Mama Yogurt ...

or Mamaste yoga. I mistakenly called it mama yogurt, because, apparently I developed a speech impediment during my pregnancy. This sort of makes sense; nothing else is quite what it used to be. Why should my ability to speak the English language go unscathed?
Anyway, Mamste yoga was a wonderful recommendation from a yogi friend of mine. I wanted to join a prenatal yoga class in my first trimester, but was busy working, moving, complaining, milking my ability to get out of household chores, etc. I became very preoccupied lounging on my couch and managed to not sign up for a class during my second trimester. By the time I waddled into my third, I finally found the strength to pick up my laptop and look for a class. While there is no lack of pregos in my area, there is a lack of pregos who wish to contort themselves into pretzels.
Frustrated, I ruined a perfectly good lunch with a friend by complaining about my needs. She responded by suggesting a free podcast on I-tunes called Mamaste yoga. Its a quick 20 minute routine led by a zen, but somewhat too skinny broad (like I really believe she's birthed anything). It shows a *real* pregnant lady working out the poses. I now take ridiculous delight in stretching and breathing, though I still have a hard time relaxing (today I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to clean the vent I was looking at. Done and done). They "say" this is all going to help me during delivery. I'll be sure to have my husband, Derek, tell you how many cleansing breaths and pelvic tilts I manage to squeeze in between threatening his life, throwing whatever is closest to me, and spitting out pea soup while my head revolves 360 degrees.
I know there are some other great videos and books out there, but I can't seem to commit. My recommendation goes to mama yogurt!

Velma...my sleepless friend.

Everyone *says* that the lack of sleep afforded to pregnant women is in preparation for the upcoming big arrival. While this might secretly be one of the more genius operations of my body, I sort of doubt it. I mean, there are lots of unfortunate things my body doesn't practice for, such as:
1. Falling down the stairs. I'm a natural; I can do this without any preparation.
2. Having a headache. I don't go and seek one out, usually one just comes to me.
3. Rupturing my spleen. I haven't done it yet, but I bet I can do it without practicing.

So, why does my body insist on waking me in the middle of the night and leaving me to my own devices? I think my body is simply trying to up my productivity level. My summer schedule doesn’t leave near enough time for me to catch up on celebrity news, color code my book collection, learn to crochet granny squares, stalk babycenter, post on facebook, and watch Project Runway Reruns. Wait, yes it does.

She's just that happy...

Fine, my body is just a jerk-a jerk who takes pleasure in stealing my last fleeting days of gloriously uninterrupted sleep.
I believe my cat, Velma, would also agree. She begrudgingly accompanies me from my bed to the couch and curls up to sleep (almost as a sort of demonstration. “Look, lady. See how easy this is? Put down the remote and sleep!”).
Muhahaha, we’ll see how peaceful Velma’s sleep is with a crying baby. What she doesn’t know is that my husband and I have elected her to complete late night feedings.

Here and Now

I thought about starting off with a grand introduction, a sort of who's who of pen and chatter. There's the absent-minded professor husband, growin' bump, polar opposite parents, foreign in-laws, and a smattering of people crazy enough to continue to want to listen to my chatter and call themselves friend. These could all make great posts, but I've got a more imminent problem. A here and now concern.

I'm stuck in the couch.

Not like a "I've- lost- the- will- to- get- up -and -move- off -my- couch- and- haven't- showered- in- 15- days" type of thing. Its more of a literal "my- butt- has- sunk -in- betwixt- two -cushions- and -I -don't- have the- strength- to- extract- it" type of thing. I've been waiting for this type of occurrence as a sort of inevitable since the onset of my pregnancy. I've been inundated with images of smiling women sporting nothing less than soccer balls in their mid -regions since my first log in on a baby website. The images have followed me through weekly updates, registry lists, and the daunting task of purchasing new undergarments. The jig is up- I've now become one of these women, hopelessly beached on my own living room furniture unable to relocate myself.

Completely unmotivated to try to advance my situation (I've already tried rocking back and forth much like a turtle caught on its back), instead I've opted to fantasize about starting my own couch country where I will serve as the ultimate dictator.

First order of business, force the townspeople to bring me dessert...and a bedpan.