Here, in case, anyone cares, is the story of the day we found out we were going to be parents, and the lying and sneaking around I had to engage in in order to get that piece of information.

After having spent a few days in Mississippi with my family for Christmas, we flew to San Antonio to spend New Year's with Dan's family. On either our first or second day we were there, I did some math and came to the conclusion that I should probably go buy a pregnancy test. Not because I was pregnant. Because there was just practically no way I was pregnant. But, you know, just to be sure and all.

The only problem with this was that we don't usually rent a car when we go to San Antonio, and thus, we have no independent transportation. This isn't usually a big deal, but it occurred to me that it would probably cause a lot of needless excitement if I asked say, Dan's mom, to take me to Walgreen's so I could buy a pregnancy test. What I'm saying here is that if I even implied to one of our mothers that I might, possibly, you know, be pregnant with their first grandchild, either one of them would want to be in the bathroom with me while I took the test. So I decided I had to get a test without anyone knowing.

That day, Dan's mom and I went to an outlet mall outside of town. The most surreal part of the day was that we actually went to Carter's, mecca of baby clothing, so that she could pick up a gift for a baby shower she was attending later in the week. I wandered the aisles of baby products thinking "Oh my goodness. What if I'm going to NEED a three piece baby bath time set soon? What exactly is IN a three piece baby bath time set? I should know that!" It was bizarre.

But after we finished shopping, I saw my chance. Dan's mom said she needed to go to H.E.B., which as Texans know, is the best, cleanest, most giant grocery store chain in the world. I wish we had them there, but we don't. Dan's mom wanted to pick up a few things for dinner. Not many, just a few, so I knew I didn't have much time. When we got inside, Dan's mom went for the produce section, and I started lying. Hard.

"Um, where's the bathroom in here?" I asked.
"Oh, it's up front by the registers," she said.
"OK. I'm going to go to the bathroom. Are you going to be in this general area for a little while? You know, so I can find you?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be here for a little while."
"Good."

The minute I was out of her line of vision, I was sprinting to the other side of the store. I'm pretty sure I knocked some people over on my way to the appropriate aisle. I grabbed the first pregnancy test I saw and made for the express checkout line. I was in luck, because the line I chose only had one person in it, a little old lady, and she was only buying one thing, a jar of jelly.

And then I got my comeuppance for lying to my mother in law, because I promise you, that little old lady took For-daggum-EVER to buy that jar of jelly. First, she remembered she had a coupon in her giant purse, so she started fishing around for it. Six years later, when she found it, it turned out to be expired. But the cashier, clearly wanting to be polite, the sap, called over a MANAGER to see if they could still take the coupon. Much entering of lengthy special codes into the cash register ensued. Then, then, .... THEN, the little old lady wrote a CHECK for the jam, which had, at this point, cost her all of about $1.19.

I thought my head was going to explode, because at any minute, I was expecting Dan's mom to come around the corner and come over to see why I was in the express line instead of the bathroom. A friend of mine recently pointed out to me that I could have been smarter about this if I had grabbed something else to buy with which I could have obscured the box that screamed "Pregnancy Test!" for all the world to see. This is a good point, but the fact that this never once occurred to me illustrates why I would be of no use in the criminal world. I don't lie well, especially not on the spur of the moment, and it stresses me out enormously to have to do something sneaky. Thus, I stood at the check out counter, practically dripping with sweat, as this guy FINALLY rang up my purchase. I was so flustered that I gave him a five dollar bill instead of the $20 I meant to give him, and then couldn't find the $20, and had to fish out my credit card. And then, at last, I shoved the test into my purse and ran back to produce.

"Did you find the bathroom OK?" my mother in law asked.
"Yep! No problem!" I lied. Again.

Later in the day, when the hard-won pregnancy test did its job and I was lying on the bed in my in-laws house, waiting for my head to stop spinning enough that I could go and get Dan to tell him the news, I decided to save the receipt from H.E.B. Something told me I would want some kind of souvenir of the day. I will put it in my baby's scrapbook, and when he or she wants to know what it is, I will say "That is proof of the first time you stressed mommy out."

When she found out I was pregnant, my very sweet friend Erika gave me something called the Pregnancy Countdown Book. It gives you all these little tips and information for each day of your pregnancy and counts down how many days you have left. This book refers to pregnancy as "Pregnancy Land." Lately this seems like an appropriate reference, since every day of my life feels like a trip to a foreign country where I don't speak the language. A few examples:

One of the newest and strangest pregnancy symptoms I've developed is that I have the weirdest dreams of my life almost every night. They're very vivid, and while they're not necessarily bad, many of them are stressful in that weird way where you're constantly trying to tell people something very important and they don't understand you. Then I wake up and think about it for a while before going back to sleep and having another bizarre dream.

Speaking of sleep, I have been dutifully trying to do what all the pregnancy books say is the best thing for the baby's circulation and sleep on my left side. Of course, as all the books say, the worst way to sleep is on your back because it constricts circulation. So how do I keep waking up, for the first time in my whole life? On my back! I don't even like to sleep on my back, so I think it's purely psychological. The What to Expect people would not be impressed.

Meanwhile, I'm starting to wonder about this alleged "glow" that pregnant women get. Frankly, I think it's a lie. I don't feel "glowing." At all. It probably didn't help that for the last week, I have spent at least a half hour every morning trying to assemble some sort of outfit for work that featured pants I could still button and a shirt that at least sort of matched. So this weekend, tired of feeling unattractive and uncomfortable, I finally bought some maternity pants for work. With the critical need taken care of, Dan and I decided to drop by an official maternity clothing store where they have the strap-on pregnant stomach decoys and everything. Even that was kind of overwhelming because I couldn't figure out which way was up on the fake tummy, which made me feel like I was being outsmarted by a pillow with two velcro straps attached to it. Also, everything I tried on seemed enormous, but I know that it will actually fit sometime in the next five months. That is kind of frightening. I didn't buy anything and I left feeling freaked out.

