belly monday: 23 weeks, wednesday edition

Lots of Colorado vacation pics to follow soon. I'm a little late in posting because of all the good-time-ness we've been having out here, and also because it looks kind of like I'm arching my back in these photos, so I wasn't sure whether to use them. Also, I am very, very white.

But I decided to use them anyway because I know that I wasn't really arching my back, and the whiteness is just not going away, even after being under blazing bright sun at 6000 feet above sea level. I wore sunscreen, okay? Try not to be blinded by the gleaming alabaster skin...

Here you go - a full torso shot:


And a belly shot:


Edited to add: Jason wanted to make sure all two of my readers knew that these pictures were taken at Red Rocks Amphitheater, home to many famous live concert recordings by bands like these guys, these other guys, and this guy.

ready to fly

Tomorrow Jason and I leave on a plane for Denver. I would love to make some eloquent, well-crafted story about how I am so ready for a vacation, but I'm just tired, and I don't think tonight's the night for me to be Jane Austen.

This week has been really rough on me. Rest assured, our baby boy is doing wonderfully, kicking up a storm and being all healthy and baby-like, so yes, he's totally okay. But the rest of me is just trying to recover from a very trying week. Every day, I felt like I was hit with some kind of blow, something that made me feel like the very best of me that I have to offer, what I do best, the core of who I am, was not wanted, rejected, or stomped on and spat at. It's hard to go through a whole week of that and not come out of it feeling pretty lousy, doubting what you thought was your very best to give the world. You might say it was pregnancy hormones, or simply a run of bad luck, but I think I've cried way, way too much this week. You know, the ugly cry of snotty noses, puffy eyes, and popped eardrums. That kind of crying.

I don't tell you this to garner any sympathy - really, I know my mother is reading this, chomping at the bit to leave some sort of encouraging, well-written, uplifting comment on this blog page, and maybe you are, too. But all of it left me drained and feeling less of myself, and this recharge in God's beautiful mountain scenery has never been more necessary. I come out of this week wanting to quit pretty much everything I am a part of except for my marriage (thank God for my husband), and I'd like to come back in a week ready to give it all another shot. I know I never have to travel anywhere to find God, but I'm feeling the call to meet him on the mountaintop for renewal.

Plus, Jason is in possession of a most awesome camera, and I'm hoping to show off some pictures of our travels as the week progresses.

I'll be in touch.

summer breezes

If you're going to get your picture taken with Her Royal Majesty...



...might as well make sure you're properly aerated. (See happy gentleman to Queen's left.) Actual photo from a photo retrospective on Time.com on the Queen's 82nd birthday.

(Thanks, Kel.)

My birthday is in 10 days, but I don't know if I will be so lucky as to have a guy in a kilt sitting next to me like that. Then again, I'll hopefully be celebrating at Benihana, and hey, they do serve excellent sake there. Not that I'll be indulging, of course. But I can't speak for my skirt-wearing table neighbors. Teppanyaki makes people do some wild and crazy stuff, yo.

belly monday: 22 weeks

The belly at 22 weeks. Not a dramatic change from last week, and my face reveals I was a little peeved at my photographer for trying to photograph me from below (a very unflattering angle, making me look as large as a whale) rather than straight on. Hormones are so much fun.

on having a belly

Scrubs are the great figure-forgivers of workplace fashion, and I wear scrubs. A lot. In fact, when I'm at work, a lot of the time the only things that actually give away my maternity state are my pregnant poses - you know, the arching torso with the hands at the lower back, the subconscious self-rubbing of the belly, etc. One coworker recently asked me, after finding out that I was already 22 weeks along (she thought it was much less), where EXACTLY was I carrying this baby, and I have to smile a little when I hear that, because it's the sort of question I expect skinny pregnant women to get ("you're so little!") and not someone with, er, extra padding to start.

But I do occasionally venture out into the world wearing something other than scrubs and pajamas, and since I really can't fit into normal clothes anymore, I'm always swathed in maternity gear: the stretchy-paneled pants, the generously-cut tops. You know, the clothes designed to highlight one thing only: the Belly. And even having Crouching Diaper, Hidden Fetus in there (seriously - we might want to name this kid Jet Li or something), I still forget how out there my stomach is sticking out in belly-highlighting maternity wear, until one inevitable moment happens.

You moms know EXACTLY what that moment is: the RUB.

I'll say it (and probably garner hate mail in the process): I can't stand it when people rub my belly. It startles me, especially since most of the time, the hand is on the belly without anyone asking if it's okay. I don't hold any bad feelings against the excited Belly Toucher, no. I understand the sentiment: they're excited for me, babies are cute, mommy bellies are cute too, yada yada yada. There is just something about a pregnant belly that invites touch from everyone from your spouse (totally okay and welcome) to total strangers in the supermarket (uh, NOT okay). I get it, I really do.

