Either I'm pregnant or I swallowed a motorcycle helmet

Or both, I suppose. Can't start teaching the importance of safety too soon, eh?

13 weeks!

I'm showing a lot more than I expected to at this point, although I'm sure as the months go on, Darrick and I will look back at this and laugh, because I will be gigantenormohuge, and this will look like minor bloating in comparison. At the rate I'm going, by the end of the second trimester, I should be able to set my tummy with four place settings for dinner. I'll have to drive from the backseat. By the end of the third, foliage will wither and die in my shadow. I may need to incorporate my belly as a city. Nations will ask me to stop blocking the view of their satellites (or will attempt to hire me for the same reason).

I'll suddenly be stricken with an obviously uncharacteristic tendency to exaggerate and a compulsive need to tell bad belly jokes. Did you hear the one about my belly, the priest, and the rabbi on a deserted island . . . ?

It's got a beat, but you can't dance to it.

Well, you can--if you're some kind of spaz.

We heard the heartbeat this morning at our doctor visit, and it's crazy fast, only further confirming our suspicion that we are spawning a future superhero, apparently with the faster-than-lightning superpower package (complete with superhuman running capabilities as well as sleight-of-hand, speed-reading, and auctioneering skills). Have a listen for yourself here.

The doctor used a device that looked suspiciously like an old transistor radio jury-rigged to a Fisher Price microphone painted a glossy black. Perhaps the other doctors got to the supply cabinet first this morning. At least there was no visible duct tape. It was all very bizarre, like listening for messages from outer space, our own little SETI project.

I am at the tail end of my 13th week, the last of the first trimester. I'm already showing a little tummy, a bit early for a first-time pregnancy, or so I hear. I'll post pictures as soon as I find the cord for connecting the camera to the computer.

I'm feeling pretty good these days, after weeks of extreme fatigue. How extreme? Well, here's a little excerpt from my dishwashing routine:

Wash a plate.
Rest.
Wash another plate.
Rest.
Wash three forks.
Rest for longer because that really wiped me out.
"Accidentally" break the rest of the dishes, buy paper products, sleep for the next ten hours.

Our new dishwasher arrived yesterday.

First Prenatal Appointment, My New Powers, Cappy Gets an Honorary Doctorate

OK, so we went to our first prenatal appointment yesterday, and it turned out to be part one of a two-part appointment. Because of all the information gathering (including lab tests, questionnaires, etc.) and questions women usually have, University Physicians now starts with a nursing appointment, to get all that out of the way, then helps you choose an OB and make a separate appointment. Considering Darrick and I were there for two hours yesterday, I have to say I really appreciate this setup. I can't imagine then having to go through the doctor's exam as well. And we got to talk to the nurse about all kinds of questions, dismissing the old wives' tales about cats, for example, and getting good advice about how to prepare the pets, particularly Gonzo and Tarzan, who are most likely to jump up and try to squirm onto our laps while we have the baby in hand. The solution? Start holding a doll now to get them used to it. Brilliant! Or, I should say, brilliant in theory. We don't have any dolls to practice with, so I'll have to dig a stuffed animal out of storage. Don't know whether this will work until we try it, but it seems solid.

The most bizarre development of this pregnancy so far is that after a lifetime of having the weakest sense of smell you could imagine (short of having no sense of smell), suddenly I can smell everything. And that's not always a good thing, because seriously, whoever is reading this, odds are you really stink. In the interest of using my powers for good, I am thinking about seeing if the Tucson police force could use another drug sniffer. Sure, the dogs might not accept me at first, but I don't think even the fiercest doberman will dare to mess with a moody pregnant woman.

And our latest name discussions have hit upon an obvious naming solution, boy or girl: Doctor. Is that not perfect? No savings-draining college tuition for Doctor Mallon. Plenty of Laurel and Hardy schtick at the prenatal appointments:

"How's Doctor?"
"The doctor's fine, but don't you want to know about the baby?"
"Yes, how's Doctor?"

And so forth. The classroom image is also hilarious. Picture a first-grade classroom: "Doctor Mallon?" A little hand shoots up. "Here."

In the interest of preventing confusion, however, and because Cappy still makes us giggle, we'll continue to use that name for the time being.

