It’s a GIRL!

The ultrasound technician froze the screen, put up an arrow pointing to what looked like a lot of nothing, and (sure enough!) typed out: G-I-R-L.

We were both totally flabbergasted for, like, two minutes. But before they had even wiped the ultrasound jelly off my (now decidedly bulbous) belly, we were both just beaming, and I already couldn’t possibly picture us with anything else. How on earth had we ever thought it might be a boy?

I am already in love with the word “daughter.”

In other exciting news, the fact that this baby is a girl definitely means I’m clairvoyant.

Like everyone else, I often have dreams about things I’ve never encountered. I remember the dreams, but I never think much of them. However, there have been many, many times in my life when I’ll be somewhere I’ve never been, or meeting a new person, or having a particular conversation, and it will all be exactly as it was in a dream I had, usually several weeks before.

Anyway, I have only had two dreams about this baby, but both were very vivid, and in both, the baby was a girl. I could see her face in perfect detail, and she had a name and everything. I kind of dismissed the dreams, because I always assumed we would have a boy first … but obviously, I shouldn’t have. I fully expect that, when I meet my daughter, she will look (and the situation will feel) exactly as it did in my dream.

Rob, of course, insists that my dreams are just that uncanny feeling of déjà vu, but I think this baby gender news clinches what I have always known to be true:

I have special powers.

After the ultrasound, Rob commented on how neat it was when the lady typed out the word “girl” for us. ”Wasn’t that crazy? G-R-I-L-E  …” he started, and then, looking confused and shaking his head, continued: ” … wait. Le grill? What the hell is that?!”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Other choice comments include the following:

Rob: “At least she didn’t type out ‘monster.’ If I was the vet tech, I would totally type out ‘monster’ every time.”

Rob: “I can’t believe its a girl!”
Amanda: “I know! What should we name her?”
Rob: “Well … I like the name Amanda.”
Amanda: “Yeah, but you don’t really name a girl after yourself.”
Rob: “We could be trendsetters! Amanda Junior. We’ll call her AJ.”
Amanda: “I don’t know.”
Rob: “How about Rhinocerous?”

Rob continues to say the most delightful (and absurd) things in anticipation of our baby’s arrival.

Rob: “So, after you have the baby, you’ll be, like, a cow, for awhile.”
Me: “Uhhhm. You mean fat?”
Rob: “No, like udders.”

Rob: “I wonder if my baby will be able to make lemonade.”
Me: “What?!?”
Rob: “I don’t know. It’s refreshing.”

Rob: “I’ve got a business idea: headphones that you put right on the woman’s belly, so the baby has the best possible listening experience.”
Amanda: “Um, OK.”
Rob: “Like a Walkman for your stomach. The Stalkman.”
Amanda: “How about Fetus Phones?”
Rob: “How about The Womba?”

Rob: “Is Yoda an acceptable name for humans these days?”

Rob: “Does the baby need a passport?”
Amanda: “Yes.”
Rob: “OK, but we are going to have to get one at the hospital. In case we have to flee.”

Rob: “What’s the baby’s address?”
Amanda: “Well, it would be here.”
Rob (stating, not asking, as if he has already answered his own question): “So, you wouldn’t have to specify ‘womb.’”

Rob: “Would you be surprised if the baby was born and I wasn’t the father?”
Me: “Yes, particularly because I didn’t have sex with anyone else.”
Rob: “What if you had God’s baby? Would you be surprised then?”
Amanda: “Yes. We had sex when I was ovulating.”
Rob: “OK. But if it comes out black, I’m going to assume it was God.”

Rob, in a rare moment of tenderness, while gently patting my belly and talking to the baby: “Hi baby. What are you doing in there? Are you sleeping? Everything is going to be okay. I love you baby. It’s going to be a wonderful world for you to live in.” Rob pauses, and just about as I am about to start crying, he adds: “You will never have to wait for the iPhone to come out.”

I am beyond excited for next Tuesday. Not only is it Election Day and the day Starbucks starts giving out their red cups of cheer (I know this for a fact; Rob asked his barista), but it is also the day we have our “big ultrasound” and can find out if Human Newman is a boy or a girl!

Turns out, Wyoming does agree with me. It was the best trip of our life. Better, even, than our honeymoon, we decided.

That may have had at least something to do with the fact that we know with certainty that our days of relaxing vacations and time for just the two of us are numbered. In fact, our days number 172 as of the time of this posting.

Now incubating Human Newman, expected March 21, 2011.

It was very difficult to blog over the summer, having found out on July 12 that I am pregnant but not being able to say anything about it until, oh, just recently.

