Saturday after I posted my enlightening blog about sleeping positions, I went to my second and final baby shower. It was awesome. Lots and lots of lovely people. Lots of lovely presents. And check out these decorations!
Is that not the cutest baby shower in the world? Well, of course I think it is. The husband and I met (for all intents and purposes) during the show "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown." He was Schroeder, I was Sally, it was love
Also, would you please LOOK AT THIS CAKE?
It pretty much goes without saying that we made out like bandits, but in case there was any doubt at all, here are some pictures of all our crap.
Yeah. We did good.
The nursery seems to be in good shape as well.
So, crib, bassinet, changing table, and car seat? Check.
All we need now is a baby.
Which leads me to the section of the blog that should make all men run in terror. It certainly did my husband. So if you continue to read, don't say I didn't warn you. Because I did.
Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment (all the men that thought they could handle whatever I was about to say just fled the blogosphere). It was one of THOSE doctor's appointments. And, you know, I was actually a little excited about it. See how far we've come, how far we have to go still. Get a general idea of when The Peanut will arrive. Besides that, I had had one the week before. What did I have to fear?
After getting back to my lonely, cold exam room and stripping down (by the way, is there even a point to those little cloths they give you to cover up with? They might as well rip off a sheet of cellophane and hand it to you. Sheesh) I literally had time to read an entire issue of People magazine before my doctor got there. She finally ran in and immediately got right down to business. And I when I say business, I mean business. There was actually a point in the exam when she said, "Whoa. Baby doesn't like that." What? You have your hand in so far that the BABY felt you and hit you? So she finally finishes, she simply says, "One centimeter." I went through all that for one lousy centimeter?
So I finally get out of there, grab my husband, and run out the door. Well, not run. More like waddle like I'd been riding a horse for three days straight. Then I hand him the keys and say, "Will you please drive? I feel slightly traumatized."
You know the seven stages of grief? I think I had the seven stages of post cervical exam.
- Profound sadness
- Loss of innocence
- Urge to beat husband because, really, this is his fault
- Fits of uncontrollable laughter caused by anti-jokes (Why did the clown fall out of the swing? Because he was shot in the face) and pictures of baby shower cakes.