This morning, it happened. I turned into the C word. Ew, get your head out of the gutter. The C word, in the land of pregnancy, is “crazy.” Or, more clinical, probably: hormonal. For the love of all things pituitary, there I was, driving in my car with sobby, snotty tears streaming down my face. And why?

Because of a song! One that I had never even given a moment’s consideration in the times I’d heard it in the past.

So there I was, minding my own business and driving to lunch on the 101 and I heard “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” and as I listened to the words, I bawled! And it wasn’t even the real Frankie Valli singing with The Four Seasons. I was listening to “Jersey Boys” because not only am I apparently an emotional wreck, but, newsflash, I’m a huge theater nerd! So anyway, there I am listening to a showtune cover of a du-wop boy band and having an Oprah moment.

And I realize I’ve heard this song a zillion times. And then I realized even further that this song is usually associated with weddings or first loves or big fancy marriage proposals. But here I am thinking about my little girl. It was weird but then I had an epiphany: Do you know how many times the word “baby” is in the lyrics? I mean, really, it’s like overkill for a 38-week pregnant lady. It’s actually about 21 times because of all the chorus repeats. But, as crazy as it sounds, it totally works as a love song to a new little girl.

Even though I haven’t seen her yet, I know she’ll just be too good to be true and I won’t be able to take my eyes off of her. And after 10 long months of carrying her, I do want to hold her so much. Every lyric just lined up so nicely with how I’m feeling about our daughter who’s due any day, and I’ll admit, I felt like wannabe Frankie, John Lloyd Young, was totally complimenting my kid through my Jetta’s stereo, calling her a pretty baby and all. I answered back like a prayer lady in a Southern Baptist church: Mmmm hmmm, sing it!

I dried my eyes in time for lunch, transformed back to a normal person, and carried on with my day. But now I know I have a new song to love and a new reason to love it. During the drive, I had mini daydreams and visions of being up with the baby at night in her room, gliding her to sleep, and telling her all about the adventures we have in store. Because just as much as she needs us to thrive, we’re excited to need her in our lives. It’s amazing what music can do for the soul.

And no, we’re not naming her “Sherry.”

You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you
You’d be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I’m alive
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you

You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you
You’d be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I’m alive
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you

Dear Baby Girl,
On Sunday, I did your first load of laundry. I normally really don’t like doing laundry. Actually, that’s not true. There’s something really fun about sorting all the clothes and towels and underwear, but the act of carrying it up and down the stairs and dealing with the machines in the hot garage is not fun. Oh, and don’t get me started on putting it away! But, it’s always worth it to have an empty basket and fresh clothes to wear. But I digress. Get used to it. Mommy does that a lot.

Anyway, I did your first load of laundry and I enjoyed it. I loved it. Your clothes and blankets from all the people that already love you were so perfect and pristine, but needed to be washed so they’d be soft and snuggly for your delicate skin. I gathered up all your newborn clothes, blankets, socks, and burp cloths and brought them down for their very first trip to the washing machine. I filled up the machine with water, poured in my first encounter of Dreft and got a lovely whiff of its powdery and gentle fragrance, and inspected each item as I dropped it into the water. Little onesie. Tiny sock. Bright burp cloth. After the whole load went into the machine, I asked the laundry gods to be nice to each of your garments and keep them safe in the cool, gentle cycle.

About an hour later, I came back to put your first load of laundry in the dryer. One by one, I pulled out each damp item, inspected it to make sure it survived its first swirl of laundering, and then placed then in the drying machine. Normally, with my own clothes, I barely look at them and toss them in crossing my fingers that the old t-shirt or towel actually makes it inside the dryer. But with your things, I care more. Your things can’t touch the garage floor. Your things can’t be tangled up. Your things must have a safe arrival as they start the next leg of their journey to being worn by you.

By the time it was time to take your clothes out of the dryer, I was really tired and Daddy came to pick them up, fill the basket, and bring it upstairs. We sat in your room together as we stared at how tiny all your things are. It was a relief to know that nothing shrank horribly and no colors bled disastrously. We stared into a basket of your clothes that had never met your body, but are now ready to dress you.