But then on Sunday night, something happened that made all the weirdness of Pregnancy Land worth it. I felt the baby move! Dan and I were sitting on the couch watching TV, and all the sudden it was like there was a little ping pong ball rolling around in there. It was the strangest thing I've ever felt in my life. Since then, it's happened a couple more times, and it makes me so happy because it reminds me that even though I am pretty much clumsily stumbling my way through this pregnancy like the amateur that I am, I still get a baby out of it like everyone else. Most importantly, that's our baby in there spinning around. And that's just the coolest thing ever.

Off to bed now. Time to visit Pregnant Dream Land and see what's in store.

On Saturday, Dan and I had a two-hour sit down with our calendar to try to schedule a bunch of things that need to happen this summer before the baby comes. Among those things are some kitchen renovations we've been putting off, some traveling I'd like to do before that gets too complicated, some family visiting us here in Albuquerque, and somewhere in there the fact that we need to take a six week childbirth preparation class.

It was not an easy task, because every time we'd get one things seemingly settled, it would be come apparent that our most recent decision conflicted with some other aspect of the List of Things to Do. But at the end, we'd gotten it straightened out, down to filling out a form signing us up for the childbirth class we chose, putting it in the envelope and putting the stamp on. Before I sealed the envelope however, I glanced back at the informational packet my doctor's office had given me and noticed that in addition to the childbirth prep course, they also recommend an infant care and safety course and a breastfeeding course.

We were so fried after the process of trying to find a six-week period of time when we could take the first class, that I almost didn't even mention this new information to Dan. But we were there anyway, so I asked how he felt about the infant care course, and brought up the breastfeeding course as well.

I mentioned that the infant care course might be good, because I've heard they give you a plastic baby doll and have you practice things like bathing and diapering, but I could tell Dan's mind had shot right past the infant care course and was trying to compute the breastfeeding class concept.

"What are they going to teach you in a breastfeeding course?"
"Well, I don't know, but the class comes pretty well recommended, and it's only a couple of hours."
"Yeah, but I don't understand how a bunch of women are going to learn to nurse babies that they haven't had yet."

It's funny when you get to the point in your marriage when you can almost see thoughts forming in your spouse's mind. At that moment, an expression of imagination crossed Dan's face, and it became obvious to me that he was envisioning a group of women sitting in a circle, trying to nurse plastic baby dolls. The imaginative look is replaced by an expression of alarm, and then he snaps out of it and says:

"Yeah. I'm definitely not going to that class."

I guess I can see his point. I'm sure any man would not feel exactly at home with that discussion. But it makes me wonder what he thinks we're going to be talking about in the childbirth class. The stork?

Alright, folks. Tuesday is the big day. Well, not THE big day, but a big day, because it's the day we go in for the 20-weeks ultrasound. First and foremost this is a medical procedure to check on the health of the baby, so we'd appreciate your prayers for good pictures and good news from that. But it's also our first chance to find out if we have a little Boy Wachdorf or a little Girl Wachdorf in there. I am fairly confident that Dan will continue to refer to the baby as "Mo" in any case just because he's so attached to the name, but I for one am looking forward to referring to the baby by his or her true name once we know the gender.

What this means for you is that it's time to place your bets in the comments section about what gender baby you think we're having. Also feel free to explain the rationale behind your choice. I have heard some pretty great answers on this so far. My mom thinks we're having a boy because we know so many people who are having girls. My sister Hannah, in the most complex answer I've received to this question, thinks we are having a girl because she used to envision me as a good, strong, adequately tough mom for a boy, but since I've gotten married she apparently thinks I've softened around the edges and now have the appropriate maternal instincts to be a girl mom as well. (I think this is a good thing, but it could also mean she just thinks I'm getting weak in my old age.) Someone at my office swears I'm having a girl because my stomach is round and not pointed out much. Theories abound. Share yours if you have one, and those who guess correctly will be honored in some way on the blog. I don't think there will be door prizes, but we'll come up with some way to congratulate you on your baby-guessing wisdom.

The ultrasound is on Tuesday afternoon, and of course all the appropriate family members will have to be notified by phone first. But late Tuesday or early Wednesday, I promise you an answer, if the ultrasound is able to tell us the gender, and hopefully some pictures as well, since we've been told to bring a writable CD to the appointment.

Good luck on the guessing!

It is with great pride and joy that we show you the first photos of a little person we're told is a girl, our daughter, Kate.

Now you must drop what you're doing and agree with me that she is the prettiest 20-week-old fetus you ever saw, with the cutest hands. OK, since you agree, I will show you another adorable picture, a side view, with some nice, bony legs and arms:

The technician told us, and showed us her reasons for believing, that the baby is a girl. So that means her name is Kate, the name I've always had in my mind for a little girl. Dan is walking around the house now, making up songs with the phrase "Baby Kate" in them. I think he's excited.

What can you really say to sum up the experience of seeing your child for the first time? There just aren't words that do it justice. I am glad that our technician has probably seen a lot of women react to seeing their babies, and therefore didn't make me feel bad when I started crying, looking at the screen. It was just so amazing to see her little face and watch her move. This is how mind-altering it was: There was some really bad country music station playing in the room during the whole exam and I didn't even care. That indicates a major level of distraction for me. A level of distraction that I'm starting to think may last the rest of my life.

The Bible says that we are "fearfully and wonderfully made" as God's creation, and while that's always visible in the mere fact of millions of human beings walking around on the planet, each one unique, I don't think I had really grasped the impact of those words until today. Because while I've certainly been doing my best to do the right things, eat well, and give my baby the best environment in which to be made, I know, now more than ever, that I didn't really have any control over things like how her arms grew, how her fingers were shaped, or how her heart started to beat. That's a miracle, and I didn't do it. I couldn't. Praise the Lord.

So since it is a girl, the spoils of victory and the bragging rights go to Aaron, Daniel, Hannah, Megan, and Kate P. Take a victory lap, guys. I am so glad I asked for y'all to tell me your reasons for your gender guesses, though, because that was some great reading! The two best answers from each camp, as far as how much they made me laugh, will be reprinted here:

From Joshua, fiancee of Dan's sister Hannah: "It will be a boy. If God was not willing to let the tribes of Israel die out, I trust he will not be willing for the tribe of Wachdorf to die out either."

