Google search terms that landed here at Bloggymommer.
Shamelessly swiped from Goon Squad Sarah:

I don’t get as much blog traffic since I switched domain names. Most of the traffic I do get is sent to me by Google. Some of the search terms 1) make sense and 2) point people here logically.

Search terms I understand:

“so now I’m back from outer space” – That was a post title a few months back.
“real simple wardrobe staple ” – I did mention that in a a NaBloPoMo post.
“I need a new hobby” – I got a whole category on that, because, HEY, ME TOO! But, um… “I can’t figure out a new hobby. What is wrong with me?” Can’t help ya!
“how do deal with a bridezilla blog” – Well, this was a bridezilla blog once upon a time (hides sheepish grin), but I dont know if I can help you deal.

Creative Grammar and Spelling:

“so now I’m back from out of space” Cute!
“disney’s peppy la poo” – Pepe Le Pu! Get it right, and WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

BlogHer
Lots of BlogHer Slamming, which I don’t get. I had a kinda okay time at Blogher 06, but that’s because I’m a socially awkward boob (yes, yes, HELLO again, Google).

“blogher issues” – Yes I have issues, Yes I went to BlogHer when I could afford it. These are correlated somehow?
“blogher hate blog” – Please tell me there is not such a thing?
“blogher high school” – Ladies! Grow up!
“blogher packing list” – What? Like 3rd grade summer camp?

Burning questions:

“put concealer mustache area” – I wouldn’t. Unless you wax first.
“scientific name for infertility” – Is Infertility. There are several different kinds, depending on which part of the anatomy isn’t cooperating.

What the Heck?:

“lurkey -turkey -game -family -genealogy”
“hash cakes pregant” – I suggest you stick with pickles and ice cream.
“pantyliner infertility” – Ummmmm? Wha? This person stayed on the site longer than anyone else this month. I’m glad you found what you were looking for???
“pink dog dinky happy horse” Seperately, it makes sense that search landed here. All of those together? HAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! I think that is going to have to be The Dog’s new nickname. Um, wait? Is that some slang for male anatomy? I’m a little slow. Or a little warped, your choice.

This was the first day in two months where I had appointments and plans all day long.

Well, since doc said I gotta, I got up and dressed and went to the park for a Fit Mammas prenatal and postnatal exercise class. I put on my workout clothes and running shoes to go shake a leg. The Dog asked for a prescription for Prozac when I left without her. “You’re putting on sneakers and going for a walk without me!?”

I got to the park, and found a group of men and women setting up yoga mats. No strollers, no pregnant women. Fit Mammas was a flop. Soooooooooo I did a lap around the parking lot and drove home. The Dog forgave me when I walked back in the door and grabbed her leash.

After a quick walk, I picked up That Guy I Married and we went to my prenatal appointment. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor and met with the midwife. We were discussing sleep discomfort and nausea remedies when the whole building began to rattle and sway. We laughed it off, and kept talking, when the midwife remembered that “Hey, maybe there’s some evacuation procedure we should be following.”

Now normally, I’m not such a wimp. But it’s getting uncomfortable to sleep and I wake up with sore joints every morning. Four flights of stairs, sore hips, FUN.

The earthquake was a LONG one. Morning sickness+building shaking=Party In Mah Belly. Raise the roof, or something.

I had an appointment to meet with a doula who teaches childbirth classes. She sent me an email from her PDA saying that another client had gone into labor, so we rolled the appointment over to tomorrow.

The best laid plans…

I ended up going home and making a pot of chicken soup.

OK, Time to stop telling myself I’ve got nothing to write about, just because it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

Time to take a risk and say what’s really going on (novel concept on my own blog, imagine that).

It’s been a long, hard, emotional week. Between uncontrollable circumstances, facing demons, Stupid Pregnancy Symptoms, and nightmares, I spent most of last week just praying for a break.

That Guy has been working inhumanly long shifts at work. I’ve been facing inhumanly long periods of time with just The Dog to talk to. The Dog has spent the last week pouting because I’m too nauseous to walk her. Then I turned around and started taking pot shots at That Guy’s use of time, because it’s just easier than pouting and sobbing (wailing like a needy little hmm-hmm).

I finally got my rear end into therapy last week. The truth is, “I’m fine.”
If you ask me “How are ya’?” I’m fine. Really. See: perfect happy life, everything I ever wanted, exactly on track with life goals, nothing to complain about here, move along.
If you ask me “How are you?” Why do I always start tearing up?