I sorted each item and thought about all the other clothes you’ll have that I’ll get to launder and sort. Your baby naming dress at the temple. Your first dance leotard. Your first first-day-of-school outfit. Your first school play costume. Your first uniform for a sport or organization. Your first school dance outfit. Your first class t-shirt. Your first first-date ensemble. Your first prom dress. Your first college sweatshirt. Your wedding gown.

And I know laundry won’t always be fun. You’re going to poop and spit up and get pureed carrots all over your adorable things. At school, you’ll lose your sweatshirt on the playground or trade jackets with a friend that will result in two pissed off moms. When you’re a teenager, you’re going to leave your clothes all over the floor and not put them away, and we’ll probably have a few fights about it. But still, even with these not-so-fun laundry experiences, the act of washing your clothes now, preparing for the person we’ll soon be meeting, and dressing you in all of your cute outfits, I’m more than excited for your poops and trades and fights.

So, little girl, soon you will be making your arrival into the world in your birthday suit, but you have a closet and chest of drawers that will welcome you home and provide you with many memorable moments. And as an adult, you’ll look back on your baby pictures and revisit those token moments in a special outfit like Osh Kosh overalls or a Dodgers onesie. And I will have washed them with love and anticipation of seeing you in them.

Love,
Mommy

I’m reflecting about all the changes I’ve experienced in the past 36 weeks and all the changes that will happen when this pregnancy adventure is over. I actually really enjoy being pregnant despite the discomforts that spilled on toward the end. There are things I will miss, and things I won’t miss! I made a list because that’s what moms do, right?

Things I’ll Miss About Pregnancy:

• The full head of hair! I rarely shed it and it’s been growing so fast! DON’T STOP!!!
• Horizontal stripes. I am partly kidding, but I never wore them pre-pregnancy and I think I lose my excuse to wear them post pregnancy with the widening illusion they provide that I certainly don’t need.
• Exchanging looks of “go us!” with other pregnant women I see out and about.
• Feeling my daughter’s little kicks and squirms and learning about her personality while she’s inside me. Such a cool connection!
• The other pregnant women in my life! I have so many friends — and my cousin! — who I’ve experienced pregnancy with (we are all only weeks apart) and I’ve loved sharing all the things we’re feeling.
• My husband’s hands on my tummy while he connects with his daughter! I’ll even miss his daily analyses of my belly button protrusion.
• My maternity bathing suit. I like not having to suck in to wear a bikini.
• My maternity pants. One word: ELASTIC.
• Eating without a care in the world. Hence the bullet point above.

Things I Won’t Miss About Pregnancy:

• The back pain! Since the beginning of the 3rd trimester, I’ve been experiencing everything from dull achiness to sharp shooting sciatica-like pains. Sitting, laying, standing: nothing helps!
• The bladder psych outs of feeling like ohmygoshiHaveToGoSoooooBadGetOutOfMyWayRIGHTNow and then going through the motions of sitting down to pee only to feel: Drip. Drop. What?! That’s it?! What a tease!
• Seeing my favorite bottle of wine in the fridge from my favorite winery in the Santa Ynez Valley, Brander, and whispering sweet nothings to it like, “Don’t worry, my sweet. We’ll be together again soon.” What a sad song for a sauvignon.
• The heaviness: my legs, my feet, my belly. Everything feels like I am a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon with strings pulling me to the ground.
• Sleepless nights. Okay, you’re laughing because I’m going to have my share of sleepless nights once the baby is here. But the only reason why my nights are sleeples now is because I can’t get comfortable in bed! Nothing feels good and I toss and turn out of frustration. For some reason, sleeplessness due to a crying, hungry baby seems more acceptable. I know, talk to me later.
• The fear of the unknown: birth. I am becoming increasingly more aware that this baby is going to be coming out of me and very soon, too. I am driving myself insane with fears and apprehension. I know it’s normal since I’m a rookie, but not knowing is almost worse than knowing!
• Snore throat. This is a sore throat from pregnancy-acquired (I can’t believe I’m admitting this) snoring. I never thought I’d ever be so unladylike, but my bedmate tells me I’ve developed a little purr. I blame a less-than ideal sleep position!
• Bumping into stuff and having to clear a path for my belly just to get in a car or sit in a restaurant booth. I want my own space back.