And from Aaron, my brother: "Girl. Here's why: I have a theory that all men want their first born baby to be a boy. We just have too much masculine knowledge to pass on (at least if you are super manly like me). It would be a waste for it all to die with the father. So, here is my reasoning for why you are having a girl. I want you to have a boy, so I can have a nephew to start practicing teaching how to be a man. If I screw him up, who cares? It's not my kid. I also, like all men, want my first kid to be a boy. So, God will intervene and give you a girl, in order to teach me how great a little girl can be and prepare me for the chance of my first born not being a boy. Sorry if you don't like my theory. I can't help that the world revolves around me. It's a big responsibility. Honestly."

There you have it. Further proof that the world does, indeed, revolve around Aaron. Thank you all for caring so much about us and our little baby news. I leave you with one more picture: Baby Kate, as seen from the side, with a foot and hand curled up for added cuteness:

The last couple of weeks have been full of pregnancy milestones. Obviously, there was the sonogram. Then there was the passage of the 20 week marker, halfway through the pregnancy. But perhaps the most dramatic change in terms of how our lives work has been the arrival of the Pregnant Appetite. It is a force to be reckoned with.

I had read about how pregnant women develop pretty hearty appetites. But for me, the entire first trimester was just about trying to keep food down, and the early second trimester, after the nausea subsided, was mostly about remembering that I like to eat. I ate, but I didn't feel any extraordinary hunger.

And then, about 10 days ago, that changed. Pre-pregnancy, I have had the bad habit of failing to pack a lunch when I go to work, which sometimes resulted in me just skipping lunch entirely. Since that's not acceptable when you're pregnant, I've gotten into the good habit of taking a bag full of fruit and healthy snacks with me to work, along with milk and cereal and something for lunch. Usually, I don't finish it all. But one day last week, after going to the grocery store, I packed a particularly enormous bag of food for a day. I even showed it to Dan, I felt so silly for putting so much food in it. I figured it would take me three days to go through all that food.

Except that I ate it all. In one day. Every single last bit of it. And I was hungry when I got home. I thought this was a fluke, but then the next day, it happened again. Now I am pretty much packing the Jumbo Bag o' Food every morning, and having absolutely no trouble plowing through it as the day goes on. I have never been hungry like this in my life. It's actually kind of frightening, and it's starting to make me think that pregnant women should have some kind of safety labeling. Something along the lines of "WARNING: This woman is pregnant. If she asks you for food, give it to here immediately and then back away slowly."

I started thinking about the labeling concept last week when I almost threw a butter knife at a waiter who was failing to bring me my soup in a timely fashion. Dan and I went out to eat one day last weekend, and I was pretty hungry because through a long series of events, I hadn't eaten in about 12 hours, which is fine for a normal person, but not fine for people whose bodies are being run by alien forces with a constant need for sustenance. As soon as we sat down, I asked the waiter if he could bring me a bowl of soup, because I knew I was never going to survive the wait until we could get entrees. And he said yes. This turned out to be an outright lie.

Unfortunately, from where I was sitting, I could see orders of food being put up in the window to be served. My soup was up about four minutes after I ordered it. But our waiter didn't see it. He was taking orders at other tables, getting drinks, and just generally behaving in a totally diligent manner except for the fact that I STILL DIDN'T HAVE ANY SOUP. For the next 20 minutes, I looked at the bowl of soup, then at our waiter, then back to the soup, trying to will the waiter to go get my soup before I made a total scene. Dan's efforts to distract me and tell me that my muttered threats were probably a teensy bit irrational were in vain. I was completely fixated. Obsessed. About to come unglued.

In the end, the waiter did completely forget my soup. The only time he even paused at our table after taking our orders was to bring us our entrees. And still not my soup. At that point I was so relieved to see food that I just pointed out to him in what I think was a decently civil tone that he had forgotten about my soup and should just cancel that part of my order. Then I turned my attention to the woodfired pizza I had ordered. It's not a small pizza, and I ate the whole thing and told Dan he couldn't have any of it. Then I went home and had a banana and a milk shake, and only then did I feel satisfied.

So if you find yourself sitting with me at dinner any time in the next few months, you might want to guard your plate, because I am no longer in control of myself. The baby is holding me hostage, and she might make me steal your food.

This week, I am officially in my third trimester, which, according to the people at BabyCenter, means I have about 84 days until Baby Kate arrives. That sounds simultaneously like a small eternity and also like it's just around the corner. But whether the rest of this pregnancy flies by or crawls, I figure reaching the last trimester is a happy milestone, so here is a celebratory baby belly picture. Total strangers now ask me when I'm due, so I think it's fair to say the stomach is becoming more prominent. My other major pregnancy symptom at this point is that unless the room I am in is cooled to about 65 degrees, I feel like I am about to spontaneously burst into flames. Carrying a baby is like having an internal space heater. Dan, meanwhile, is constantly freezing.

OK. Now I have to go crank up the air conditioner. Have a good night.

True incident from our adventures in baby furniture shopping this weekend:

Dan and I went to a large discount department store with a fairly decent baby supplies section this weekend as part of our ongoing quest to find a crib, changing table/dresser and rocking chair for the nursery. Since it's about a million degrees here in Albuquerque right now, the process of driving around, parking, going into stores and then getting back in the hot car that never cools off in between destinations has been kind of exhausting for me. (I know, I know, I am whining. But seriously, I am going to strive never to be seven months pregnant in the month of July again.)

At the end of one of our shopping trips, in the aforementioned department store, Dan and I were pausing to discuss the merits of a particular rocking chair we were considering buying. Since I had already sat in the chair, I was getting Dan to test it out, because a piece of furniture that is comfortable for me is not always going to be comfortable for Dan, who is six feet, six inches tall. But I still wanted to sit down, because my feet were killing me, so I found a seat on a toddler bed that was right next to the rocking chair and sat down on the edge of that.

I should pause at this point in the story to explain that we had been in this store for nearly an hour, and in the course of shopping there, I had asked the sales staff for that department a few questions about things like color selections, toddler bed features, and the kind of trivia that fills your brain when you've been looking at baby furniture for two days straight. The sales staff in question were two older ladies who were not terribly helpful or enthusiastic about answering those questions. I suppose you get what you pay for, and we were in a discount kind of store, but it was still not impressive customer service.

