Not really.

Though, if you had called my cell phone at around 11:24 this morning she probably would have been going home with you. At least until Corey got home and talked me out of it.

Allow me a bit of back-story, if you will.

For as long as I’ve lived outside of my parents’ home, I wanted a dog. Throughout college, graduate school and the first few years in Kentucky, this canine longing was always tempered by the fact that I traveled frequently in the fall and spring. Being single, this never seemed like a fair situation for the animal. Alas, it seemed I would never find a creature to devote all of my obsessive, Elmira-esque affections upon.

So once Corey and I started seriously dating, I started making the case for all the reasons why we needed to get a dog. The primary argument: I wanted one. Badly. Corey admitted that he wasn’t really an animal person and was reluctant to go along with my schemes. Being the patient, logical and rational person I am – I continued to whine, complain and beg until I wore down his resistance and we went in search of a dog. (Sadly, this tactic has not been as effective in my pursuit of an in-ground swimming pool. Yet.) On Easter of 2008, we brought Lily home to stay with us. I was smitten.

Skip ahead to this summer.

I’ll be blunt. There’s been more than a bit of tension between the two of us. Lily and I do not make for the inter-species comrades I had once eagerly fantasized of. For one thing, she’s a traitor. Consider the following Exhibit A:

Look at this love connection.

So not only do I have to compete with the iPad for Corey’s attention, but I have to compete with Corey for the dog’s attention. LOVELY.

Exhibit B: The dog pathologically refuses to sleep in her kennel. She’s learned to hide under the coffee table/couch/bed whenever Corey and I get ready to sleep and hide there until we’re unconscious. She also likes to sleep in the middle of the bed, perpendicular to Corey and I. Should either of us have the grotesque audacity to say, roll over or move a leg, she snarls and snaps at us. If we somehow manage to get her in her kennel, she’ll wake up at 2 a.m. crying. My super-sonic lady ears always get woken up by this. Now that I’m in my 9th month of pregnancy and movement is (shall we say) burdensome, I have to wake Corey up to let her out so the wee madame may stop crying. I fear she will teach Elliott this same trick and we’ll have to get a king size bed when he’s a toddler. (NOTE: Elliott will not be sleeping in bed with us as an infant for two reasons: I roll around  a lot in my sleep and infants aren’t good about barking when they’re about to be smothered.)

Exhibit C: One of the things I can’t hold against her — Lily has horrible summer skin allergies. Last year it was so bad, she had chewed the fur off her paws leaving them raw, red and at times, bleeding. While the vet suggested we take her to Louisville to see a dog dermatologist — a run in between the dog and a prenatal vitamin led us to discover that fish oil is a natural anti-inflammatory for dogs. So, I frequently take fish oil pills, poke holes in them and spray the smelly liquid all over her food. It worked for the first half of summer, at least. FOR THE RECORD: I’m very sympathetic when it comes to the miserable itching. Elliott is going through a growth spurt leaving my belly stretched, dry and itching like mad. I feel like one of those bears in the Nat Geo shows that is constantly rubbing against trees to satiate the itching.

So within the last 48 hours, the odd couple that is Lily (Oscar) and myself (Felix) have come to a head. Between the late night crying/snarl fests, the refusal to go outside to relieve herself, her biting/snapping at my hand when I tried to give her straight fish oil (how dare I try to relieve her pain) and her general neediness coupled with my post-camp exhaustion, hormone driven, uncomfortable [insert any body part], simultaneous joy/fear complex regarding the impending arrival of the baby — it’s been a tense home.

Things finally erupted when, after an hour and a half of being locked in a guest room with her crying and shaking while we were having the carpets professionally cleaned (because *someone* has accidents), and no less than 20 minutes after sending the gentlemen on his way, she trotted into our freshly shampooed master bedroom and peed…walking triumphantly back into the kitchen where I was folding issues. And no, there was no barking or signaling that she needed to go out. She knows to let me know.

Additionally, anyone who knows me knows that I have odor issues. I have three bottles of body spray and deodorant in my office. And Lysol. And airfreshener. I also have a deep rooted fear that when people come to visit our home that they secretly think our house smells like ‘dog’. So I constantly have air fresheners and candles burning for guests. I’m not a neat freak, but I have a pathology when it comes to stinks. I also hate our grime collecting carpet, but that’s another issue.

So after cleaning and moving furniture in preparation for the 9 a.m. arrival of carpet cleaners…the carpet cleaners who will work to insure that when I bring my infant son home in a few weeks his first baby thought isn’t “What a freakin’ dump”…and holding/nurturing/caring for a freaked out dog…after ALL THIS, for her to go and soil the freshly cleaned carpet. I. WAS. NOT. HAVING. IT.

