We had our regular monthly doctor's appointment Thursday. Everything checked out well: weight gain-okay, blood pressure-good, baby's heartbeat-strong. Then the ever important question: "Have you felt anything yet?"

Wah-waaaaah. I sheepishly answer: "No, not yet."

The doctor assured us that at our "big" ultrasound next week, I should be able to make the association between what I'm feeling by seeing the baby's movement on the screen. Sweet!

But lo and behold, the very next day I began to feel things...things that weren't shortly followed by gaseous releases. Things that I'm confident to say are definitely feelings of Baby Z flitting his/her way around in thar!!!

HOORAY!!!

Next stop: Genderville! ETA 7:15am, Friday, May 29, 2009.

So I will just come out and say it: I am getting ready to start studying to take the bar exam again at the end of July. With that said, let me set some ground rules, applicable to everyone in my life, no matter how close or distant we may be to one another.

1. Do not, under any circumstances, ask me how it’s going. The answer will always be the same: it’s shitty and it sucks. Feel free to have the conversation in your head, if it will help you, because actually asking me, while well intentioned, is not helpful to me.

2. Similarly, don’t ask me how I’m feeling about it this time. This answer will also never change: I’m stressed (not to mention hugely PG) and tired, I don’t know why I ever wanted to do this in the first place, let alone again, and I feel like I'm going to fail. For obvious reasons, I want to keep these thoughts and feelings stifled, buried and locked down as deeply in the vault as possible. Despite the pleasantry I may spout back at you, that is the reality of what’s going through my head.

3. Despite your best of intentions, please do not try to be a cheerleader. No cheerleader, no matter what the extent of her super powers may be, can save this wretched world into which I have misguidedly chosen to lead my life.

4. Please try not to make me feel guilty for being anti-social between May 26 and July 31. I’m Catholic for You-Know-Who’s sake.  No added guilt necessary. Just know it’s nothing personal, strictly business.

5. Likewise, if I don’t answer your calls, don’t take it personally. If there’s something you need to tell or ask me, please e-mail or text it. Trust me, I won’t be a good gabber anyway. Besides, as Fella learned earlier, you may end up with a blubbering mess on the other end. Nobody likes a blubbering mess, most of all yours truly!

6. On top of sums I’ve previously spent on this endeavor, we’re investing further in the "$10k Exam" and as a result apparently now have to forego any vacation or babymoon after the exam. This does not make for a happy Zesty. Please, I beseech you, as best you can refrain from talking about your fabulous vacation plans when in the presence of her company. She’s got no light at the end of the bar exam tunnel, only childbirth and motherhood. While a miracle and a blessing, it is not my idea of a vacation.

7. The exam is at the END OF JULY. Kindly commit that tidbit to memory.

8. Do not, under any circumstances, tell me about the long-lost relative of yours who had to take the exam umpteen times before passing. While I appreciate the attempt to empathize, trust me--it is not as reassuring to hear as one may think.

9. Because I will essentially be eating, sleeping, and breathing bar exam, when I do get a rare moment to get my head above water, consider the topic strictly off limits. And don’t make an end-run around this rule by asking Fella about any of it. Not only is he also subject to these rules, rendering a virtual gag order upon him, but he has to deal with the wreck formerly known as his wife on a daily basis and may not want to relive the emotional rollercoaster that has been forced upon him during this time. Just listen to Nancy and say no to the temptation.

10. I love you, which is why I write this.  I hope you can appreciate both the humor as well as the solemnity in these words. And, like Bartles and James before me, I thank you for your support (and strict adherence to these rules, which may be subject to change without notice).

Last week found me hitting a couple of emotional rough patches and I realized: I've got no familiar coping mechanisms left. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Before getting preggo, I at least had...options when I need a blow off steam.

I need a smoke.
It used to be easy to make a quick getaway from the daily stresses of work. Did someone say "Smoke break?!"  When I first hit the scene among the world of the working, I regularly took my two-15's to catch a cig with my fellow smoker peers.