The truth is either that these pregnancy hormones are kicking my rump, or maybe the truth is; I’m not fine.

::wail:: I’m loooooooooooonely!
::wail:: How will I ever meet anyone in this gosh-darn-enormous city?
::wail:: I’m worthless unemployed.
::wail:: (Hi, I’m twelve years old) She didn’t return my phone call, I thought she was my friend.
::wail:: The churches here are weird! I hate to admit my Christian walk is falling apart without a church home.
::wail:: How will I ever be strong enough to protect this baby from the stuff I wasn’t protected from?
::wail:: How in the world will I ever raise this kid without making my baggage into their baggage?
::wail:: I’m too uncomfortable to sleep through the night.

The psych resident listened to me not cry (dammit, I’m not gonna cry) for 40 minutes, and then went to consult with the attending psychiatrist. TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they came back and told me several things.

“All the stuff you are worried about is completely normal for the 7th month of pregnancy.”
“You do have some family circumstances that would be hard for anyone to deal with.”
“Sleep is very important for you. That’s going to be an issue when the baby comes home. You may want to consider hiring a nanny or a wetnurse to handle the night shift. You need to know that your baby is not okay if you are not okay. If that means you have to use a breastpump or formula to have someone else help feed the baby at night, then that is what’s best for you and your baby, It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks is best.”
“We spent most of our time brainstorming ways for you to meet new people. Sign up for mommy classes (gag)!. Try pregnancy yoga (gag)! Take childbirth classes just to meet other people!”

OK, fine. I’m obviously not completely fine. All of this crap is supposedly normal. But, I better do as they say, because my way isn’t holding much water right now (::sniff, sniff, stiff upper lip::).

So I registered for a breast pump, and a pack of 2oz jars of formula. Steph did warn me to have formula *in the apartment,* so I wouldn’t have to make a frantic trip to the store in the middle of a desperate night. It is nice to have a Ph.D tell me that I have license to tell the La Leche Vulchers to step off. I want to breastfeed and cloth diaper, but I don’t want to be strapped in a long-sleeve white coat for trying.

I went back to the Pumpstation, and picked up more flyers on seminars and exercise classes. Lord help me, I signed up and paid money for a group class on staying sane after having a baby. I found a twice-a-week walking group that starts tomorrow (I think it starts tomorrow, the flyer isn’t very well-made), but I can’t figure out if the class is for prenatal or postnatal walkers. I’m such a socially awkward Boob that I really don’t need to show up at a class full of newborns in strollers.

I’m guessing it’s not ok to bring The Dog to a new-mom group, right? We have a stroller that accommodates up to 50 lbs, but the dog is pushing 65 lbs.

The other thing about vacation photos, is that I have to look at pictures of me.

It was 100 degrees plus thunderstorms in Denver this weekend. I packed every kind of outfit I could think of, and still ended up buying a maternity swim cover (moo-moo) cotton dress at Target in an attempt at being comfortable in my bovine delicate conditon.

First of all, can someone please explain to me how to stand for a picture while pregnant so that I don’t look like a hippo doing ballet? We were literally told to pose “like for a Prom picture,” to get all of us in the shot. I’m not even going to post the copy of this picture that shows all of our feet. Let’s just say that Crocs +moo-moo swim cover = So Sexy That My Husband Can’t Keep His Hands Off Me.

And second, OMG is that what my hair looks like from the back???

Granted, this was after I washed my hair, air dried it, looked at my curling iron and decided “naaaaw, I’m on vacation.”

I look like I just lopped off a huge ponytail for Locks-of-Love or something. I wish I had an excuse that noble. Please excuse me while I go buy a paper bag silk scarf to put over my head.

We had a rental car and a free day in Colorado, so we drove up Pike’s Peak with our buddies. It was a very scary drive, but totally worth the view. That Guy I Married had the camera on him for the whole trip, so I shall have to tell this story through his eyes.

This is Steph. Steph gets me, or at least she’s too polite to tell me when to shut it. I spent 15 hours running my mouth.
No, really, fifteen straight hours. I’m not sure how she didn’t kill me, I’m pretty sure her husband was ready to. I haven’t had this much fun in years, I think maybe I need to get out more.