I have a lot of stories built up. A LOT. Mostly centering on the absurd things Rob has been saying in anticipation of this baby, and mostly when we are in bed and I am about to fall asleep. Consequently, I’ve forgotten a lot of it, although some statements have been just too hilarious to forget. Lucky for you, I’ve started keeping a notebook by the side of my bed. Next to the Saltines and a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

A quick sampling, just to get us warmed up:

Amanda (poking still barely visible baby belly): “Look at my belly! I think its growing.”
Rob: “I know! You are a big fat whale!”
Amanda: “No. You aren’t supposed to say that.”
Rob (completely innocent): “Oh. I’m not?”

Rob: “How soon can babies walk? Two months?”
Amanda: “No, like a YEAR.”
Rob: “A year? No way. Our baby is going to have to learn how to walk before that. Get it together!”
Amanda: “Good luck with that.”
Rob: “How long before he can play touch football?”
Amanda: “Like, at least seven years, Rob.”
Rob: “I don’t know about this baby thing.”

Amanda: “Oooh, do I get a pushing present?”
Rob: “I guess so! What do you want? A purse? Something with diamonds? An iTunes gift card? A new car?”
Amanda: “What? How are those things remotely in the same category?”
Rob: “Oooh, I know what you need. A bayonet.”
Amanda (pauses): ” …. A bayonet?”
Rob (longer pause): ” … Wait. What’s a bassinet?”
Amanda: “Something you stick on the end of your rifle so you can skewer your baby.”
Rob: “I think what the baby really needs is a subwoofer in the living room.”

Rob: “I was picturing our baby today, and I accidentally pictured him as something that could fly.”

Coming soon: Lots more where that came from. Also, my thoughts on pregnancy, how we got into this mess in the first place, the end of life as we know it, and some absolutely classic reactions from family and friends.

I promise.

We are off for a five-day trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to ring in my 30th birthday.

Here’s the five day forecast:
Unseasonably cold and rainy, highs in the mid-50s, lows in the upper 20s. Colder up in the Grand Tetons and in Yellowstone (where we will be spending all our time). Thunderstorms likely every day.

Here’s the forecast for the five days immediately following our departure:
Normal weather patterns resume. Bright, clear, abundant sunshine, highs near 75 degrees.

What is it the kids are saying these days? Oh yes: FML.

My only saving grace — after a frantic last-minute dig in the back of the closet through the box of winter clothes, in desperate search of the hats and gloves and zip-in fleece lining for our jackets, all of which we will inevitably need to wear on my August birthday — is this: the hotel we are staying at serves fireside s’mores.

Apart from that, though? Simply proof, once again, that red states just do not agree with me.

There’s something about this beautiful weather that makes you feel like eating healthy. And there’s something about food on a stick that just tastes better.

Inevitably, there were going to be kebabs.

After a few failed attempts last summer, I am proud to say this year’s grilling debut was a huge, if surprising, success. (More photos here.)

Remind me again why I endure Chicago winters? I swear, I’d be the healthiest, happiest person if the weather was beautiful all the time.

Unless it got too hot. In which case, I’d be eating ice cream four times a day and sitting in front of the air conditioner griping about how the humidity makes my hair all frizzy and my thighs rub together. It’s always something with me, isn’t it?

Nine years ago on this day, twelve college students in central Illinois crammed a week’s worth of luggage and themselves into two too-small minivans. Bound for the East Coast and armed with little more than a pitch pipe and our voices, we were a college a cappella group on spring break tour, at the ready to sing for our suppers and crash on dorm room floors.

Traditional spring break destinations be damned! Who needs sun and sex in Fort Lauderdale when you’ve got freezing New England rain and a sleeping bag? With tens of fans turning out for your shows? This was a cappella, baby! Our rendition of Billy Joel’s “For The Longest Time” never sounded so good.

We departed at sundown, immediately after midterm exams, and drove through the night, the sun rising on us somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania with hundreds more miles to go. Somewhere in between, as I listened to the mix tape he made for me, Rob reached over and took my hand for the very first time.

Then we made out a little in the back seat.

Like oh so many great romances that stand the test of time, ours got started super classy.

These first few warmer days in March will always remind me of what it first felt like to really fall in love, and to be loved in return. It made me a different person. I remember those days as the happiest time of my life, and yet, nine years later, every new day together is still better than the last.

Happy anniversary to the one who finds my particular flavor of crazy not just tolerable but actually (sometimes) (maybe?) endearing. You still make me feel like being a better person, even though I’m too lazy to actually do anything about it.

And yes, even though we’re married now, you still “get credit for all the dating years.” All nine of them!

This photo was taken the day after we got back from that spring break tour. We are such babies! Look how fresh and unlined our faces are! And check out my crunchy hair, super sexy going-out top, and chipmunk cheeks. It’s such a wonder that Rob was the only guy who was after me.

So, I skipped my yoga practice for three days. During this time, I also ate half a jar of vanilla frosting with a spoon. And I lost two pounds.