Cappy Sassafrass McGonnigle Mallon

I feel almost silly blogging this considering everyone already knows, but we have a baby on the way! Woo hoo! We have already decided, of course, boy or girl, that the first name will be Cappy. As Darrick says, "How can a teacher not like a kid named Cappy?" It's short for "Captain, my Captain," which we like the idea of making people say. Other candidates: "Ruler of the Free World" and "How Dare I Speak in Your Presence" (Howie for short).

So the lovely picture above is from the doctor visit for confirmation. The nurse said, "Do you want to keep this?" And I said, "That's disgusting. . . . Yes." Note the biohazard specimen bag, which surely means she senses the superhero hormones of our child and wants to protect the world, which cannot yet handle such power.

We go in for our first official appointment next week. 

Laszlo, Drapes, Haircut, Yawning

Laszlo has been out of confinement for a while, fully recovered, it seems. Mel finished sewing the drapes for the family room, and Darrick finished putting them up. Still need to make a few more so that they bunch up nicely. Mel got a haircut.

Think this is all too far fetched to be true? Well, check out the photo documentation. (Note that most of the pictures are set to private, visible only to invited friends and family. Email us to get an invitation. We sent only a few, figuring most people wouldn't care.)

Oh, the excitement of our lives.

Sorry so brief and boring. We are both working without days off for the next few weeks to a month.

Foster's 13th birthday dinner

We've posted photos from Foster's 13th birthday dinner at Blue Wasabi. We forgot our camera, unfortunately, so we're blatantly stealing some of the photos the Fawcetts took. See them at the link above, including photos of the birthday girl (not shown here). The photos are limited access to family and friends, so we'll need to invite you if you can't see them all and want to (and you are a family member or friend).

Dinner was delicious, the preparation was entertaining, and Foster was charming as usual. She doesn't miss a beat with the joking around. Many adults, when you joke around with them, will look puzzled for a minute before understanding spreads across their faces, but Foster always joins right in and shoots something back that's funnier than anything we said. Awesome kid. We can't believe we've known her through nine birthdays! 

Melanie's personal blog

OK, so you all are probably wondering how ninjas and fictional meth labs qualify as Mallon Family News. You might even be thinking, "Hey, if this is the kind of crap those Mallon people are going to post, well, I'm not coming back."

Fair enough. I have set up a blog for my rants and ramblings so that this blog might remain purely for news about what's happening with the Mallons. If you care to read my semi-regular personal comments, go to Plaid Lettuce, where I will post soon about something random, absurd, annoying, or whatever strikes me fancy.

I Am Ninja, He Is Ninja, She Is Ninja, Too

Ask a Ninja


Especially Question 17

In the mail

OK, so this is the stupidest reason to post at all, and I shouldn't even be on the blog during my workday (I pledge allegiance to the procrastination . . .), but I just got our mail and I have to ask:

How did the Consolidated Plastics Company, Inc., get my name and address, and why on earth are they sending me their catalog for laboratory supplies?

At first I thought it was a catalog for the person who owned our house before us, a college biology teacher, but no, there's my name and address in that attractive 1980s futuristic computer font that catalogs always use for addresses.

What on earth did I ever order or subscribe to that would have clued them in on, I mean, made them think erroneously that I have some kind of home laboratory? Don't they wonder when a residential name and address shows up on the mailing list? Do people actually have home laboratories? Of course some do, I'm sure, sort of the home office for splicing genes on the weekend, no doubt, but really, how many people would have a laboratory in their home that would require a catalog full of bulk supplies?

All I can think is that someone found out about my meth lab. It was supposed to be a secret, a surprise for Darrick's birthday. Oh, well. At least he'll still be surprised by all the different flavors I concocted. Strawberry Rhubarb methamphetamine is out of this world!

We joined The Cult (not a cult--THE Cult)

 

Yes, that photo is from our camera at KFMA Day. Darrick got some excellent shots and video clips (The Cult; The Strokes). So sad that we can get only 30 seconds at a time, but how great that we got those 30-second segments at all.

Incredible shows, and our first chance to get out and do something together, now that Laszlo is doing better. Woo hoo!