7 Weeks

For seven weeks I have been intending to say something, anything, about the miracle of a mini-me who entered my life on January 14th. The hard part is not finding the time (I have been blessed with a baby who likes his sleep), it's finding the desire. Every spare moment I'm given I'd rather be gazing at my sleeping angel; walking through the neighbourhood with my little man in tow; kissing my husband for giving him to me; or curling up on the couch with my son snuggled deep into my chest. He will only be this tiny for a short time and I don't want to waste a second. So instead, I give you a montage of my last two months of bliss.

Sweet, the day after he was born.

What I do instead of blogging - watch my son sleep.

Sweet, snuggling with Mommy.

Family time.

And Now...I Wait

I have officially surpassed my due date, which coincidentally fell on my husband’s birthday. He crossed his fingers for our child to be born yesterday (as of 1 minute ago - happy birthday sweetheart) so he would no longer have to celebrate the slow progression of wrinkles and silvering hair. However, it appears that Sweet has taken on the ‘fashionable lateness’ qualities of his/her Mommy. I don’t blame my child; it’s much warmer in my voluptuous, insulated belly than it is in the chilled desert air. My 40-week ultrasound revealed that, despite my best doughnut-laden effort, Sweet does not exceed 8 pounds, so there is no urgency (yet) to induce.

And so…I wait. For an overcommitted work-a-holic, it is a rare occurrence to wake up with little more to do than anticipate my first contraction. Over a candlelit birthday dinner my husband and I smiled at each other adoringly and breathed in our last savory moments of silence.

Party with my Belly

My Finnish DJ friend hosted a show at the Vegas version of Privé the evening following Christmas. I hadn't seen him or his wife since the music conference in Miami two years earlier, so I had no intention of missing his performance in my backyard. Sweet has patiently endured the trashy pop and trance tunes that so frequently blast from my car stereo that I figured s/he would either sleep soundly or decide to make a slightly early appearance as Mommy shook her tooshie on the dance floor.



In a room full of slender, pompous 20-somethings, I can only imagine the sneers my buxom, 9-months-pregnant belly must have garnered. In fact, as I pushed Sweet awkwardly through crowds of drunken, dancing suits, the bouncer not-so-kindly denied my request to leave through a roped-off exit (I feigned discomfort in an attempt to break the rules) saying "maybe you shouldn't be here." He was right - not because my unborn child and I couldn't handle the multitude of people or the body-vibrating bass, but because one should never have to stomach such a pretentious scene on orange juice and water alone.

Regardless, it will make a good story to tell the little one when I'm in dire need of "rock star" points, because Lord knows I tossed my cool out the window somewhere along Route 40.

Wonderland

Just when I began to accept my distance from the East Coast, the East Coast came to me...


And just as I ascend to the pinnacle of turmoil in advance of our baby's birth (transitioning work; year-end deliverables; prenatal classes; gift-buying; and preparation for all our relatives arriving for the holidays on the doorstep of our tornado of a half-painted and woefully disarranged house), our ages old backyard tree collapsed into our pool under the weight of the powdery goodness that Las Vegas is not particularly well-designed to handle.



Regardless, I say God bless the snow. In all it's infinite chaos, it will still never fail to calm me. I think I'll make some hot chocolate for Sweet.

Rainbow Pack

Mothers-to-be, carrying carbonated orange juice and a bandeau-covered, oversized belly through a casino are quite the attention grabber. It’s as unlikely an image as Grandma Hazel clinging to a walker and an IV pole, rolling dice at a craps table full of cowboys. I will not lie and say I don’t enjoy the attention, particularly the googly-eyed, approving smiles of gambling fathers. In my state of natural obesity, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Las Vegas residents do not typically rush to the Strip for entertainment; there is plenty to be found elsewhere without the insufferable crowds (or obnoxious drink prices, if you’re able). But local-discount (or free – courtesy of generous concierge-friends with strings) shows are still a draw, as is the intensity of a solid power-hour of…bingo. If you enjoy a $15 diversion, but still want to socialize with your companions, don’t purchase the “rainbow pack”. My teal-hued dauber saw more action in sixty minutes than a low-rent call girl does in a week. Empty-handed, save some aquamarine ink stains on my hand, I still left the casino bingo hall feeling a satisfaction that no money-sucking blackjack table can bestow. Gambling without breaking the bank and a free hot chocolate in the belly I share with my Sweet. This may become a Thursday evening habit.

Sweet

Meet Sweet, the pig-nosed, meatball-cheeked, apple of my focus for the last 34 weeks. I love this little worm nestled contentedly on the right side of my belly, poking at my bladder and jabbing at my ribcage.

With only 6 more weeks to go, I find myself reminiscing fondly about these last 7 ½ months and thanking the wrinkly little alien for being so kind to his/her work-a-holic of a mother. Save a 24 hour cold, I never got sick (I’m thankful for good vitamins, strong genes, or perhaps both). Save the pre-programmed exhaustion of my first trimester, I managed to survive my work weeks often on limited amounts of red-eye-induced sleep and forever changing time zones. Save an instant thickening of my once curvaceous waist, to the untrained eye my pregnancy was well concealed until my 5th month and my ankles have yet to swell (I still sport 4 inch heels to social events). Save a vivid dream or two that were the likely result of internal activity, I have never been awakened by the baby’s movements; never felt pain, discomfort or nausea; rarely had to get up in the middle of the night for a desperate pee; and never been want for assistance. Sweet has breezed past velvet ropes and slumbered while I shook my expanding hips on more than one hot night club dance floor; trucked along quietly on hikes through Red Rock Canyon (the last of which, although brief, was three days ago); listened patiently and attentively to my never-ending conference calls; and darted agreeably by my side through airport after airport; rental car after rental car; city after city. For the last 7 ½ months it has been tranquil baby, me and a suitcase against the world. I am a very, very lucky woman.

And now, here I am; home at last, nesting - washing gender-neutral jumpers, hooded towels, bibs, wash cloths and booties no bigger than my finger; preparing my home for the entry of a child who is already, quite possibly, an angel.

Grounded

I read about the latest blogger happy hour in my former city and my appetite was whet again. I didn’t mean to stop writing. I can’t say it was an accident, really. By “not actively preventing”, my husband and I conceived within 5 days of my last post (educated guess and women’s intuition being the pinpoints). Since then, I have carried my developing baby genius 120,000 miles around the country in 7 months for work and the sheer exhaustion has limited my creative juices. In fact, my imagination is still barricaded by the perpetual distraction of consulting and the little one doing somersaults in my now enormous tummy. I did, however, finally fly my last flight before the birth of my first bundle of joy. I have not entered an airport in 10 days; a bittersweet reminder that life as I once knew it is on the brink of phenomenal overhaul. There was precious little that I had to give up to move to Las Vegas, but without doctor-permitted access to the friendly skies and weekly visits east I am now obligated to forge my desert living and reminisce about what I have really left behind.