a never-ending struggle with the Bella Band, I decided it was time to make a trip to the mall. For those not in the know -- the Bella Band is a strip of material that fits snuggly from below your chest to your hip bones that holds pants up and smooths them out without them needing to be buttoned and/or zipped.

Here's my problem with the Bella Band -- my baby is lying as low as it possibly can right now. So my lovely baby bump is low enough that even my lowest pants don't button let alone zip. The Bella Band claims to solve this, but unfortunately for me, I end up with pants that look like they don't fit right. Couple that with anxiety that the bottom part of my zipper is going to unravel unexpectedly at work. That's not really the kind of exposure I'm looking to add to my life experience.

So, with much reluctance, I drug myself to Destination Maternity to locate some maternity pants. Destination Maternity includes three different maternity shops rolled into one:

(1) Pea in the Pod: for people who enjoy spending too much money on their clothes

(2) Mimi Maternity: for people who don't enjoy over-spending on clothes, but are still willing to do it

(3) Motherhood: for smart people who realize they're only going to be wearing these clothes for a brief period of time

I have a confession to make; I fall squarely in the Pea in the Pod category.

Hi, my name is Michelle and I am a clothes snob. I've tried not to be. I go to Ross and Target and attempt to outfit myself there, but it just doesn't work out. I get overwhelmed by the number of racks, the number of items on each rack and the number of people at each rack.

After much frustration, I give up and head to Anthropologie or Nordstrom. It is in these places where I enter into a peaceful state-of-mind the moment I step through the door. $85 for a t-shirt? No problem. I'm paying partly for the experience right? I tell myself these things.

Granted I'm not exactly a Neiman Marcus type clothes snob, even I draw the line somewhere. That line, though, is faint and in continuous movement.

So back to my story.

I picked out some lovely maternity pants. They were great, yet so lonely. They needed shirts to accompany them, at least in the fitting room. I mean . . . the one I was wearing would simply not suffice. So I ended up in the dressing room accompanied by about 2,348 items - give or take a few dozen.

I must admit: trying on the maternity clothes was pretty fun. My hump is still small enough that it falls into the "cute" and not the "oh my God, give her room she could blow at any moment" category.

I eagerly came home with my carload of purchases prepared to put on a mini-fashion show for Stephen. Lights, cameras, the catwalk... it was going to be great.

His response? "I thought you were just going to buy pants."

Oops, my bad. They were having a great sale . . . weren't they?

Armed with my new ensemble of maternity clothes, I told Stephen all I still "needed" was a pair of maternity jeans. He rolled his eyes at that one, but agreed to go to the mall with me the following Saturday night. While I didn't find any maternity jeans, I somehow did manage to find a few more dresses and tops to add to my maternity collection from Japanese Weekend.

Oops, my bad.

So, the moral of the story?

Maternity clothes shopping can be kind of fun. But in my case, as with all shopping, it should always be done with adult supervision.

August 14, 2008

Digital Epidural, Volume 13

By Michelle Boudreau at 11:58 AM| Permalink | Comments (5)

A couple weekends ago, Stephen and I took part in an activity that we haven't experienced since being engaged: registering for gifts. Point and shoot a laser-guided beam at stuff other people will (hopefully) get for you. I had almost forgotten what a brilliant concept this was!

We both went into the experience with a mix of confusion and trepidation. Registering for marriage was pretty straightforward. We never really questioned whether we really needed both knives and forks in our new home. Neither of us was raised by wolves (although I do recall my parents accusing me of believing the house was a barn): we were both acutely aware of the dish/silverware/towel/sheet requirement to make a home operate efficiently.

But, when it comes to a baby . . . when it comes to fostering a healthy environment for a new life . . . well, all I know is that they need to be fed and changed. That's about it. I am assuming there's just a little more to it than an endless cycle of feeding and pooping.

A few resume items that should help set the table of my experience in your mind.

I worked in the church nursery once a week my senior year of college. (diaper changing, some really sweet kids, some super-explosive, diabolical, devil-children too)

Also, I have friends with children. (witnessing the beauty and terror of parenthood in action)

AND I have on more than one occasion watched Super Nanny. (I've been working on my British accent. Should solve just about anything unexpected that may come up during parenthood.)

Unfortunately, none of this has shed overwhelming light on what items belong on a baby registry. Couple this with my groundless fear of Babies R' Us and it all adds up to a recipe for confusion.

Before registering, I had stepped foot in a Babies R'Us once in my life. It was Christmas time. 2007. There was a chill in the air and a chill in my bones. Screaming, yelling, running children. Chaos. (I had a similar experience at a Wal-Mart in '06 . . . not pretty) Aren't these little people ever simply quiet? (That's a semi-rhetorical question all you know-it-alls. I'm going for dramatic effect here!)