But now we're at the end of our trip, and we're basically sitting there talking about whether or not we're going to purchase something before we leave or think about it for a couple of days and come back. Right at that moment, one of the sales ladies, who has previously not acknowledged our presence unless absolutely required to do so, rounds the corner and sees me sitting on the toddler bed. She stops, looks at me with extreme distaste and says "Ma'am, there's a 50-pound weight limit for those toddler beds."

I blinked at her a couple of times while it sunk in that this woman was, in fact, suggesting to me that I might be large enough to break a piece of furniture that is supposedly designed for toddlers, who are not exactly known for being gentle with their belongings. Then I got up, apologizing. In hindsight, I wish I hadn't apologized, because she was really being very rude, but at that point I was flustered and wanted to get out of the store. But before I could do that, this woman proceeded, with great ceremony, to get down on her hands and knees and examine the undercarriage of the toddler bed, clearly implying that she was checking to see if I had damaged it in some way.

Boy, that made me want to whip out my credit card and spend some money! Needless to say, we left.

So here's a tip, baby product retail people of the world: If your target buying demographic is pregnant women, you might want to work on being really nice to pregnant women, or at least not actively implying that they are so fat as to be about to detstroy your floor models. Because now that you mention it, I am pretty big these days, and I could crush you like a bug. Don't tempt me. Better the toddler bed than you, lady.

Maybe tomorrow I will go back and have Dan wheel me around in one of their strollers.

In celebration of the fact that I am 32 weeks pregnant and now officially have all the rights and privileges granted to eight-months-pregnant women, whatever those are, I thought I'd share with you some photos that Daniel, fiancee of my sister Hannah, took of me while I was visiting Mississippi in June. I'm not sure how Daniel files these, probably under something like "Still life with large belly," but I've never had so much fun having my picture taken. Hannah was there, holding various pieces of lighting-related equipment for Daniel and making me laugh the whole entire time, which explains why I've got my mouth wide open in quite a few of these. I'm glad they are happy pictures. I don't really have any need for a bunch of pictures of myself with a giant stomach, but my mom persuaded me that Kate might one day like to see them, and if she does, I'm glad she'll see me laughing. Pregnancy isn't always fun. But I am very happy about what I'm getting out of it. And, let's be honest, I like to laugh more than just about anything, so they are realistic shots.

Here's one to get you started:

Oh, the irony. After seven months of me whining about the trials of finding decent-looking maternity clothes and casting wistful glances at the display windows of Ann Taylor, my favorite pre-pregnancy store, Ann Taylor Loft has chosen the final weeks of my pregnancy to announce that they are launching a maternity line.

As someone who has given the Ann Taylor brand a great deal of money over the years, I wish they had consulted me when they were making this decision. But even though they've snubbed me in this manner, I am happy to know that next time I am pregnant, I will not be banished from Ann Taylor. And I bet Kelly is beside herself.

After about six weeks of sub-standard performance, our wretched swamp cooler chose Friday the 13th to refuse to turn on at all. (For those of my readers unfamiliar with the joys of swamp coolers, first take a moment of silence and be thankful that you've never had to listen to anyone claim that they work as well as the real air conditioning being used in the entire rest of the civilized world. Then click here to learn about these contraptions.)

The cooler, as I mentioned, has not been performing well at all this summer, resulting in more than a few days in the recent very hot weeks when the coolest room in our house was 80 degrees by about 2 p.m., meaning that the rest of the house had all the appeal of an unventilated U-Haul truck. Dan heroically climbed up on the roof a couple of times to try to see if something wasn't working properly and even replaced a couple of parts that we thought might be the problem, but those adjustments yielded only minor improvements.

So it was almost a relief when, on Friday morning, the thing just wouldn't turn on. I called a local company with big vans and they sent over a very nice guy named Jerod who climbed up on our roof and climbed down about 10 minutes later to inform me, in a sincerely apologetic tone, that both our pump and our motor needed replacing. About two hours later, I wrote Jerod a very large check. I wasn't happy about that, since it's not like we aren't throwing money at baby gear purchases left and right these days. But it was 90 degrees in my house, and I really didn't want to spend the night in the frozen food aisle of Wal-Mart, which was looking like my other option. And now our swamp cooler works. I still hate it. But it works.

The one useful thing I think I may have gained from the recent weeks of overheating is a good introduction to the kind of mental discipline it would take to get through childbirth with only the aid of deep breathing and positive mental images. Sitting around trying to convince myself that it actually feels a little cooler in the house today, only, say, 85 degrees as opposed to yesterday's 88, is, as far as I can tell, the same sort of self-distraction I'll be striving for as I try to learn breathing exercises in our childbirth class for the next six weeks.

"No, these contractions don't really hurt! (Deep breath.) They're just waves carrying me toward my beautiful child's birth!"

Yeah. And I'll probably be using that deep breathing to yell for an epidural within about 10 minutes.

Tonight I was invited to dinner at the home of Chris and Jennifer, some friends from church. This meant that I also got to spend some time with their daughter, Eliana, who is three years old and has recently turned whatever speech development corner it is that takes kids from speaking in choppy sentences to expressing complex ideas and participating in conversation really easily. In other words, while Eliana has never been boring, it has recently gotten really fun to talk to her, because she says hilarious things.

Eliana's family is kind enough to pray for Baby Kate and us every day and has been doing so for the last few months. So Eliana has become quite interested in Kate, as a topic, and was telling me a lot of things about her tonight while she sat in an armchair with me and patted my stomach, where she knows the baby is located. Some of Eliana's predictions are as follows:

"Baby Kate is pretty."
"Baby Kate will be such a happy baby!"
"She will have brown eyes and brown hair."
"It will be cold when she gets here because the sun won't be out because it will be cloudy."

But my personal favorite was her answer when her mom asked her to predict how many hours it would take Baby Kate to get here once it was time for her to come. Eliana thought about it really hard and pronounced that I will be in labor for a grand total of six hours.

If she turns out to be right about that, I am going to get her her own 1-800 number and give Miss Cleo a run for her money.

