Inconceivable

Last week, there was an article in the New York Times Sunday Magazine about fathers who find out that the children they are raising are not their own. It was heartbreaking to read their stories and about the upheaval it caused in their and their kids' lives. I sometimes joke with Matt about the baby not being his which leads to further joking that the baby might not be mine either. After reading that article, I am not sure if I want to kid about it anymore. Not that our situation would be one rife with betrayal and deceit like these father's, but what if there was a mix-up? How would I feel about it? Would I even want to know the truth? I try not to seriously consider the possibility, but it has happened and uncomfortably close to home. I reassure myself that my clinic is one of the best in the country and uses strictly enforced protocols to eliminate such errors, but just like those dads whose babies are born looking nothing like them, there is a creeping doubt.

A few weeks ago, we had a visit from our downstairs neighbor informing us that we were raining on her apartment - the bathroom to be specific. We had no obvious water leaks, and it was soon concluded that whenever we flushed the toilet, let's just say, they felt the effects. The super said he would need to pull up our toilet to fix a broken pipe, leaving us without a toilet until the job was complete. In the meantime, the neighbor kindly offered to have us call anytime we needed to flush, but there was no way I could consciously flush my toilet knowing it caused a pee storm below me. So I played the pregnant card and the super let us in on a secret bathroom on the 6th floor, a very dirty, very icky secret toilet that I was nevertheless thrilled to have at my pregnant bladders disposal. Within a day, the problem was resolved. So after the bubble, bubble toilet trouble, we jump ahead two weeks. This past Wednesday, I noticed a wet spot on my ceiling in the kitchen. I visited the upst

Hoping to expand my (literally) shrinking wardrobe , I cleaned out my closet looking for those clothes that were always a little too big for me to wear. Instead I found my long lost skinny pants. I haven't touched these pants since I started stimming, sure that the bloating wouldn't take kindly to their tight hug. For a laugh, I decided to try them on and see how big I am getting. Imagine my delight when the zipper came up with only a mild protest! I could have danced around the room. I love these pants. They are black and satiny, and I feel like Audrey Hepburn in them. So imagine my distressed when I pranced into the F train and tried to sit down in them!!! The high waist cut into my protruding belly and the area around my hips that is usually snug started to feel like a boa constrictor. Part of the reason I like these pants is their design. They zip up the back with a sewn-in zipper -so my trusty rubber band wasn't going to work with this one. I discreetly tugged at the z

My belly has the beginnings of a swell, and I am starting to over-extert the rubber band that keeps my pants comfortably together. I have already had to break out my fat pants, so I finally decided it was time to start the search for maternity clothes. I quickly realized that unless I want to pay $200 for jeans, I might need to search a little harder or settle for those awful unisex looking things. And really how do you know what is the right size anyway? I have no idea if my ass will get huge or if the weight will (mercifully) be centralized in a cute little bump - with my luck it will be door number 1 with a large helping of lumpy bump. In any care the pregnancy hormones must be effecting my taste in clothes, because the other night I was in a cab that was stopped at a light and across the street was what must have been the Manhattan's flagship Dress Barn because it took up half of the block. Normally the phrase "flagship Dress Barn" would send me running to the nearest

A few nights ago, I supervised a music class kids for kids at work. I selfishly went in hoping it would not be a success so that I wouldn't feel guilty for not doing more because too many late nights makes me a cranky girl. But then the cute little kids started trickling in and I was almost as excited as they were. Everyone was attentive and enthusiastic as the group started. They went around and sang their favorite songs and took turns holding the guitar. It was adorable. That was the first seven minutes. For the next 53 minutes, all hell broke loose. It was like a switch was flipped and everything went horribly wrong as one kid crawled under a table and wailed for 20 minutes because I asked her very sweetly not to sit on the table anymore, another small kid started spitting at and shoving the other older kids who in turn wanted to beat him up. One 9 year old insisted on talking like a baby and whining because he wanted a play with a laptop, another girl wanted to read and started

I feel as though I have been in a sort of slow motion since I started my stims 2 months ago. I have been hestitant to overextert myself, and the exhuastion of the first trimester has made it hard to be social let alone have a have a full-fledged social life. Halloween rolled around with little fanfare this year. In years past, I have gone to the parade or out with friends then out to the bars. This year, I didn't think I would gather the energy to hand out candy to my friend's kid. But as the day wore on, I started to rally. At 6:30, I put on some make-up, dug out an old wig and went out on the town. Well, we stolled the neighborhood looking at the creative decorations and then we went to dinner about two subway stops from our house. Anything further would have worn me out. It was a warm night for the end of October and there were loads of families out on the street in costumes trick-or-treating at the local businesses. We sat outside for dinner and overcame the light drizzle w