Having long since quit smoking now, I now claim to essentially take my breaks at my desk, what with one form of social networking or another I find myself engaging in throughout the day.  But in looking ahead at my schedule, it seems that I will be spending the greater part of 16 hours per day sitting on my badonk.  Which, at that rate and left to its own devices, will balloon to a full-fledged badonkadonk. And I'm not talking the "oooh, you could soooo be in rap videos" hot kind of booty. Uh-uh.

So I turned over a new leaf Monday.  I brought my sneakers to work and at 10:00 a.m., I put them on and went out for a smoke, er...walk.  And I went again today.  The only thing that might get in my way are these pesky allergies of mine.

I need a drink.
This used to always be my go-to coping mechanism. Shitty day? Let's grab a beer after work! Shitty week? Let's go get plowed on Friday! And no matter how many times someone tries to tell me that a club soda and lime is just as good as a Red Bull and Raspberry Stoli, it will never, ever be true.

So I started trying to let loose on the dance floor with my club soda and lime. But that option is becoming much less of an option.  You know, seeing as how no one really wants to see a big ol' preggo lady dancing at their local neighborhood bar.  I mean, really.  I might still have a few short weeks left to take this route. That is, if I can even muster the energy to make it out to the bar weekends.

I so need a triple bypass burger and a chocolate whatever.
Ah, food. My oldest and dearest of companions. Why do you now betray me in my emotionally fragile state? No longer can I turn to you for solace, without the reflux of consequence burning soon after. Damn thee disgestive changes and damn thee GERD.

These coping mechanisms sound more like self-destructive escape mechanisms.
Touch

é.  But after nearly 32 years, I can only posit that these unconventional methods have done a decent job at helping me cope.

So...why now suddenly?
I can't say that I have actually ever tried yoga. In fact, it has always sorta repulsed me. I had a Pilates instructor who integrated some aspects into her training. And I've read Idiot's Guide to Yoga, but that's the extent of it. Oh, unless you count the 30 seconds that I once watched it on FitTv.

The reason why it has always "repulsed me" is all in my head.  You see, I have this mind. And it's pretty...active.  You could say that this mind has, well, a mind of its own. Metaphorically speaking.  My beautiful mind doesn't like to shut down on command. So it won't. And at times, this caused me trouble in that Pilates class. And it drove me crazy.

But it's clear to me now that i've come to a crossroads. I have to learn anew what to do to take care of my emotional needs.  So maybe it's the best time to take on my mind in head-to-head battle. A yoga-off, if you will.  Besides, who's in control here?!

Um, right.

He sleeps so peacefully on the couch now, but earlier today...his attitude was much less docile.

I'm going to be tied up through July and won't have a lot of time for my second job of dutiful wife. Fella will be on his own every week night and I am doing what I can to make sure that he will not be left to his own devices. Which means I'm trying to make sure he'll be eating homemade dinners while I'm not home at night to make it. Quite dutiful and wifely of me, I'd say.  But this means a lot of forethought and preparation--a lot of work!--on my part before things start picking up next week.

All this work and he repays the favor by telling me he's not going to be able to work on any home improvement projects while I'm tied up. Why wouldn't it be the BEST time to work on things around the house? Zesty and her ever-expanding midsection out of your hair every night and a good part of the weekends working her ass off, what more could you ask for?! Norm Abram and his New Yankee Workshop served up on a silver platter?

Yeah, I guess he could, and quite possibly would, but let's be realistic here. That's like me asking for Chris Kimball and the America's Test Kitchen to take care of Fella's dinner for him. Not gonna happen.

So I feel gypped. It's not like I made an express request for quid pro quo at home i n exchange for my professional pursuits outside of home. But really. Really??

Maybe he'll surprise me.

I'm not holding my breath.

And after all the attitude Fella gave me on the phone this afternoon over the subject, then for awhile after he got home from work (while I was making dinner, I might add) he thinks he can flip a switch and be lovey and cuddly and I'll be OK with it.

Sorry fella, I've still got some of that attitude stuck in my craw. But you go on ahead and sleep on the couch and leave me be for awhile.