I still don't like it. Even from people I know pretty well.

I actually really want to like it. I want to be one of those happy, Buddha-bellied gals you see on the cover of Parenting and Fit Pregnancy magazines, endlessly offering out my tummy to others like a lucky talisman, telling the world, "You know, I just feel so BLESSED all the time" with sincere head-nodding and rapt wonderment at the Life Inside of Me. Uh-HUH. Magazine covers are just as unrealistic for pregnant girls as Cosmo is for the rest of the unpregnant world...

(Side note: I would probably buy a lifetime subscription to a pregnancy magazine that had a real cover model: mismatched sweats, cankles propped up, bags under the eyes, half-finished bag of Cheetos at her side, with a very worried-looking husband in the background...)

I've been trying to figure out why I don't like people touching my stomach without permission. After all, I like giving and getting good hugs. I really enjoy and am proud of being pregnant, at least once I get past the initial barf-fest of the 1st trimester. I don't feel fat in the least, even though I started this pregnancy with some extra cushioning. And I know that after rubbing my stomach, no one is going to then grab one of my breasts and ask if I'm ready to breastfeed, or pat my crotch and say they can't wait to see my son come out down there.

I realized that, as a society, we just don't go around randomly rubbing each others' stomachs, except when there's a baby involved. I've been on this earth nearly 31 years now, and I've spent only a couple of those months visibly pregnant. I'm still getting used to the idea of it, especially the tangible, growing reality of my expanding body. No one ever went to rub my belly before, except maybe when I was a baby, so it seems strange, unnatural now to have people start doing that.

One mommy blogger whose URL address I have long since lost put it so beautifully: "You never rubbed your Uncle Jim's belly without permission, and he always looked like he was at least two weeks overdue."

I still haven't figured out how to handle it. Interestingly, it hasn't really been total strangers who go to touch me - I wouldn't have much of a problem asking them to not touch my belly. It's been people to whom I already have some association, sometimes a pretty strong one, and because I have relationship with these people, it makes telling them I'm uncomfortable, well... uncomfortable. I'm extremely non-confrontational, which is probably why I blather on so much in my blog (safe outlet). Do I shrink back? I did that today, and I immediately felt guilty, especially considering the other person involved. Do I politely tell them to ask me for permission first? Because I'll tell ya: you ask me first, and I'll probably grab your hand myself and smash it up excitedly against my bellybutton, asking if you can feel my son and hey, here's the top of my uterus, and over there is the pizza lunch I just ate, isn't it cool? But I never remember to say it. Do I do what one person humorously suggested and start rubbing their bellies back? I don't think I could pull that off with the required light-hearted humor instead of resentment.

I'm not even sticking out as much as I will soon, in a few short months when I am waddling instead of walking. Oh my.

For now, I'm learning how to be more okay with it, reminding myself of the reason for all the excitement, the little man we are so anxious to meet, this perfect, flawless little miracle that my imperfect, flawed body is so miraculously sustaining and growing. I'm learning to grin and bear it and to know the intentions behind the touching are nothing but positive and loving.

I'm also reminding myself that, once in labor and delivery, random hands on my stomach will be a cake walk compared to the insane level of exposure I will have to complete strangers accessing every area of my body.

love my friends, love my church

We've been finding ourselves in need of some greeters at Grace Fellowship lately. Most churches I've attended in the past would have just included a two-sentence call out for volunteers during their spoken announcement time, maybe with some pious pleading and encouragement to sign up. And everyone would sort of shift uncomfortably in their seats if they weren't already serving at the church in some capacity, avoiding any eye contact.

But I think I've made it clear that I don't go to any ordinary church. My family ROCKS. No boring announcement time or guilt-tripping where I go!

And just to prove that, here are two videos. I think I'm especially proud that both feature very close friends of mine.

then and now

A year ago, I was running 18-20 miles a week and actually enjoying it. I was getting pretty strong, too, and it took a lot to wind me.

Today, I found myself having to walk up four flights of stairs because the elevator in the parking garage at work was broken. By the time I got to the top, I thought I was going to die. My lungs were screaming bloody murder at me. One of my coworkers said "Have a good day" and I could barely utter the same to them without breathing mid-sentence.

Oh, my friends, it was simply pathetic, the difference just one year makes.

Things will be changing. Oh yes. They will be changing.

monday may I... oh, screw it.

Yeah. You can see that went out the window pretty quickly. It died not because there weren't enough grammar issues out there, or mispronunciation issues (ESpresso, people! Not EXpresso! Aaaagh!) but mostly because I am an amateur at writing about it, and I would now much rather just redirect you to people who devote some real time and energy to it, like Grammar Girl. Real grammar gurus would probably find at least a handful of mistakes I missed or didn't care about in just the few sentences I wrote above, anyway.