Taking pictures of me yapping is really kinda boring, so That Guy likes to take pictures of rocks and trees and stuff.

I’m not sure how a guy who can take such beautiful pictures of sunsets can turn around and take pictures of these:

but that’s what I get for not taking any pictures myself. If you look on the left, you’ll notice that he took this picture while I was in the port-a-potty.

Since I don’t take enough pictures, I get to watch That Guy throw himself off of cliffs* in the name of photography:

Please honey, I’m pregnant, try not to die. Can’t you just stand over here, on nice solid ground, and take pictures of the pretty pretty puffy clouds? K,THX.

Honey, you’re kinda handsome, and I would take more pictures of your handsome mug…

But, you know, this Must-Carry-My-Laptop and Ipod Touch and work-issued-Crackberry AND My Crack-Jack-2 Every-Where-I-Go, Even-On-Vacation, It’s getting really old. REALLY. I don’t care if you downloaded Soduko for me, I don’t care that you found a hotel with free wifi. I don’t care if it can triangulate your existence location by satellite. We are on vacation, vacation is defined as a general leave of absence from regular obsession occupation. Put the phone away, for the love of all things, BEFORE I TRIANGULATE YOUR POSITION AND PUSH YOU OFF THAT CLIFF!

Thank you. Was that so hard? See how handsome you are?

Now, smile for a picture with your wife. Yes, yes, fine you can leave one hand on the Crackjack, just PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET.

*I’m pregnant, and may or may not be a wee bit hormonal. I reserve the right to beg him not to fall off the cliff and then threaten to push him off.

We got home from a wonderful trip to Colorado. My video card crashed my motherboard. Is it sad that I miss my computer like I would miss my toothbrush?

Honey? I’ll be waiting in a teddy* if you want to fixey-fixey my computer!

So, I have photos to flickr, and airline fodder to bicker… but blogging without my computer? Forget it!

*I may or may not own a maternity teddy.

We spent yesterday at a very nice funeral for a friend’s mom. I hadn’t met her, but she touched many, many people with her life. Peole of all ages came to say good bye. She was burried on a hill in the middle of Pomona Valley.

I found my life in that valley. I began my life, made my own decisions, my own mistakes, and my own memories in that valley. I love climbing to the top of that hill because I can see all of my fresh starts: the university I attended for eight years, the old haunts where I used to take all of my first dates in college, the barn where I learned to ride Arabians, the places I rented when I got to live on my own – my way, and the park where we got married. From that hill, I have a sense of place. It was nice to go home yesterday.

I would have stopped in to prearrange a package for my own funeral, but every time I go, I see at least four headstones with typos on them: “Lo – I am with you alway..” Please, World, don’t remember me with a typo.

I’m the only blogger on the net who is getting on a plane today, and not going to BlogHer.

That Guy I Married used to hang out with half a dozen bachelors from his youth group. One by one, they all got picked off married. The last sucker youngest one is getting married this weekend.

Every time we get on a plane, That Guy swears he’s never bringing his laptop on vacation ever again. I’m sure I’ll hear that again before Sunday, when he’s lugging the thing back through Airport Security again. Which reminds me (tangent much?), I need to go pull his pocket knife out of his jeans, since we won’t be checking bags.

Honey, you never know, the hotel wifi might be flakey, remember what happened to all of your late-night work last time we stayed at this hotel? Maybe you should just leave the laptop at home, hmmmmm? I’m sure the laptop will be fired up on the vanity the minute we get room keys, so I’ll be posting from Denver.

I’m excited to see one of our groomsmen, and his wife at the wedding. She’s the charter member of the Former Bachelor’s Wives club and her friendship really helped me through the first, lonely year of marriage. She’ll be kidless this weekend, so I’m looking forward to lots of late night giggling.

Liking: Just about every time I get worried about the baby, I get a kick in the hip.
Liking: Getting expensive hand-me-down maternity clothes from my stylish supermodel cousin.
Liking: That Guy I Married looks at my belly on Saturdays and says “Let’s go shopping.”

Not So Sure About: Ow! Quit kicking me!
Not So Sure About: Supermodel Cousin’s maternity clothes barely button up, and I’ve still got 3 months to go.
Not So Sure About: Having to ask That Guy to take off my shoes, because I can’t reach when I’m wearing jeans.