Here is one of the weirdest things about expecting a baby in America, land of consumers, home of the brave: People mail you diapers. Not so much "people" as "whoever is in charge of consumer marketing for large diaper manufacturing companies," but you get my drift. A few months ago, diapers just started showing up in our mail. It's always one diaper, wrapped in colorful packaging that includes coupons in case you should one day decide you would like to buy more of these fabulous diapers. And the first time, I felt weird about it, like you would if someone mailed you any other personal hygiene product intended mainly for the absorption of bodily fluids. But now, I don't even blink. "Credit card bill, check, catalogs, check, Huggies, check." I do hope the neighbors are aware of the diaper-mailing phenomenon. If not, they probably just think I'm carrying a diaper with me to and from the mailbox everyday, like I'm trying to be prepared in case I run across a kid with a dirty diaper on the way or something.

The other interesting diaper-related trend of baby-having today is the diaper cake. Yes, diaper cakes. These are centerpieces for baby showers made of diapers rolled up and arranged in the shape of a three-tiered cake. They're actually pretty cool, because you get 70 or 80 diapers, and there are usually other goodies like onesies and bibs and such tucked in as decorations. I have seen these before, because my friend Erika, who is fantastically good at making beautiful and crafty things, once made one for a friend's baby shower. But until recently, I had never taken one apart.

That changed on Saturday. A couple of months ago, my co-workers at my former job threw me a baby shower/going away party. Included in the shower gifts we received were not one, but two diaper cakes due to a mix-up with one of the orders. These sat in the baby's room until this weekend, when we started doing some actual setting up of furniture in the nursery, and the inevitable happened: Dan saw the diaper cakes and wanted to go get his Leatherman tool and dismantle them to see what was in them.

At first I laughed at him for breaking out the He-Man pocket tool for a diaper cake, but it turns out that these things are a major feat of engineering. Among other things, we had to cut through multiple layers of tape and styrofoam that held the cake in place. And then once we got down to individual diapers, we found that they were rolled up into little cylinders secured with rubber bands. As a woman, I thought "What a clever design!" As a man, Dan thought "Wow. These look like grenades!" So he spent the rest of the time we were in the room throwing them at me and making little explosion noises.

One day, we do need to have a little boy for Dan to play with. Otherwise, he might start teaching Kate how to make his grenade-throwing face.

OK. A whole bunch of you have left comments here suggesting that I need to take a picture of my large self and put it on the blog. I suspect that you are doing this purely for your own amusement and to give you conversation topics, similar to the reason people watch really bizarre clips on You Tube and then immediately turn to whoever is closest to them and say "Dude, you have GOT to check this out." We all want to look at a train wreck. I'm totally on to you. But I'm going to give you what you want anyway.

So first, I want you to consider this photo, taken a few months ago. I show you this photo because I remember that I was taking it specifically for the purpose of demonstrating the visual concept of "Wow, look at my stomach!"

The previous photo makes me laugh now. Here's why:

There are more pictures that I'll post soon related to the super-fun weekend of nursery furniture assembly we just had. But for now I'll just leave you to ponder that photo and the fact that we are supposedly going to have a baby in something like 21 days. That should scare you, but I bet it doesn't, because you're thinking "Dude. I am going to cancel my cable subscription. This is going to be funnier than reality TV!" Yes, yes it is. And with more baby poop.

Well, it took me long enough, but at long last, I present to you our birth story. I have tried not to include any medical details that would fall into the realm of too much information, but I have put in an accurate quote involving mildly bad language from one of our nurses because it isn't as funny if I clean it up. So I would say that this birth story is rated PG. It is also very, very long, perhaps due to the fact that I was in labor for 24 hours. I hope it won't feel like 24 hours that it takes you to read this, but in any case, proceed at your own risk.

Thursday, September 6, 2007:

Today I am three days overdue and we are scheduled for an appointment with my doctor at 7:15 a.m. I have spent the last week speed walking around our neighborhood, eating spicy food, and generally doing everything short of jumping on a trampoline in hopes of triggering labor, all to no avail. I have managed to stay pretty positive, but I am now officially in a bad mood. I am huge, I am constantly hot, my back hurts, I can't sleep, I have to go to the bathroom every ten minutes, and I am so ready to get this baby out of my body that the thought of labor no longer scares me. Thus, I am highly annoyed when my doctor, who is an extremely upbeat, petite woman who I could crush like a bug at my current weight, gives me an exam and perkily announces that my body has made exactly zero change since my last appointment a week ago. She says this as if she's telling me something good, like that I have won the lottery. I want to thump her cute little button nose. But instead, as anticipated, Dan, the doctor and I talk and come to the conclusion that if Kate hasn't made her appearance in a week, I'll check into the hospital to be induced. Being induced is my worst fear related to labor, and so actually scheduling a date for it does not improve my outlook on the world. It doesn't make me feel better that the last thing my doctor says to me before we leave is that she thinks I'll go into labor on my own anyway. I am a complete labor atheist at this point. I go home, take another walk just because it's what I do with my spare time now, talk to our moms to give them the update, and then sit down on the couch to have a good cry. I then get on the phone to schedule the ultrasound that my adorable, petite, maddeningly optimistic doctor wants me to have to check on the baby. That baby who is never coming out.

Friday, September 7

7:30 a.m.: After Dan leaves for work, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and try, for yet another day, to think of things I could do to keep me busy. We have the ultrasound in the late afternoon and then I'm supposed to go on a girl's night out with some friends, so I figure the latter half of the day is full. As I'm pondering these thrilling things, it occurs to me that I feel weird. It's hard to describe, but I just feel really achy and crampy and strange. I attribute this to my terminal pregnancy and give it no further thought. This is what I can expect from my upcoming lifetime of gestation.

3:30 p.m.: It's time to go for the ultrasound, and I'm feeling worse. I'm having contractions, but I've been having contractions for two weeks and they never get into a pattern or get stronger or mean anything. So I almost don't even notice them anymore. Whatever, contractions. I have an ultrasound to get to. I get into the car and drive across town. Halfway there it occurs to me that I am holding onto the steering wheel really tight during these meaningless contractions. Huh.

Dan meets me at the specialist's office, and we go in for the first look at Kate we've had since 20 weeks. It is amazing. We see her face. She has her lower lip stuck out and her hands up by her face and chubby little cheeks. It's such a shame she's never coming out. The baby is declared to be in excellent health, and the technician announces that based on her calculations, Kate weighs about nine pounds, one ounce. Dan finds this hilarious. I do not. We part ways for the evening, so that I can head back to the house and get ready to go out.

