ME: My pregnancy app says we need to talk about circumcision tonight. Presumably for the baby, but they didn’t really specify.
HUSBAND: OK. What do you want to say about it?
ME: (Googling) It appears to be a controversial topic with many pros and cons.
HUSBAND: How do you feel?
ME: I actually have no strong feelings about it one way or another. None. Zero.
HUSBAND: Neither do I.
ME: This is really your territory. All I can contribute is the story of the first time I saw an uncircumcised penis.
HUSBAND: Nope. Don’t want to hear it.
ME: Wait, I’ve got something. What do you call a cheap circumcision?
HUSBAND: What?
ME: A rip off.
HUSBAND: Alright, we’re done talking about this now.
A baby mushroom.
Times like these I feel like I’m still pretending to be an adult. There are very important decisions to be made here — such as, do I want to cut off the tip of my son’s penis? — and I have never even considered these things before. Not once. How am I qualified for this? My business card doesn’t say “foreskin expert.” (Maybe someday. Fingers crossed!)
More importantly, how do other people do it? Did everyone go to a special parenting school when I was out at a bar? If so, you guys are bastards for not inviting me. Is there some way I can obtain a spare baby, so I can try again after I irrevocably screw up this one?
All I know is that I have a lot more research to do before I make any organ-altering decisions. Back to the Google I go.
Here’s what else has been going on this week — the very tip of the third trimester!
Week 27: This is supposedly the beginning of the end, according to people who give me unsolicited advice: “Oh sure, you feel great now. But just wait. That third trimester is terrible.” So … yay?
Baby: As big as a head of cauliflower.
Me: Looks like I’m shoplifting a head of cauliflower.
Seriously, every week I look more and more like the pregnant dude in the “Been Caught Stealing” video, and it cracks me up. If only Halloween were closer, I could totally rock that look, no foam padding necessary.
Exercise: Not so great — only a couple long walks and one yoga class — and I’ve definitely noticed a difference. I feel far chunkier and more lethargic this week. Next week will be better.
On a good note, I did some cool stuff instead of working out.
For instance, I had a couple hours before work on Tuesday. Instead of going for a bike ride like usual, I watched a bunch of guys disassemble the Forever Marilyn statue in downtown Palm Springs.
All hung up.
When Marilyn really went to pieces.
And on Saturday, which is typically my hiking day, The Husband and I drove to San Diego and took a falconry class. The Husband was initially wary about us doing the class during pregnancy, because he was afraid a bird might peck the baby out of my womb.
I’m pleased to report we both enjoyed the class and had zero Hitchcockian incidents.
I should tweet this.
I made a new friend. It was hawkward.
Not ruffling any feathers.
The Husband is very talon-ted.
I still think most birds are weird and could really use some arms, but I’m starting to warm up to raptors.
Health: I had my glucose tolerance test this week, and I should get the results early next week. I’ve done a fair amount of research on the test, and I feel like it’s flawed — and because of that, too many pregnant women are incorrectly diagnosed with gestational diabetes. But I’m going to save that rant for another day. Also I’m not a doctor, just a lady with a lot of opinions.
Books: Baby received his first set of books this week, a gift from my dear friend Tracy. They’re some of my favorite children’s books too: “Where the Wild Things Are,” “Pat the Bunny” and “Goodnight Moon.”
I’ve already started reading to the baby, which seems to inspire a whole taekwondo performance in my belly. So the baby either looooves books, or he hates them and wants me to shut up about rabbits and mittens already.
Cravings: Peanut butter on all the things. Peanut butter on apples. Peanut butter with celery. Peanut butter crackers. Peanut butter and rice cakes. Peanut butter on a moldy rooftop shingle. I don’t care! Slather me in peanut butter and let me nom myself to death.