In the last month I gained 10 pounds. 10 POUNDS, PEOPLE. I think deep down, I was hoping my luck would hold out and so I wasn’t being all that careful about what I shoveled put in my mouth. In case I hadn’t already mentioned it, this baby likes sugar – and lots of it. I can practically feel it tugging on the umbilical cord yelling “Yo, Lady – where you hiding the good stuff? Enough of this oranges and apples crap, I need the hard stuff.” “Yes, I hear you my precious one,” I say as I am shoving that third piece of See’s Candy in my mouth. So, back to tough love it is. Whose big idea was it to be pregnant through the holidays, anyway?

Other than that, the pregnancy seems to be going pretty normally. At just shy of my 6 month mark, I feel like I am triple the belly I was with Stella. I can still remember last time people being surprised when I told them I was pregnant at 7 and 8 months. This time around – not so much. I have to try hard to not walk like a pregnant lady – already! Last night as I rolled over and felt the excruciating pain of my stomach muscle extending to reaches it is not ready to go, I decided it is time to get our new bed-mate, the body pillow.

We went over my ultrasound results, and there weren’t any big surprises from what the tech had told me when I had it done. The placenta is lying a bit low, but my midwife didn’t seem all that concerned. Chances are it will ascend more over time. The baby had been firmly nestled on it’s back and refused to get off the couch long enough for the tech to get a good spinal measurement, so I will have to go back for a mid-term at around 28 weeks. The heartbeat ranged from the 130’s to the 150’s – throwing off any of you who think you are so clever as to accurately guess the sex based on the heart rate. So there. AND NO WE DIDN’T FIND OUT!

Steve has settled on a name though. Ever since I got pregnant, Steve has been referring to the baby as SJ. Back in the day, SJ was the clever companion name to Tomato Rose. The trouble is that when you hear something non-sensical enough times, it actually begins to start to sound sensical. Tomato Rose had a nice ring and now SJ sounds as typical as any other. The original idea with SJ is that it stood for Steve Jr. (truth be told, Steve liked the idea of Jr., but was inclined to call the kid “Deuce”). This time around, SJ has been the default, but Steve Jr. is a little too gender specific so, on the car ride down to the valley, the name ‘Snazzy Jo’ emerged. So there you have it. Vague enough to fit either gender, applicable to the SJ moniker and well, pretty much something you would expect from us (read: Steve).

Off to find something not sugar to snack on.

So, I heard the baby’s heartbeat today for the first time. I also found out that much to my pleasure I, indeed, had not gained 15 pounds over the last 5 weeks. Between my sloth-like behavior and my inability to eat anything that is not positively carb-o-licious, I feel like the Michelin Woman these days. Thankfully, the death stare I gave the scale – willing it to weigh me in at a reasonable poundage – worked, and I only registered a 4 pound weight gain. Now, if I could just put together an outfit that does not place any more emphasis on the fact that I do not look pregnant – just fat, it would be a miracle. I am SO going through that awkward, adolescent phase of pregnancy.

Okay, so here it is: My first post about my second pregnancy. It is not about morning sickness (technically, didn’t have any), or persistent nausea (technically, had a lot), or exhaustion (mmmmm, couch), it’s not even about how insanely dedicated and supportive Steve has been throughout these first few months, when my single – and only – accomplishment each day is to get Stella to and from day care and myself to and from work. Or that if it wasn’t for Steve, we would probably skip dinner 2-3 nights a week, with the remaining nights left to peanut-butter sandwiches and orange juice – which, when not asking me to mainline sugar, seems to be the only thing this new kid likes. Heck, I am not even going to complain about the fact that I cannot drink (at least not in this post.)

No, this post will be about another one of those small but significant things left out of pregnancy manuals. The fact that I cannot dye my hair – at least not without running the risk of giving my new child a third eye. Roll your eyes if you will, but this is one of those things that I – a hair dyer since age 15 – am forced to make some tough decisions about. Instead of my usual $9.99 investment in a box of Loreal Feria Light Auburn every couple of months, I am now forced to actually go to the salon and pay an exorbatent amount of money for a highly convoluted and insanely expensive hair procedure that has to be maintained at twice the regular rate and, to be perfectly honest, doesn’t even really look as good.

Now, I need to emphasize this whole expense issue: While pregnant with Stella I actually paid $193 for a single visit to the salon. ONE HUNDRED NINETY THREE AMERICAN DOLLARS. I don’t know about you, but in my world a $193 pregnancy hair-do had better come with a salon-girl who will follow me home and wash & style my hair each morning for the duration of my pregnancy, PLUS a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s AND free car washes for a year.

This whole can’t-dye-your-hair-while-pregnant issue gained new urgency this weekend when I looked in the mirror at my painfully obvious roots and noticed a handful of wiry, witch-like gray hairs sticking straight up from my otherwise brunette scalp. We can launch people into space but we cannot come up with a pregnancy-safe hair dye? WHAT-EVER!

So, I guess I am only left with one option: Honey, I need the checkbook.