I like the idea of a weekly Thing, though. And now that I'm actually starting to show a little, maybe we can make Mondays all about the belly. Monday May I Rub Your Belly? Monday May I Have Sympathy Weight Gain? Monday May I Kick You In the Ribs When You're Trying to Sleep? Or maybe just Belly Mondays.

To kick off Belly Mondays, here's a couple of belly shots for you at 21 weeks. If you tell me I look pale or tired (which I really do, I know, but still...) I will beat you with said belly and let my son get in a few jabs or two (he's a regular Chuck Norris these days). Here they are:

random updates

I don't know how else to fit these in.

--I updated our Babies R' Us registry (to the left! to the left!) so that the link I am providing takes you straight to our actual registry list, rather than a generic kind of page where you have to type in names and stuff. Apparently, Babies R' Us cannot distinguish between "Vermeulen" (correct) and "Vermuelen" (incorrect), and it also doesn't seem to want to search by Jason's name, even if you get the spelling perfect. Ah, BRU, when will you advance yourself? So, let's just skip the hassle and get to the goods...
Edited to add: since we are a ministry couple, Jason is concerned that we don't make it sound like we are expecting people to buy us stuff for the baby. I can see his point, and I suppose my tongue-in-cheekness was not coming through as well as I'd hoped - I am not expecting anyone to buy me anything, but it certainly didn't read that way. So the links have been altered and the "buy me stuff" undertone toned down, so to speak. But if you still really, really want to get me stuff and will be absolutely crushed if you don't, by all means. But I love you all just the same regardless, mmkay?

--I have learned today that no matter what food item you order at Disney, you can probably get a cheaper, tastier, and larger portion of the same food somewhere else.

--Um. Lately, the only person who wants to comment on my blog postings is my mother. I highly respect her opinion, and she is a terrific writer and blogger to boot, but come on, people - she's my mother. Call me insecure, but that's sort of like being the kid with the braces and headgear and Coke-bottle glasses and decade-old clothes and a raging case of acne... and having your mother being the only one to tell you you're absolutely beautiful. Not that it's not true when it comes from her, but wouldn't you also like to hear it from your friends? Shout it out, people. Leave me some love.

--We put in a contract on the house. We're in that ten-day period where either party can back out and the inspection takes place. I love the house, I love the street, I love the overall neighborhood, and I also love that the number of the house is 508, and we'll be moving in (probably) in 5/08. It's a huge step to take, but we are ready and excited to take it.

--We *might* have chosen a name. I'm not telling you what it is, because we might change our minds, and also it is really, really hard to return monogrammed anything. But at least we have something in mind, instead of just blank stares and drool on our chins whenever anyone asks us, "So, have you decided on a name?" We just want to make sure that this name befits the blessing about to be born in a few months.

--Speaking of the little miracle, Jason got to feel him kick for the first time tonight. It was really awesome.

--I am really, really glad The Office is back on. "That is a two HUNDRED dollar plasma TV you just broke, Jan!"

Okay - I think some of you are probably a bit miffed that I'm not going to tell you the name, even if you bribe me with cheesy foods and Starbucks caramel Frappuccinos. Will a few pictures suffice for now? These are from our ultrasound last week:


Yep. Jason wanted to be absolutely sure. The ultrasound tech's response: "You can buy this kid clothes and throw away the tags, Dad. We're sure."





Top half is a profile pic, bottom half is a thumbsucker... can you see it?





This is actually the very first glimpse we ever had of our son, exactly at 9 weeks...





...and look how far he's come in just over two and a half months!

behold, the middle-aging

I did laundry today. Normally, that's not a blog-worthy statement, except that while I was doing the laundry, I realized that the load I was folding might be one of the last I get out of our community machines. You see, this home-buying thing keeps progressing, and just yesterday, we agreed to a price both buyer and seller are happy with, plus the seller is paying our closing costs. So, unless something horrid happens during the inspection, this is all happening, and happening pretty soon.

One of the things I am most excited about in homeownership?

No more coin-operated laundry.

I get a level of excitement bordering on indecent when I think about doing laundry in my own home, where I don't need to make sure I have a large supply of quarters, or worry that some skeezy neighbor will be in the laundry room, stain sticking the skid marks on his tighty whities.

It turns out that a washer/dryer pair comes with the house, though I admit that the laundry room was the one room I didn't really look at closely, so I don't know the condition of said washer and dryer.

So, I give you evidence that I have firmly and fully entered into my thirties, because my biggest material lust right now? Not a Lexus. Not a brand-new wardrobe. Not a diamond necklace. Not even the new Mac AirBook or iPhone.

It's this:



This looks like total heaven to me. If Lowe's had a baby registry, this pair would be right at the top of the list. I mean, let's face it: it'd probably be the only thing on the list, actually. You can put a changing pad on the top of the dryer, right?