Naturally, I sent Corey a text message about “Putting this [monkey-feather] dog up for adoption.” When he called to ask for clarification, a situation that simply sounded like an exercept from a Dave Barry column became the final straw – and I burst into tears.

Have you ever seen a nearly 30-year old, full-term pregnant woman weep while cleaning dog pee out of the carpet? I mean – I’m pretty sure it’s something straight out of a Toni Collette movie. But lemme tell you…it ain’t pretty. The dog hid under the couch and the bed. I think at one point I yelled at her – “I hope you’re happy! You know, I’m the one that brought you into this world!” I’m sure this phrase will resurface in 3-4 years when Elliott starts tearing into things.

Once the tears dried I calmed down and returned to folding SpeechGeek issues. Taking a break and surfing through some bookmarked pages, I came across this video I had watched in the spring and reminded myself of what a horrible person I am for yelling at my dog.

I mean good freaking grief. Now I really feel like dirt.

Later, after sleeping on top of Corey’s pillows in bed, Lily would come up to me on the couch. She jumped up, put two paws on my belly and hung her head down. We had a talk, where I asked if she knew what she did was wrong. She did. So I asked if she needed to go outside. She did. So we went, she did what she was supposed to and I said, “See how happy I am when you pee outside?” A phrase I will hopefully not have to repeat in 3-4 years when Elliott is mobile.

So, no…Lily isn’t for sale or up for adoption quite yet. When people ask if we’re worried about her with the baby – I feel confident that she’ll do fine. (At least until the baby is walking and grabbing. Then I’ll start to worry.) She’s been good with the two other little ones we’ve had visit.

For better or worse, I always have been and will be a fanatical dog lover. Perhaps it has to do with some of my youngest childhood memories. Stories my parents would tell of a poodle mutt named Snowball who would stand on furniture so he could peer into my playpen while I slept, accompanied by photos of him guarding my crib. Granted, not all dogs are suited for small children. But I think dogs are fairly smart and realize when something is tiny, fragile and an important part of the new family. Or in Lily’s case, “Holy cow, there is something as tiny as me in this place that isn’t made of polyester…I better be careful.”

It’s tough being tiny. I’m sure it’s nerve wracking to hear a steam cleaner roar when your ears make up 2/3′s of your head. It’s probably a scary experience for a little dog, just like getting ready to have a baby can be a scary experience for a new mom. Here’s hoping that both of us will be a bit more careful around the house – and that everyone’s pee ends up in its appropriate destination.

Both Prince Zuko and Aang realize M. Night Shyamalan should have quit while he was ahead.

With Elliott on the way, I’ve had a lot of friends ask me if I wonder what it’s like to be Stephanie right now.  Seeing her belly wobble and having my hand occasionally kicked, I can honestly say I would not like to know what it’s like to have “a people” inside of me.  Steph recently put it to me this way: Imagine your stomach is a burlap sack filled with kittens.

Adorable? Terrifying? Both.

After getting back from a late lunch this afternoon, I can certainly tell you what it’s like to have a “food baby” inside my tum-tum.  Looping around campus, we crossed a speedbump.  The abrupt rocking sensation combined with the food baby made me want to yak.  In short, I realized the miracle of life is best left to the ladyfolk who endure with patience and kindness.

It’s odd when the shoe is on the other foot.  In addition to the trials and tribulations of carrying life, Steph has had to suffer through my rants regarding adaptations of comic books into television shows and movies.  She kindly listens as I rant about changes in continuity, missing story beats, and blatant misuse and abuse of engaging characters and series.  With that said, I should have picked up on her hesitation about seeing The Last Airbender movie.   When we began dating, Steph tried to introduce me to the Nickelodeon cartoon series Avatar: The Last Airbender (Netflix members can watch the entire series on demand!).  Given it’s scope, mythology, and overall sense of awesomeness, I should have clicked with it immediately.

From time to time, Stephanie would remind me about the series and how good it was.  With the film adaptation premiering, I pull the Book One (season one) DVDs off the shelf and started watching the series last week.  It was as good as Stephanie promised.  The series was smart and sophisticated while maintaining the fun and whimsy one would expect of a Nickelodeon program.  It made sense why Stephanie loved the show so much.  I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t suggesting we go see the midnight screening in town.  Well, the 8% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes had something to do with it.  The attacks about the movie’s white-washing of the cast (better known as “racebending“) probably had something to do with it as well.

After seeing the movie, though, I realized her problem with the film was the same set of grievances I find with the Harry Potter movies and film adaptations of my favorite comic book characters.  You simply cannot capture that same magic again.  The visuals in the film were impressive, but the dialog was horribly stilted.  The characters didn’t act in the way a fan of the series would expect.  The whole thing was dragged down by its somber tone and own sense of self-importance.  The pieces were all there, it just wasn’t the same.