Getting My Head Examined: Last night while eating yogurt with strawberries and M&Ms, I was considering that Yogurt with Bread and Butter Chips (sweet pickle slices), just might taste okay. Maybe. Hmmmmmm, I wonder…

Laughing: I took the dog for a short walk yesterday, back and forth down Santa Monica Blvd. I can’t walk up hill anymore, but THE DOG was exhausted half-way through a short flat walk.

Waiting: and getting impatient.

My stomach has always been a bottomless pit. I can eat anything. Except Jello, and whipped cream from a can. Lately, my stomach has become a very skinny bottomless pit. I’m always hungry, but I’m full after 1/3 of a meal. Then I’m starving again in 1-3 hours.

Tonight, we had dinner and then went to see Hancock (funny! Go see it). As soon as we walked out of the theater, I was STARVING again, so we went for frozen yogurt. We found a frozen yogurt store that only serves ONE kind of yogurt. ONE. Talk about plain vanilla. I’m not sure how they stay in business without so much as vanilla, chocolate, and chocolate/vanilla swirl.

Outside, near the beach at night, It’s cool enough to wear long sleeves, but not too cold for yogurt. I’d gotten dressed up for date night in a long sleeve blouse, I even wore lipstick, if you can believe that. I considered wiping the lipstick off when I realized That Guy had chosen his shiny company-issued drone uniform Mouse Jockey jacket track jacket, the one with the real classy slogan on the back.

While we’re in line to order yogurt, there are three women sitting in a booth behind us. One of them reads the slogan on the back of That Guy’s Star Fleet uniform track jacket. She seemed a little obnoxious, so I ignored her and waited to see if That Guy would respond. The third time she reads the slogan out loud, That Guy turns around to invite her to drunk dial him giver her his business card. I turned sideways to tell the hussy to step off discretely puff out my large pregnant belly see if maybe she would take a hint smile politely at my husband’s new business contact. She proceeded to ask all kinds of drunk fascinating questions. That Guy was so distracted, that he almost didn’t notice we were charged $13 for two small yogurts.

I ribbed him about wearing the billboard business casual attire on date night, and waddled out the door.

Today I’m babysitting for the first time in several years. My cousin’s baby is sleeping beside me, while she runs out for a hair cut. He refused his bottle, and fell asleep with his pacifier. I’m sure he’ll wake up starving, and ready to tell me all about it later.

I babysat a lot as a teenager. I loved to play House with a baby on my hip. It didn’t matter if I was washing dishes or playing tag with two giggling red-heads; I felt like me when I was swapping that baby from hip to hip.

With fewer babies around to watch these days, reading mommyblogs has become a way for me to play House. I peek in, to catch a chapter in the lives of characters across the country. Milestones, trials, and stories in the lives of Leta, Kaitlyn, Fatty Matty, and The Poo. A new chapter delivered to my Feed Reader every day. I read about trials and tantrums of other kids, and I get to daydream a little about my own child’s story, whatever it might be.

We picked out names for our children, while we were engaged. We picked names in much the same way that we picked out bedroom furniture and Christmas traditions. I pointed to the one I liked, and he bought it; I asked him to suggest one, and it became ours. But calling the baby by its name doesn’t make it feel more real. It’s still just the name of a character in a novel that I haven’t gotten to read yet.

This weekend, my sister-in-law sent me a baby book. A baby book for the stories of our baby. I opened the book to slip the ultrasound pictures in, just for safekeeping. Our ultrasound pictures of our child. I flipped through the pastel pages and looked at the blanks;

Mommy was in labor for:_______________
What you wore to your baby dedication:__________
Favorite lullaby:______________
Baby’s nickname:_____________

There are pages marked for Baby’s Handprints, and a photo of Baby’s favorite toy. Our baby’s handprints, our baby’s favorite toy. Somehow, seeing those blanks in a book is so much different than an ethereal and premature domain name, with ramblings about ill-fitting maternity clothes and heartburn. A place for my child, a place for my child’s story. A child who’s kicks I am no longer imagining.

I’ve been so afraid to let myself expect this child. Too afraid to look forward and get my hopes up. Always waiting, during this 40 week wait, to wake up and find that the other shoe has dropped. Yesterday, after looking at the baby book, I looked down at my navel for the first time and told my little duck “I love you.” For the first time, I didn’t feel ashamed of dreaming, and I didn’t feel silly talking to a child who isn’t there.