7 p.m.: I meet up with my friends at Elephant Bar Restaurant, where we enjoy a nice meal and discuss many many things, none of which I now remember, because about halfway through the meal I start to notice that these contractions? They hurt. But they aren't really in a regular pattern or anything, and I decide that if I go home in order to time them and they just go away, as they have done before, I will officially lose my mind. So instead, I continue on with the plans for the evening, which call for us to play cards at the home of Mrs. J.

8:30 p.m.: I am proud to say that in spite of the fact that I am quietly timing contractions, I am dealt, and manage not to screw up, one really good hand of poker. I clean my friend Judi out of all her chips and, to celebrate, eat a piece of one of the fabulous chocolate confections Susie is always bringing to gatherings. If I had known that this was going to be the last thing I managed to eat for the next 24 hours, I would have had two pieces. And a Big Mac.

10 p.m.: The card game breaks up, and I head home. Dan is there, and I tell him that I think I might, possibly, could be in labor, but not to get too worked up or anything. I head back to our bedroom and start rounding up the things I would want to take to the hospital if we went tonight.

Midnight: We go to bed to try to get some rest.

12:20 a.m., September 8, 2007, Kate's birthday: I get out of bed and go to the kitchen to time contractions. They are really, really starting to hurt, and I have to spend all my energy on breathing through them. They're also getting closer together.

12:25 a.m.: Dan joins me in the kitchen, foolishly abandoning his last shot at getting any sleep.

3:30 a.m.: I talk to the doctor on call for our practice and am told to come on in to the hospital. This sounds like a good idea to me, as I've spent the last three hours in real pain and am now having contractions about four minutes apart. I suppose it's obvious that you don't know what labor will be like until you're in it, but for me, the most surprising thing is that it has become impossible to sit or lie down. I have to stand up during contractions and lean my weight on something. This makes me think that the car ride to the hospital is going to be problematic. But even though I'm in pain, it feels really exciting to actually be on the way to having a baby. On the way out the door, I post an entry on the blog to let everyone know we're going to the hospital, thus sealing my status as a geek forever.

3:45 a.m.: It turns out I am right about the car ride. I have about four contractions during the very short trip to the hospital, and I almost rip that little hand grip thingie out of the ceiling of Dan's car, I am pulling on it so hard. We finally arrive at the hospital and head up to labor and delivery.

3:50 a.m.: Here's a fun fact: Did you know that there are men who work in labor and delivery? Not doctors. Nurses. Male nurses. I did not know this. And I'm not too excited about it either, when it becomes apparent to me that the gentleman who is handing me one of those beautiful hospital gowns and ushering me into a triage room is doing so because he's going to be in charge of us for the next few hours. It's probably unusual that I've gotten through my whole pregnancy receiving care only from female doctors and nurses, but that has suited my comfort level just fine, and somehow, while I knew there was a good chance that one of the male doctors in our practice would be at my delivery, I never envisioned a male nurse. He's completely competent and professional, but part of me just wants to call a time out and say "Seriously, dude? This floor is the one where you want to spend your time?" But instead, I put on the gown, go through the triage process, and learn that I am two centimeters dilated. Only eight more to go.

3:55 a.m.: Our doula arrives. If we had known how happy we were later going to be to have a doula during this whole process, the Hallelujah Chorus would have been played in the room at this point, but as it was, she just walked in, introduced herself and started asking some questions about our birth plan. If you're not familiar with the work of doulas, you can read about them here. And if you're not familiar with birth plans, they are these funny little documents that you write up before you go into labor indicating in print your preferences for your labor and delivery. I say they are funny because there are so many variables to labor and delivery that saying what you do and don't want in advance is a bit like trying to pre-order perfect weather for your beach wedding during hurricane season. But it's good to have a plan, right?

Dan and I talked a lot about our birth plan, and if I had to give it a title, like it was a term paper or something, it would be "Heck, no, we don't want to see the placenta." When it got down to it, Dan and I decided that ignorance would be bliss for us in the visual images department. So when the birth plan papers asked if Dan wanted to cut the cord, we said no. When they asked if I wanted to be given a mirror to see the baby's head, we said no. And when we talked to the doula, we made it clear that the answer to all questions that started with "Hey, do you want to see the (fill in the blank)" would be answered with a resounding "No!" until they had an actual baby to show us. Call us weenies. We are. But we're weenies who know what we want.

5:30 a.m.: Mr. Male Nurse tell us that the labor and delivery floor is very busy, and there are no rooms available at the moment. Because of that and because I'm not terribly far along, they suggest that we go walking around the hospital to try to help me dilate a bit more. So I put on an extra hospital gown for added fashion benefits and we take off to walk the halls. At one point, we were pacing up and down in the main lobby of Large Health Care Company's hospital. When I was a full time newspaper reporter, I covered Large Health Care Company as part of my beat, so to me, this feels oddly like wandering around in the lobby of a bank or some other place of commerce wearing a floppy hospital gown before the sun is up, like one of those bad dreams where you're naked in some public setting. I keep expecting a security guard to come and ask me what in the heck I think I'm doing, and maybe ask who I work for and then call my boss. But no one does, because apparently, in a hospital, it is fairly common to see gigantic women in ugly gowns trotting up and down the halls and stopping every few minutes to lean against the wall and breathe really deeply.

6:00 a.m.: After about an hour of walking, we decide we should take a piece of advice our doula gave us, and go get a bite to eat. Since I haven't technically been admitted to the hospital yet, no one is stopping me from eating, but once I am admitted, I know I won't be allowed anything but ice chips. So it seems like a good idea to try to eat something to keep my strength up. This continues to seem like a good idea until I swallow one bite of a granola bar and am immediately overcome with the knowledge that the granola and anything else that happens to be in my stomach at the moment is about to come right back up. And it does. Violently. I am lucky to get myself over a trash can before it happens, and then I just stand there, in the lobby, puking and thinking about how terrible it is that some poor janitor is going to have to clean this up. I feel like I should notify someone and apologize, but there is no one to tell, so we just keep walking.