In protest of the movie and support of the series, we immediately left the theater and bought seasons two and three on DVD at Target.  How funny it was, then, as we reached Book Three: Chapter 17 last night.  The episode, titled “The Ember Island Players” provides the audience with a brief pause before the final four episodes and the culmination of the sixty-episode series.  (You can watch the full episode on the Nickelodeon website, too.)

In the episode, the cast of characters discover a play is being staged telling the story of the Avatar and his friends.  The problem with the play is that it gets everything wrong (except for the Kathy Rigby-esque actress playing Aang).  Sure, the basic plot points are there, but the characters don’t do the things they should.  The person adapting the story misses the point of our heroes’ adventures by substituting melodrama and winks-and-nods for the substance and heart of its source material.  The audience wildly laughs and applauds at the spectacle but the characters sit in their balcony seats only to lament that this really isn’t their story.

I imagine that’s how Stephanie felt sitting in the theater.  It’s hard to love something so much and yet hate the position in which you find yourself.  When you find a set of characters in a story, tv series, or movie that resonate with you so strongly, it’s hard to see those things misrepresented.  They become a part of you and you a part of their story.

We had our 28 week appointment. At 24 weeks, the doctor said I was measuring a bit ‘big’ and they wanted to do an ultrasound to check the growth. I also had the glucose screen which meant cutting back on my traditionally sugar-dipped diet for 2.5 to make sure I wasn’t at risk for gestational diabetes. This, actually, has been one of my major concerns. Albeit temporary, gestational diabetes has been cursed by many a mother I know. So, I went into the lab thinking sugar-free thoughts on Friday. We wouldn’t find out the results of the screen until later that day – after the appointment.

After the ultrasound technician did her thing, we met with the doctor. After some pleasantries (I love my OBGYN, btw) I asked how his measurements looked. Her response?

“You’re gonna have a BIG baby.”

How big? Well…at 28 weeks, he weighs 3lbs 4oz. Doesn’t sound very big until you find out that the average is 2lbs 2oz – over a pound less than where we’re at now. Now, factor in that babies gain about a pound per week during the last four weeks of the pregnancy – and I still have 12 weeks until my due date – you know what that means. That means this is gonna be a BIG baby. I asked if there was something I was doing that was contributing to the fetal Farmville, and the doctor reassured me that unless my glucose screen indicated GD – I may just be one of those people who has a big baby. Not to worry, though. She said that she would avoid letting him get to 9 lbs as that would make delivery difficult.

I would later tell Corey that we might be able to get on Good Morning America (or the local news, at least) if we could get him big enough. I mean – it’s August, slow news month, it’s possible. Kidding. Healthy baby, non-traumatic delivery plz. In the mean time, I’ve been training. I’ve been walking as everyone has urged and drinking water like it’s my full-time job. I’m going to try to tour the child-care services on campus tomorrow and follow my lead on a pediatrician. I feel incredibly blessed to have had such an uneventful pregnancy thus far. I’m headed down to DFW on Wednesday. My family hasn’t seen me since December so they haven’t seen the belly in the flesh, per se. They’ll get an eyeful as Elliott has OBVIOUSLY reached the size where those cute little kicks and jabs are now visible bulges and twitches.

Yeah. That’s still squicks me out sometimes. But I like the kicking. I really like being pregnant. The heartburn, no. But pregnancy has been pretty good to me thus far.

The jury is still out as to whether I’ll be kicking and squirming as much as Elliott during the SATC sequel.

We have several friends who do wonderful jobs of blogging their family lives. I’d like to say that I do a wonderful job of regularly reading their blogs whilst quietly hiding the shame of my infrequent updates. Ironic, I know, given how much Corey and I sit on the internet – you’d think we’d be updating all the time. But no…we’re just gluttonous consumers of electronic information. Something tells me that the next three months will hopefully have us a bit more on the posting upswing.

And as we sit and watch The Flintstones on ABC Family (yes, that Flintstones), watching a pre-Sex and the City/Desperate Housewives Kyle McLachlan and pre-Oscar Halle Berry rocking and rolling with an always awesome John Goodman, I can’t help but reminisce on what is about the trimester that’s about to become ancient history itself.

Dear Second Trimester:

It’s been fun, kid. Really – it has. You ushered away the nausea and brought a swell to my belly and a swagger to my step. Some people call it a waddle…but I find that uncouth. Sure, some of the longer days left me with swollen feet – but my innie is still an innie and I’ve continued to fight off any super gnarly stretch marks thus far (knocking on wood). I fell in love with elastic waistbands and continued mobility. The little flutters I felt at the beginning of the trimester have been met with increasingly strong pokes and kicks – and eventually – seeing my belly swish and twitch like an old school Sigourney Weaver film. We had the nursery painted and crib, dresser and changing table assembled while bending and squatting wasn’t so burdensome yet. True, with you came the start of grunting as I navigated my expanding girth, but I’ve survived thus far. And for whatever reason, I’ve become more cold-natured than I’ve ever been before. Of everything – you brought new sensations and a hope that I may not go over the edge this summer.

