Name Suggestions: Yours are All Terrible

And I mean that in the kindest way possible. You know, the kindest way in which to respond to people who seem to believe that I have given no thought whatsoever to my child's first name.  I know, I know, they are just being kind, like to feel included, etc. But for the love of god, leave it alone!  We found out two weeks ago that we are going to have a boy.  The name we had chosen for a girl was always set in stone but for a boy we weren't (and still aren't) 100% sure.  I mean, we have 4ish months to go (is that it?!) and we haven't even met the guy yet.  So calm right down folks.  I think it is great that you have always liked Teegan and Colin and your great grandfather's first name was Arthur and you've always loved that name.  So by all means, name your next baby that awesome name of yours.  Done having kids? Ok great, name your next dog Tyler or Connor or Brindin or whatever name you think is so precious.  I am going to stick with the name I  want, the name I chose years ago, the name I am going to give to my child.  And I mean that with all the love in the world.

Have You Every Really Looked At Maternity Clothes?

My 5th month of pregnancy started last week.  I am at this fun in-between stage where my pants don't fit, my shirts all seem to have shrunk and the idea of swimming around in maternity clothes is abhorrent.  Have you seen those things?  From the outside, people love to think you're cute.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy compliments and lies as much as the next bloated gas-bag, but being a pregnant lady isn't as often as cute as seeing a pregnant lady.  I don't have a belly, all nice and round and ready for strangers to rub.  I have the goofy "bump" celebrities try to hide with big purses. The "is she or isn't she?", the "you ask cause I'm not going to" the "I'm just going to keep looking at her abdomen until she wants to shout 'YES! for god's sake, yes, I am knocked up, due June 4th, first one, we don't know the sex, we do want to find out, no, I haven't been sick, yes, Matt is excited and I do plan on working until I have this thing. Yes, I am pregnant, can we talk about something else now?'".
  So what the hell do I wear?  The other night I was getting ready for work.  I settled on a white t-shirt and black cardigan.  It fit, I figured, who cared if it wasn't terribly fashionable?  I ran to the mirror for one final check- with the curly hair- something just wasn't right...I looked like Andrea Zuccerman.  Not cute.  All I needed were some Gap khakis, possibly some Keds and the superior attitude only a 32 year old high school junior can pull off.  That's it! No more "well whatever, at least it fits".  I have to shop.
So it turns out maternity pants are hilarious and kind of ugly.  Not to mention that I don't exactly relish the idea of spending good money I could spend on cute, real, non-pregnant lady clothes on Target jeans with a spandex panel that extends to just under my bra (not kidding).  And, like, suburban lady sweaters.  It sends chills down my fashion bone.  Those Bella Bands are a neat idea but eventually those regular jeans just don't go all the way on.  Maybe I am in denial.  How big should I plan on getting?  I mean, I know this babe will grow and take me with it.  I just don't know how it expects me to look good in the process.  Isn't there some kind of Maternity Clothes Trading Organization?  On my honor I will return all these ponchos when I am done, just don't force me to buy a whole new panel-fronted wardrobe.
Maybe I will just go whole-hog and invest in some super ugly vintage tent-like jumpers from our mother's days.  Throw my hands up and say forget it.  How many mu mus can I collect in 9 months?  I really wouldn't mind that part.  Its the pants.  The god-forsaken pants.  Thank god leggings are in style, I guess.  Fashion Ruiner and I will just have to make the best of things.  Stay tuned, as I will certainly post some of the more alluring looks I come across.

I'll admit, fear keeps me from doing most things...

I am not known for my ambition.  I have always deferred to fear when making most of life's decisions, both major and minor.  I, for instance, hemmed and hawed for an hour before going out for a sub tonight for fear that I would not find a close parking space or that the girl behind the counter would use too much mayo.  When I did venture out into the cold and both of my fears were realized and I did not wither and die, I decided to grab life by the horns and control my own destiny.  I decided not to worry if my blog sounded vain or stupid and to just go for it.  With that fearless 5 minutes I started a semi-difficult to locate blog that I am not even sure I will post. So don't make fun of it.  It may take me years to get this kind of courage again.
Obviously, fear is one of the driving forces behind my decision to delay parenthood for both my husband and myself for as long as I have.  Up until about September the predominant fear was a nine month period of sobriety that did not involve the Betty Ford Clinic or any of those Passions or Paradise Promises places the lucky suckers on Intervention always get to go to.  This sobriety would be for the betterment of a teeny tiny inside-me person who did not yet have a say in how he/she/it turned out, not for a reality TV audience.  And as I've heard those fetal alcohol kiddies are terribly unruly, I knew that it was best to let my raging alcoholism run the show for a while. Somewhere around mid-September I changed my position on the whole thing, got drunk a few last times, got knocked up and here we are.  Drinking O'Douls.Sigh.
What non-pregnant Sarah failed to realize is that the fear of enduring awkward social situations without the necessary martini is tiny compared to the innumerable worries I now face.  Every 15 minutes or so it occurs to me to fret over some remotely possible genetic disorder, an impossibly far away international conflict, weather my pets will be alright with Baby Ruiner (that's what we're calling it for now, until I can convince Matt that Bronco is, in fact, not at all a possible name for our child), weather I will ever sleep again or be up all night worrying (yes, worrying about worrying) and the increasingly real threat of a zombie apocalypse shortly after Ruiner is born (or god forbid, before, and I'll have to give birth while implementing my thoroughly researched survival plan, with help from only a rag-tag refugee group hiding in the mountains and without meds).
They say that pregnancy is full of surprises.  "They" being the terrifying Mommy-hood websites, the HUGE books with happy looking preggy white ladies on the cover and friends of mine who are mothers but whose children are old enough now that the severe weirdness of the whole thing has slipped their minds and all they can recall is having to pee and the glorious moment they first saw the face of their own Baby Ruiner. I can attest to the surprises, I suppose.  I mean, I am surprised my boobs haven't gotten any bigger yet (that's bullshit, btw), I'm surprised that I don't feel sick or horrible or too moody. Just kind of bigger.  I'm surprised to the point of blushing when people congratulate me.  I mean, it's not like I did anything that millions of teenagers aren't doing every day in their furnished basements. Save the congrats for when Ruiner comes out.  I heard that part sucks.