Overall, I’ve had a really nice and easy pregnancy. It’s really only been uncomfortable for the past couple weeks, but everything leading up to then has been smooth, anticlimactic, and actually really positive. For the most part, I felt very sexy — not in a “let’s doooooo it” way — but in a confident, female, “I am woman! ROAR!” way. I felt empowered and strong, like I’ve been doing what my body was made to do. That’s quite an accomplishment, because my body was also made to run marathons and eat 1500 calories a day, but I don’t do either of those. But now, at 36 weeks, I think I finally reached my “I’m over it!” breaking point. Thank you for coming, now get out. It’s not that I wish her to come early because I certainly want this baby to cook as long as she needs to inside to be as healthy as possible outside, but I am looking forward to seeing this journey wrap up so I can have my body back and hold my daughter in my arms. And stop snoring.

It’s been a while since I’ve written, so here’s a little potpourri of updates from the last few weeks.

Happy to report that since this neurotic first-time mom’s frantic post about the breech baby, Internet turning vibes worked and we’ve got an obedient kid who went south for the summer! Baby Friedman is head down and while I so not appreciate the added pressure on my bladder, I really do appreciate the fact that our C-section odds are virtually slim to none.

The baby had another photoshoot at 35 weeks! The ultrasound studio promised us free return visits until we were all satisfied with Baby’s position and poses. Because of her breech position, we could never get a really good shot of her whole face without other body parts covering her up in typical acrobatic fashion. Third time really was a charm, and we got some awesome photos of her face, which, like her mama’s, is alllll cheek! We caught her mid-yawn which is also really cute. You know, because it’s a rough and tiring life being warm and cozy inside a uterus. We are already so proud of her and all she did was turn her body!

I think I even felt her turn, which is so bizarre. My mom and I were having lunch with our mother-daughter friends, Michelle and Stefanie, who I’m so excited to be reconnected with after so many years! Stefanie has an adorable 3.5 month-old daughter, Brielle, and it’s been so fun to see her as a mommy and she’s been so helpful with all of her advice and perspective having just gone through this adventure. We were all sitting around catching up on the couch for a few hours, and when I stood up to leave, I felt a very different sensation in my tummy area. I suddenly felt super heavy below my belly button and even a little off-balance. Nothing bad; just different. We were crossing our fingers it meant that the baby had turned, but I had no idea it could happen so suddenly in one big sweep like that! Sure enough, the sonographer at the ultra sound studio confirmed that’s what it was the next day. And a week later, at my appointment with Dr. Fiiiiiine, she confirmed that the munchkin had swooped directions. Lots of cheering!

Dr. Fiiiiine also did a little check-a-roo and remarked that I have a soft cervix. Why thank you! I had no idea what this even meant, but she commented that it’s a good sign for a vaginal delivery. Alright, I’ll take it. High 5 to my body. She’s also monitoring some slight puffiness in my face to make sure there are no preeclampsia-type situations, but she doesn’t seem too concerned. Nothing like waiting on the butcher paper table for the doctor and the first thing she says when she walks in is, “You look a little puffy.” Hey, no hard feelings. We learned that the weekly appointments that lead up to the last four weeks of pregnancy are actually not to monitor for labor, but to check for this very attribute: puffiness. Who knew?! She did say it was super normal and as long as I’m not having any other weird symptoms (I’m not), then we should be all good. Right, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to be a hippopotamus at my high school reunion this coming weekend. Never thought that on graduation day in 2001, I’d be pregnant at my 10-year. Funny how timing works out.

In the past month, the nursery has been painted mostly decorated. The furniture arrived just before and the room is really coming along. I will definitely post pictures once all the finishing touches are up. Princeton has already discovered he likes to hang out under the crib. I wonder if he’ll still enjoy this lounge location even when there’s a crying baby above him! He has sniffed around the room and explored all the new smells and pieces. I often try to get in his brain and figure out if he has any idea what these changes mean. I hope he’s not having a “Lady and the Tramp” moment, when Lady starts to feel unimportant and worried when the baby preparation happens. I love our little Princeton too much, and I want him to feel included. He’s part of the family! Does anyone have experiences with the family dog and a new baby in the house?