But now, things are changing. On the calendar, the third trimester began yesterday…but like The Police I could feel it coming in the air. Since the start of May, it’s been the big slow down. Daily naps, exhaustion, heartburn, back pain, RIB CAGE PAIN (I mean…seriously?) and a host of other lovely symptoms. Sure, everyone sighs at the “You’ve got a long summer ahead of you” when they hear that we’re counting down to August, but at least it’s during my ‘off-season’ so I won’t be too terribly stressed out. Other than, you know, that whole waiting to give birth thing.

So I bid you farewell, spring semester and second trimester. You’ve been great. Now if you don’t mind, I have to go gnaw on some antacids to fix that heartburn that my cinnamon rolls gave me.

Yum.

Corey even asked on occasion. Inquired as to whether Mount St. Hormone had blasted forth at all during the first twelve weeks.

“Nope.” I replied. “Just nausea. Lots of heartburn, headaches, muscle pain, extreme fatigue and a chest that felt like a punching bag every morning. Other than that? Faaaaaan-tastic.”

But, o, was I fool.

See, one of the things I’ve noticed as of late is the Jekyll/Hyde bit that hunger has been playing with me. Fine one minute, starving and raging she-beast the next. So when I started to get pangs in my stomach while we were picking up a few things at the mall, I thought, “Feed the beast…feed the beast.” We jolted over to Riviera Maya. I should have realized that the hearty mix of fried air and party of jubilant 40 year old birthday celebrants might make my already sick stomach worse. Despite noble efforts of gulping down water and shoveling chips down my gullet – my stomach still felt like a rock. Three bites of grilled chicken salad – and that “Uh oh” moment came.

You know that “uh oh” moment. Perhaps you’ve been out drinking. All night. Then, maybe it’s a waft of a clove cigarette or just that last sip that pushes you over the edge – but all you think is, “Uh oh” and promptly haul it to the nearest restroom.

Let’s just say…Maya Riviera, our neighborhood Mexican restaurant that we both love, is tainted. I’m talking #’s 1, 2 and 3 folks. Out the nose. Tortilla chips were never meant to go out the nose. And tonight…sweet mercy…tonight they did. Too much information? You kept reading a blog post that featured a woman hovering over a toilet. You have no room to judge.

The exclamation point in this little experience? Aside from being the loud puker in a restaurant restroom? Corey pointed out that the restaurant staff opened the restroom doors and sprayed air freshener right after I walked out. Don’t worry, he had a front row seat to watch the whole horrid thing.

But in the end…I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean – this whole “growing a people” thing is a free pass for this sort of malaise, right?

And by outta control, I mean inna my belly. Yessiree – that extra little bit of lady padding I’ve been carrying around isn’t your standard, “Girl hit that turkey HARD over the holiday” weight. It’s more of that “Girl been swimming in baggy tees to cover up her baby bump” weight.  Which – there wasn’t much of a bump until about two weeks ago. But as of January 29th, I’ve passed the 12 week mark. This officially ushers me out of the first trimester “fear and loathing” period and into the second trimester “safer and more swelling” zone. Corey and I – we’re totally psyched. (Is that word still around?) Now we’re super freaking psyched to be able to share the news with everyone else.

So – a quick rundown of some thus-important dates:

January 14th - 9w5d

Saturday, December 5th – Positive at-home test

Monday, December 7th – Blood test confirmation

Wednesday, December 16th – 1st Ultrasound at 5w5d – saw the heartbeat ‘flicker’.

Thursday, January 14th – 2nd Ultrasound at 9w6d – pictured above.

Thursday, January 21st – 3rd Ultrasound (after a health scare – details are unnecessary as all is well, but they performed an Ultrasound just to be safe) at 10w6d pictured below – saw the baby move its arms and legs. Corey: I thought they just floated around this early.

January 21st, 10w6d

Friday, January 29th – Second Trimester begins

Sometime around the end of March – find out the sex of Baby Gaga.

Friday, May 14th – Final exams end, Third Trimester begins

Friday, August 13th – (Or in that ballpark) the arrival of Baby Gaga!

So, there it is! We don’t really know how people announced pregnancies in a pre-blog, pre-social media world – but that’s just how we roll in the Patterdice household. But for realsies – we’re thinking good thoughts and hoping hard for Baby Gaga to make a safe and healthy entrance to the world this summer.