So, Stephen and I reluctantly boarded the car on a Friday night and headed out to Babies R' Us. A couple hours of car seat and stroller research and a detailed email from my beautiful friend (and new mom) Rosa were all the preparations I had engaged. Should be enough, right? I mean . . . how many options could there possibly be?

The answer to that question was preposterously gi-normous. But before you are given access to the registry-gun, Babies R' Us requires nothing short of a full-cavity search and naming rights to your third child. After an eternity in which our registry assistant: went through a 700 page manual with us, questioned why we weren't finding out the sex, and a few dozen sheets of paperwork -- she finally relinquished the gun and let us on the zapping prowl.

Babies R' Us is conveniently laid out in a fairly simple pattern. All the feeding stuff is in one location, all the strollers in another, all the bedding in another and so on. Included in our paperwork is a handy checklist of everything you and your new baby will need as you begin your life together. I believe it was titled, "Everything in Our Store". Who knew that our little bundle of joy would need 15 strollers and 74 car seats (per car)?

So we took a deep breath and began.

First up was feeding equipment. Now, I've seen bottles and I've even fed a baby with a bottle, but I had no clue there were so many brands and variations of bottles. I was impressed how each touted it would be better at not killing my baby than any other. In case you didn't know, plastic bottles (those like the one you may be sipping a Coke or some refreshing water out of right now) are toxic. Seriously, I keep checking my pulse to make sure I'm still alive. My mom apparently doomed me to a life of cancer and/or spontaneous combustion because of her plastic bottles. Thanks Mom, real nice.

If you love your baby, you will buy glass bottles. But, if your name is Michelle Boudreau and you are incapable of not dropping things on a regular basis, you will throw caution to the wind and register for plastic bottles. Sorry baby.

Before you run to the phone and dial up CPS . . . I picked a premium brand of plastic bottles that are cancer, STD and anthrax free. Crisis averted.

Did you know that they don't sell bottles and nipples together? What's up with that? I guess it makes sense, though. I like having the option of simply pouring formula directly over the face of my newborn and hope they can lick up what they need. Thank you bottle makers.

After sorting through the myriad of options, we finally settled on a lovely and inviting nipple. So, 45 minutes in and we have bottles and nipples.

Up next were pacifiers. Those of you who know him will no doubt anticipate that if the nipples didn't kill him, surely the pacifiers would overwhelm Stephen and his pseudo-phobia of small plastic things covered in saliva. These types of items are not in his realm of "things he willingly touches". After we registered for the bottle sanitizer, he asked me why they didn't have one for the pacifiers."Seriously, if ANYTHING needs sanitizing it's these little mouth corks," he said with fear in his eyes.

I used to think it was one of his little jokes, but I really think I detected a dry heave when he saw the pacifiers.

I don't know if you are supposed to register for bibs, but we did and it was spectacular.

Next up: the first aid area. Things got a little sketchy in the land of first aid. Standing before us was the humidifier. Do we need that? It's on the list so it must be a necessity right? Right? I have no idea how useful or necessary a humidifier will be, but we registered for one. I leave the purchasing decision in your hands.

Next up was a small plastic item that you stick your little finger into to brush your child's gums before they are able to use a regular toothbrush and toothpaste. We had to take the defibrillator to get Stephen back. It was a close call.

Either way, we opted not to get the saliva collecting, gum-brushing finger tool. Stephen told me that he would never use it so it would be up to me entirely to brave the nastiness that would accompany using it. My motto: no teeth, no need to brush . . . right?

As we progressed through the aisles: car seat, check; stroller, check; swing, check.

On this night, we truly begun to realize just how many baby gizmos and gadgets are available to spend other people's money on. Did you know that you can have a swing AND a travel swing AND a baby bouncer (that also travels). Of course you did.

We finally made it to the end of the store. The whole experience from start to finish took about two-and-a-half hours . . . much longer than my pathetically short attention span.

By the end, I began losing my ability to think clearly. So if you see my list and think how in the world could she have not registered for this or that -- chalk it up to battle fatigue. That item must have been at the end of the emotional labyrinth they call Babies R' Us.

Weary from our journey and ready to never see a baby bottle again (well at least not for a few more months) we left the magical kingdom and spent some time in grown up world enjoying some tasty Greek food.

Now all that's left is to find somewhere to put all this stuff.

July 30, 2008

Digital Epidural, Volume 12

By Michelle Boudreau at 02:55 PM| Permalink | Comments (10)

Last week Stephen and I went to the doctor to get our second sonogram.

It was a special experience seeing the baby so developed. Those fuzzy black and white screens make our child much more real and tangible. However, perhaps merely to provide me with blogging material, the staff at the office did two things that seriously irked me during our visit.