Not a fluke. It has been three days. Two pounds. Vanished.

I may have found my calling as a dieting guru. A book called The Frosting Diet would fly off the shelves, don’t you think?

Proof once again that life is not fair. But boy oh boy, do I love it when it works out in my favor.

I want this dog’s life.

Oh yeah, that bathroom remodel.

It hasn’t been going well. Or going at all, that is.

Back in September, when work was slow and I was feeling all project-y, I decided more or less on a whim to paint the bathroom cabinets. The cabinets were fine, really — I just didn’t like the color of the stain on the oak. But apparently, my brain operates according to this adage: If it ain’t broke, break it.

The paint job didn’t turn out so hot. So I ended up taking down all the cabinet doors and drawer fronts and stripping and sanding them. This was a messy project, and because I was reluctant to use the stripping solvent anywhere near our newly installed hardwood floors, and because by now it was November and too cold to move the project outside, I ended up taking everything to my dad’s garage, where there is a floor nobody cares about, an installed furnace (not just a space heater — an actual furnace), an arsenal of tools and supplies, an utterly absurd collection of posters (seriously, that link is worth clicking!), and, most importantly, my dear old Dad himself, who I knew would take over the project in his usual, busybody, project-loving way.

As expected, Dad took to scraping and sanding and staining my cabinets with far more TLC than I would ever have been able to muster. I was there to take photos, which, you know, is just oh so helpful.

A conversation:

Dad: “Hey, do you want an iced coffee?”
Amanda: “Uhm, wha!?!?”
Dad: “An iced coffee.”
Amanda: “Are you seriously offering me an iced coffee? In your garage? Who are you?”
Dad: “Mom bought these Starbucks things at Costco. They’re in the fridge.”
Amanda: “You mean a frappuccino? Since when do you like frappuccinos?”
Dad: “Well, do you want one or not?”
Amanda: “Actually, yes. I’ll get them.”
Dad: “I’ll take mine in a glass with ice. With whiskey.”
Amanda: “OK, this is making a lot more sense now.”

Unfortunately, the project gods were not smiling on us that day. I had brought over the same sanding sealer and stain that I used to refinish my desk. Which, may I remind you, turned out fine. But the cabinets just didn’t want any part of it, and the sanding sealer, which is supposed to help the stain absorb evenly, ended up repelling the stain altogether, so that it didn’t soak in to the wood. At all.

We even double-checked the label to make sure we had used the sanding sealer as instructed. We double-checked it real good.

And yet. The stain rubbed right off.

So, I got frustrated and went home, leaving my Dad to have another go-round with the cabinets and the paint stripper. At least one of us was still in good spirits.

Then it was Christmas, and we had invited 50 people to cram into our tiny condo for our annual party. Which meant, inevitably, people would be trying to use our bathroom, where there were still no cabinet drawer fronts.

I suggested that this was a thoughtful gesture on our part as hosts: our guests could relieve themselves in peace, without grappling with the moral dilemma of respecting our privacy versus poking around in our medicine cabinets. It would all be right out there, for everyone to see.

Rob disagreed with this philosophy, so we ended up closing the door and posting a sign that said “OUT OF ORDER: Please use the other bathroom. Thanks!”

(But, people still used it. And they inevitably got an unobstructed eyeful of our collection of tampons and toilet paper and expired condoms and, wait, is that really a MacBook Pro? In fact, rumor has it that one couple went into the Forbidden Bathroom to make out, which is by far the most exciting thing to ever happen in that room, despite what the presence of outdated prophylactics and that computer might suggest. So don’t think I don’t know who you are!)

Suddenly, it’s February. The cabinets, still unwilling to absorb the stain because of that damn stain sealer, are essentially garbage. I’ve looked in to ordering new, unfinished cabinet doors, which would only cost about $200, but I don’t know that my dad or I have it in us to stain them, let alone deal with the frustration when inevitably the cabinets are not the right size and we have to start all over. Again.

I’ve got a guy who will order new cabinet fronts for us, stain them, and even create a new toe kick panel (which was also ruined, and I’m using the passive voice there for a reason!), for $700. That’s highway robbery, given that I know for a fact the doors themselves cost under $200.

But there’s that other adage: You get what you pay for. Which really is a better adage to live by than “If it ain’t broke, break it.”

I have learned the hard way that I do not have a Midas touch. On the contrary, everything I touch turns to crap. At least, as far as household projects are concerned. Have I mentioned the stain on my desk is rubbing off? Just rubbing right off.

(I assure you that, in person, it doesn’t look nice and/or rustic, as it does in this photo. That’s just the f/1.4 talking.)

I need to accept that I am really good at spending money, and not so hot at saving money by doing it myself (see also: Waffle FAIL). Bring on the self-loathing.