7:30 a.m.: We report back to the triage area, as we were instructed to do, and are put back into the little tiny triage room. There are still no beds available in labor and delivery, and we're starting to get the feeling that it's been a very busy night on the floor. I haven't seen my doctor yet because she's in surgery, and about the time she got out, she was called back in, so we're entirely in the hands of the nursing staff and our doula. It's not a bad situation, since they're all very helpful and accommodating, but the room we're in is very tiny, the bed is more like a cot, making it hard to rest between contractions, there are no windows, and the passage of time just seems to slow to a crawl for a while. My contractions are getting more painful, longer, and closer together, and the one thing I cannot tolerate when one of them is taking place is sit or lie down. So of course, it is at this exact moment that the nursing staff starts insisting that I spend 20 minutes every hour strapped up to a fetal monitor to make sure the baby isn't in any distress. While it's not entirely necessary that I lie down in order to do this, it's very hard to keep all the wires and things in place if I'm standing, and even if I do, my ability to move around, the only thing that seems to help me at all, is seriously limited. I decide that I hate that monitor more than I have ever hated a machine in my life. I am only slightly less angry with it when it reports that the baby is just fine.

8:30 a.m., 9:30 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 11:30 a.m., 12:30 p.m., 1 p.m.: I list these times together because all of those hours were basically a big repeat of the same activities. We stayed in triage all that time because the floor was so insanely busy. I never saw my doctor. Every hour they would hook me up to the monitor, and I would hate it. And at some point, they checked me and declared that I had made it to four centimeters, which seemed like a good sign that maybe we could get into a room. In fact, they even went ahead and admitted me and started giving me a round of antibiotics I had to have because I was Group B Strep positive. But the hours ticked by and we still weren't moving out of the triage room. Meanwhile, my contractions were getting even worse, and I was starting to wonder how much longer I could take it.

It was during this seemingly endless stretch of time that the doula really earned her money. She helped me find ways to alternate standing positions so that my legs wouldn't get too fatigued. She put pressure on my back during contractions, which helped a lot, and then she taught Dan how to do it so he could help me. She brought in one of those big inflatable exersize balls and put it on the bed, and it was just the right height for me to lean over, rest my arms, head and shoulders on it and rock back and forth during contractions, which I'm sure looked weird, but it helped. Dan was also just amazing. He was very calm and encouraged me and didn't complain at all when I almost broke his fingers squeezing his hand during contractions. These may seem like small things, but they were things that helped me get through each contraction and prepare for the next one.

In terms of the Drug Question, I pretty much went in planning on having an epidural. However, I wanted to see how long I could hold out without one, because I didn't want it to slow my labor down, as I had read that it can do if given too early. The one thing I had counted on to help me with this was the fact that the birthing suites at the hospital have big soaking tubs, and I really wanted to try one to see if it would help ease the pain. Instead, I was in triage, without the option of a tub or an epidural, and I was pretty unhappy about it. At about hour 12 or so I told the charge nurse that they could get me a tub or get me an epidural, but someone needed to get me a better option pronto. I think I was relatively nice about how I said it, given how much pain I was in, but I might have seemed a little crazy, too, because not long after that conversation, we were magically put in a room. Apparently, crazy gets results. Tada!

1:30 p.m.: Once we're in our room, I get straight into the tub. It is wonderful. For the first time in several hours, I feel like I can spare the energy in between contractions to have conversations. It is so much better that the doula and I send Dan out to get some lunch. Before he goes, he gets my i-Pod hooked up to the speakers that we brought, and so I am enjoying some nice music, and really coping pretty well. Unfortunately, I think I basically got into the tub towards the end of the window of time when it would have been helpful. It was really great for about an hour and a half, and I wish I'd had it for the three previous hours as well. But by about 2:30, my contractions had ratcheted up another notch, and while I liked being in the tub, it wasn't really doing much with the pain anymore.

2:30 p.m.: At this point, our nurse, Jen, arrives. She is actually the charge nurse for the entire floor, and while she would normally not have patients, today she does because of the sheer number of women delivering. In spite of the fact that her job is, at this point, insanely stressful, she is very laid back and takes the time to come in and talk with me about how I'm doing. She comes into the bathroom and sits down and we hang out. She says she likes our room because we are playing Norah Jones and are generally pretty chilled out and not screaming at anyone, which is apparently not the case in a few other rooms. I tell her that she's lucky she wasn't talking to me before I got in this tub. We have a good laugh about that, and then I ask if we can talk about an epidural. She asks me if I have any concerns that she can address for me while we're sitting there having our little pow-wow in the bathroom, and I'm telling her about how I am not sure how long I should try to make it without an epidural when I have the most horrible contraction I have had up to this point. I think I'm going to die. I can hardly remember to breath. Dan is back by then, so while I'm trying to survive through this thing, he and Jen continue with the epidural conversation, and I hear them have the following exchange.

Jen: "So tell me this. If you got to ten centimeters without any drugs, would that be a personal victory for you, or would you be pissed?"

Dan: "She would be pissed."

And as the contraction finally starts to fade, I know he is right. I have had it. I have been in pain for 14 hours, I haven't slept in more than 24 hours, and I just feel like if I don't get some relief from that pain, I am going to lose it. So the anesthesiologist is summoned, and I get myself out of the tub. That last part took about an hour. You've seen news footage of beached whales? My bathing suit is black and white, so the effect is similar.

3:30 p.m.: I have got the epidural, and I now think that whoever invented epidurals is a genius. The procedure itself wasn't the most fun, just because it's freaky to have needles put in your back, but once the drugs started kicking in, I feel a great amount of love towards everyone in the room. I may send that anesthesiologist a Christmas card this year. This is the good news. The bad news it that before giving me the epidural, the staff checked my progress, and informed me that for all those hours of difficult labor, I had gained, at best, half a centimeter of progress. There is some discussion of breaking my water, because it hasn't broken on its own yet, and that usually speeds things up. But because I am Group B strep positive, my doctor wants to give the baby the protection of the amniotic fluid as long as possible. This pretty much seals it for me in terms of the epidural. Clearly, I was right all along and this baby is never going to come out, so I am going to need some kind of pain medication for the rest of my life. (I laugh about it now, but at the time, it was actually incredibly discouraging to find out that I had made so little progress. It's hard to describe, but when you're in all that pain, you're slogging through it because you know it's getting you closer to the end. But no one can tell you how long labor will last, and that is the hardest part. In case you were wondering.)

