What's Up, Doc?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?  I have been away in one-year-old-crawling-like-mad-baby-land for the last month, and it's been quite a whirlwind of crazy.  My kid happens to be a world class crawler, including THE STAIRS, which have been deemed too dangerous for babies, apparently.  Dumb rules.

Not only does this kid crawl, he scoots.  He's been trying desperately to stand without help from the stationary objects (and parents) in the room.  Although I have tried to curb this defiant behavior by picking him up for cuddling every three minutes, he fights me until I put him down and then takes off down the road until he's a small speck in the distance.  I have to literally pick up my feet to chase him.  It's getting to be a problem.  I may call in Super Nanny to deal with this insolence.

In other news, he has decided what he likes and doesn't like.  Quite emphatically, he will "say" what he will eat and won't, and then jettison the food out of his mouth like Tom Hanks in Big eating caviar for the first time.  This has led to some horrific clean up jobs, which I have deemed unsuitable for pregnant women, like myself.

That's right.  I said it.  I'm PREGNANT.  I'm ten, going on eleven weeks.  Knowing this is a taboo subject to mention until safely into the second trimester, I have already spilled the beans to several people, who in turn have spilled their beans, and so on and so on.  It's like a Faberge commercial, but with pregnant women...and without the fabulous hair.

We have seen the heartbeat at eight weeks, and are going in for our CVS testing soon.  I figure, after seeing the heartbeat, it's a little safer to talk about it.  Although I feel the superstitions creeping in again, telling me not to speak about it, not to jinx it, not to even think about it until next month.  Being 40 will do that to you.

Ah, the geriatric pregnancy.  Let the fear and loathing begin!