Yesterday I had my 33-week appointment with Dr. Fiiiiine and if I had the cast of GLEE following me around to convey the soundtrack of my life a) Bryan would hide under a rock and pray for an avalanche and b) Mr. Shu’s kids would be singing the 1960s tune by The Byrds, “Turn Turn Turn” and Finn would have a solo because I think it’s funny that he looks constipated when he sings.

Why “Turn Turn Turn?”
BECAUSE THIS BABY NEEDS TO TURN OR WE ARE GOING TO HAVE ONE FREAKED OUT MAMA.

Okay, so we have time. A little bit of time, but time, nonetheless. Dr. Fiiiiine said she’s not going the C-section route just yet and this baby could decide to nose dive in the next three weeks, leaving us in good shape. Baby is doing some crazy ass Cirque Du Soleil shiz and is currently in the Frank breech position, which means her tushie is down and her feet are up by her ears, making a V. Our daughter has a future in yoga, apparently.

I asked Dr. Fiiiiine if when we reach 36 weeks and baby is still Frank, which, would frankly suck, does she subscribe to the turning method whereby she, or the perinatologist, literally turn the baby from the outside through some hard-core massage and other probably-unpleasant-but-worth-it techniques. Normally yes, she said, but it looks like I’ve been harvesting an anterior placenta and baby-turning is much less risky with a non-anterior placenta.

Record scratch.

Say what?!

So not only is this kid being difficult in her freaky position, but on top of that, I have an anterior placenta which pretty much guarantees a hell-to-the-no in regards to any doctor attempting to turn the baby due to probable rupture and separation of the placenta during such efforts. I get it. That would majorly suck. Look, I’m all for keeping things in tact for the sake of everyone’s health, but I’m still not liking the cards I’ve been dealt and would not take myself to Vegas right now.

We left with the plan that if by 36 weeks, baby has not moved, we book a surgery for 39 weeks. And if in that time between 36 and 39 she does move, great. And if not, I go under the knife. Dun dun dun.

So here’s the part where Alison cries. A lot. The thing is, I really don’t want a C-section. I know plenty of people who’ve had them and say it’s fine. But for some reason, I don’t want to miss out on this overly-hyped female experience of having a natural-but-with-drugs labor and delivery. Apparently, my radical hormones have made it so that I desperately want hours of pain, a needle in my back, numbness in my legs, likely damage from — as my friend calls it — the hoo-ha to the brown-eye, swear words, screaming, poop on the table, bleeding, ice packs, and that super sexy hospital underwear to keep it all tucked in. Yes, I crave all that instead of having an appointment and popping out a perfect kid in under 10 minutes. What is WRONG with me?!

Dr. Fiiiiine also informed me — after I sheepishly asked — that she’s not a VBAC-er, so that means that for any future kiddos, they also come out via surgery. So I quickly calculate that that means I’ll never know what it’s like to deliver a watermelon the old fashioned way (for which most normal people would say “lucky you!” but because of my insanity, I mope).

What can I say? I just always imagined a delivery like the ones in the movies: I am reading in bed, and Bryan is watching TV (or probably, more likely, he is playing Angry Birds on his iPhone while listening to something on Food Network), and suddenly my water breaks, we look at each other and laugh — ha, ha, ha, ha! — and we time contractions and then go to the hospital where he feeds me ice chips and holds my hand and tells me I’m still sexy despite the sweat mustache and perfectly messed-up ponytail and then the doctor comes in and I push three times and out comes a perfect baby and you never see the afterbirth or hear about the episiotomy and, oh yeah, my makeup isn’t smeared and there’s no double chin in our first family photo. That’s how it’s done in the movies.

Hollywood is on crack.

So whether it’s the real-life version or the Hollywood version, I’m still delusional enough to want a vajayjay delivery (in real life, by the way, I have no problem saying “vaginal” but I fear mockery from readers if I type it. I have some strange neuroses I need to get over). So here’s the deal: I’m going to choose to now believe in the power of Internet vibes and ask you to send all good turning energy to this baby. She’s strong and she’s stubborn, but I’d like to think if we all will her to aim her keppie to my crotch, she will obey. Otherwise, she is SO grounded and will have a 7:00 curfew on Saturday nights and not be allowed to have a CD player in her first car (oh wait, that was me).