4 p.m. What I need now is some rest, so the doula pulls the blinds in the room and helps me get settled in for a nap. Dan is also offered the opportunity to sleep, but elects, instead, to watch Texas A & M play Fresno State on television. And he was not the only man on the floor making the same decision. While I was having my epidural, Dan had to leave the room, and after he called our parents to give them updates, he wandered the halls a bit and ran into another Aggie whose wife was in labor down the hall. Evidently, she is more committed to the team than I am, because she has her bed draped in a Texas A & M blanket. Dan is telling me this while I am drifting off to sleep. When I wake up, there is a nurse in the room, and she and Dan are standing in front of the television, silently pumping their fists and jumping up and down in reaction to something going on in the game. Our nurse, it turns out, is a Fresno State alum, and she and Dan are rooting against one another in a game that eventually goes into triple overtime. Triple. Overtime. You all know how much I love football. So you can imagine how much I want to view the Game That Never Ended from a hospital bed I physically cannot leave. But at least I have drugs. The Aggies win, and Dan is ecstatic. It's pretty much already the best day of his life, and the baby isn't even here yet.

5:30 p.m.: While the game is going on, my doctor comes back to check me. After the epidural, I've progressed a lot faster, and I'm now at about seven centimeters. Seven! I am elated. And now that I've had all of ten minutes of face time with the doctor, it turns out that her shift is ending, and her colleague will be delivering the baby. Her male colleague, by the way. Fan-tastic.

7:30 p.m.: The last couple of hours have passed pretty quietly, but suddenly I am feeling this strange sensation of pressure. The male doctor comes in to check out our progress. He is very nice in spite of the fact that I am not happy about him being male and all. He also has good news for us -- I am ten centimeters dilated, and it's time to push. Dan and I look at each other, registering the fact that, wow, this is it. We're really going to have a baby soon. I don't know how Dan feels, but for some reason, even though I've been imaging this moment for nine months, I am totally overwhelmed now that it's here. I actually start to shiver, which is probably a combination of the drugs and the adrenaline. Whatever it is, I'm feeling a lot of energy, which is a nice change from before.

During the exam, the doctor also notes that my water has broken, and there is some meconium (medical jargon for "baby poop") in the fluid. It means that the baby will need to have her nose and mouth suctioned out to keep her from inhaling the contaminated fluid into her lungs. This begins Kate's career as a prolific pooper.

8:00 p.m.: The nurse and the doula have gotten the room set up for delivery, and they're helping me push. Pushing is the most exhausting thing I've ever done, but at the same time, I have never felt so motivated to keep going through a strenuous physical activity. I want this to be over. I want to see my baby. I want this more than I have ever wanted anything. And it's a good thing, too, because I'm going to be pushing for an hour and a half. I realize that's not all that long relative to what some women go through, but it feels long to me.

At this point in the delivery process Dan returns to his station to the right of my bed, up by the head, and informs the nurse and doula that this is where he will be hanging out for the rest of the evening unless there is a fire evacuation. This was the strategy he had chosen to insure that his birth plan-specified wish of seeing as little as possible would come true. But on the other side of the labor and delivery process, I now know that people who work full time in the business of delivering babies have seen everything, and they still want to see more babies get born. So to them, the idea that anyone might not want to see every part of the process simply does not compute.

Therefore, as things progress in the delivery room, the nurse and doula have several moments of amnesia where their extensive knowledge of our birth plan leaves them and they feel compelled to offer us the opportunity to change our minds by saying things like "Oh! The baby has dark hair! Do you want to see, dad?" And "Haley, do you want me to get you a mirror so you can see the babies' head?" It was like they couldn't help themselves.

Perhaps to distract them, or perhaps because he's been awake for nearly 40 hours and no longer has a filter between his brain and his mouth, Dan starts commenting on the fact that we're getting closer and closer to delivering a baby and there isn't a doctor in the room. Really, he observes, the nurse and doula should get paid more than the doctor, since they are doing all the work. This plays well with our current audience. They love Dan. They wish Dan was in charge of national health care policy.

9 p.m.: The doctor arrives, summoned by the nurse. He stands at the foot of the bed, observing the proceedings with the look of a man who is watching grass grow. In his defense, an insane number of babies have been born in the hospital today, and he's probably exhausted. But Filter-Free Dan decides that since his "Doctors are Overpaid" routine was popular a few minutes ago, the doc might want to hear it too.

"You look like you see a lot of this," Dan says.
The doctor nods and smiles.
"So really you just show up to catch the babies, huh?" Dan continues.
The doctor nods again. I am getting increasingly nervous about the fact that Dan is heckling the man who is about to oversee the delivery of our child. But I'm a little bit preoccupied, what with the pushing and all, and it's not like I can just take Dan aside for a quiet moment and ask if he is actually out of his mind. So I keep going on with what I'm doing and listen to Dan, Mr. Tact, go ahead and say:
"Yeah, I was saying earlier that really the nurse and the doula should get paid more, since they do all the work!"

Remarkably, the doctor actually handles this well. He agrees with Dan and says that actually, this right here, a normal, straightforward, uncomplicated delivery, is not what he gets paid for. He gets paid for when something goes wrong. And after that refreshing burst of candor, the doctor settles down to conduct our garden variety baby delivery.

9:25 p.m.: We're down to the last few pushes, and suddenly all these people appear in the room. There is an extra nurse waiting to tend to Kate. A neonatologist is there to check Kate out and make sure her lungs are clear, a precaution that's being taken because of the meconium. So that makes seven people, counting the doctor, my nurse, our doula, Dan and myself. And then....

9:29 p.m.: There are eight people in the room. Kate is born, and after they get done suctioning out her mouth and nose, she's crying, and they're holding her up so I can see her. She's beautiful. I can't believe she's here. And the rest is a blur. Dan is on the phone, calling our parents. I can hear them cheering on the other end of the line. The neonatologist and the nurse are checking Kate our and cleaning her off and telling us that she's so pretty, so healthy, so strong. Then they hand her to me, and we look down into her little face. She's quiet now, blinking her eyes, and looking back at Dan and I.

We're parents.