First, Stephen and I have decided to not find out the sex of the baby. I know there are many people that don't comprehend the desire to be surprised, but the unknown-factor is something we are extremely excited about. I was under the impression this was a personal decision that had no relevant impact on other people's lives, let alone a stranger. Far too often, this impression has proven to be false.

Before I begin my rant, though, my compliments to the lady who performed our sonogram. She was more than happy to peacefully and non-argumentatively acquiesce to our request. I don't know whether or not she determined the gender in the process, but either way, she didn't make note of it in her documentation. I appreciate that -- that way no one else can accidentally let it slip. Personally, all I gathered from the visuals is that there's a 50% chance it's a boy and a 50% chance it's a girl. Stephen thinks there is a 1% chance it's a kitten, but that theory was quickly vanquished by our doctor.

After we were done with the sonogram, they took me back to an exam room to do all the other fun things that are part of a routine visit. This is where our gender-mystery decision became a matter of public debate. When the nurse came in to take my blood pressure, before anything else, she made it clear that she thought we had lost all sense of rational thought. No "hello" or "how are you feeling?' or "my, what a lovely pair of shoes" -- just, "I hear you aren't finding out the sex. Why not?"

Lovely.

After a series of comments about the purposeful absence of any shred of mystery in her life, she hit us with the second most popular question we get asked, "But how will you know what to buy at the store?" (the most popular being, "How will you know what to do with your nursery?")

Ok . . . at the risk of over reacting I will simply speak my mind.

Are you kidding me? Every time I am asked this question, I become more and more unreasonably agitated. Mother Nature has kindly provided us a smorgasbord of colors to choose from outside of manly blue and girly pink. I was so wound up -- I'm surprised I didn't burst the blood pressure cuff.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind if someone is just curious about the sex -- that's the whole point. I suppose I have simply tired of the interrogation into the reasons why we would recklessly subject ourselves to the unknown like this. Likewise, I don't give the third degree to folks to choose to share in that special moment of discovery prior to the birthday.

So just to put a nice little bow on the issue, I will quote my articulate husband and his philosophy on the matter. He really only says this to me, but I think it's worth sharing here.

"When I compare the excitement I get from anticipating that moment of discovery with the ability to gender-specifically decorate and personalize a nursery -- I choose the one that I will treasure forever."

Not everyone treasures the same things, but that's why we have made the decision to keep it a mystery.

So back to my trip to the doctor.

The second offense (which was really a bunch of offenses rolled into one person) came in the form of my doctor's PA. She started off by being the second person to point out the foolishness of our not-finding-out-the-sex ways. She continued her encouraging talk by informing me that my placenta was "a little low". When I asked about it -- she wasn't worried because in 99% of cases it moves up, so no need for concern.

OK, but I wanted to know what happens if it doesn't move up.

Her response came in two parts.

Part one: a short in-take of oxygen, coupled with a painful grimace. Not just a standard in-take of air. One of those one-second bursts where you use your saliva and your mouth to make that atrocious sound that comes out when you are imagining someone scratching their nails on a chalkboard.

Part two: "Oh, don't worry, it will."

Ignoring the apparent contradictions in this two part response, there was the bigger issue of my question. The last time I checked, I was at a doctor's office, not a psychic reading.

It was like pulling teeth to get her to tell me what happens if it doesn't move. And would you like me to share with you the horrendous consequences of it not moving? The mysterious consequence would be a C-Section: a procedure that has been done successfully millions of times before.

Again, maybe this is just another of my unreasonable tirades against the innocent, but don't you think it would be better "bedside manner" to have just answered the question instead of hemming and hawing about how there was no cause for concern since the issue would resolve itself? Just my thoughts on that.

But the fun wasn't over. It wasn't just my misplaced placenta that she didn't want me to worry about -- I also needed to not panic about how I was tipping the scales. She noted, "I see your weight has gone up a bit, but since you've been playing catch up I'm not too worried, just keep the recent increase in mind." (Oh I'll keep it in mind... in fact I'll blog about it next week! . . . I didn't say that . . . but anyway . . . )

Would you like me to share with you the insane amount of weight I have gained in 22 weeks of pregnancy? You should be sure you're sitting down because the grotesqueness of this will knock your socks off. Are you ready?

Seriously, you're sitting down right?

I have gained a mind-boggling 2 pounds in 22 weeks. 2 pounds!

I know, I know, I'm a serious fatty and need to seek intervention. I'm already consulting a gastric bypass surgeon -- so rest easy: our genderless baby won't have to deal with a mother that resembles a Dallas Cowboy lineman. They'll have enough emotional damage to deal with anyway -- with their non gender-specific nursery and all. : )

I wanted to smack her over the head with the computer screen sitting behind her. But I thought better of it and just smiled politely instead. I knew I had a digital epidural on the way.