So everyone has little stereotypes about pregnancy. You know, asking about the due date, the sex, the name, commenting on the size of your bump, the stride of your waddle. When you start coming into the homestretch, people like to breathe at you.
Lamaze-style breathe at you. Because suddenly, when you're in the last month of pregnancy, everyone seems to become an obstetrician. They'll be able to tell if you've "dropped," and will be sure to let you know whether or not you have. In case you couldn't tell yourself after carrying the Mexican jumping basketball right beneath your areolas for nine months. They'll tell you how much you're expanding with every sighting. As if you couldn't tell from the increasing strain on the thin skin of the area of your stomach formerly known as a belly button. And they'll ask if you went to baby class and learned to breathe.
Give 'em a hee-hee-hoo for some kicks and giggles.
It's obviously highly encouraged that you take baby classes when you are pregnant, and they want you to sign up for them somewhere around week 28. I had that all set up. Then I went in the hospital during week 28. So we took baby classes later, around weeks 31-33ish. And my advice? Take them.
Not so much for the information, because honestly, it seemed to me mostly like an auditory version of what you've read in your pregnancy bibles and labor binders, complete with old posters and DVDs full of some graphic footage set to calming Native American spirit music.
Don't take them so much for the breathing, either, unless you are taking a straight-up Lamaze class. We did not; we took a regular three-week childbirthing class. And, yes, we did get some breathing exercises, but nothing like you are picturing. I wasn't breathing through my teeth with bulging eyes. It was a much quieter, subdued affair.
And while there were some nice little sessions of practicing labor positions that involve my husband giving me back massages with soda cans or tennis balls (which, as weird as it sounds, really DOES feel good), that's not really why you should take classes either.
Take them for the other people. If you're into building a little community of support and womanly festiveness, you can find it in a class. If you're like me and have no interest in forming bonds with strange women just because you've all got life inside of an increasingly huge yet seemingly too-small-for-baby uterus, then you get to sit back and observe the wonders of procreation.
For example, I learned the following from my baby class:
1. My instructor can work the phrases "Mmkay?" and "In addition" into a three hour class over 160 times. No exaggeration, because I kept a tally.
2. Opposites really do attract--one couple consisted of a self-proclaimed starving artist and a mathematician.
3. Sometimes, people entirely fit stereotypes. The starving artist wore sweatpants tucked into Uggs every class while asking a million questions about how to avoid all things medically advanced to ensure completely natural childbirth while her mathematician husband wore brown blazers with too short pants and wire-rimmed glasses. Another couple looked like young models. The guy was Russian and the girl was Scandanavian. She wore heeled boots with tights even though she was in her third trimester.
4. Eye patches are not birth control. A woman in my class was wearing an eye patch. And I have no idea why because she never explained it. And it still bothers me today.
5. Eye patches just may be an aphrodisiac. Her Steelers-obsessed and scrawny hubby constantly had his arm around her to rub her shoulder. He couldn't keep off of her. And I couldn't stop staring.
6. The older and uglier the guy, the more into his pregnant wife he acts. Our class ran the gamut from Russian hottie to Chunky Monkey. One of them mentioned hospital food as a perk to labor. Guess which one.
7. The older the couple, the more seriously they take the practice labor positions. And some of them you don't ever want to witness in person. Like accidentally seeing how they conceived in the first place.
So you see? Childbirth class can prepare you for birth not only by giving you every tidbit of info on the process of labor and the different types of delivery (although I still don't know where I pick up my woman who will soothingly recite an empowering poem over Enya chants) but by giving you plenty to picture and laugh about with your husband while writhing through those earlier labor pains.
Oh, and one other thing I learned that is immeasurably important: women want epidurals. Including me. So, thank you, childbirth class, for giving me such important lessons...mmkay? In addition, I hope you all find that little eyepatch of wonder in your worlds while you control your breathing to focus and relax.
Or just scream like hell if you want. At this point, you've earned it, right?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Rule # 16: Read Up...Calm Down
After being in the hospital for what the doctors are calling a minor placental abruption and finding out that has increased my chances of going early (I'm hoping!), not to mention realizing I'm currently at 32 weeks (that's 8 months, non-preggers), I decided it was time to get back to reading all those wonderfully HUGE books I have on pregnancy.
Get back, you say? What do you mean get back? You mean you haven't been fiendishly devouring every piece of information you possibly can over the last 5,000 hours of pregnancy? Bad Pregnant Woman! Bad!
Answer is: no, I haven't. Like most women who find themselves brand-spankin' pregnant, I did at first feel obligated to read a lot. I'm an educated person, and we live in an age where you can be a homebound expert on anything with just the click of a button, so I felt I had no excuse for not reading the brochures, booklets, binders, novels, and encyclopedias which found their way into my home eight weeks into fetus incubation like so many stinkbugs sneaking around my ceilings during the month of October. But I was finding that a lot of what I read was redundant, still kinda vague, or downright inapplicable. Why, at eight weeks pregnant, would I want to read about effacing and dilation and the intricate convulsing of the body when labor time arrives? Hell, no, I don't wanna know! Not yet anyway. So I put the books away--well, I did decoratively arrange them atop the baby dresser when organizing the nursery--and just went about my life. And that was working great.
Until the whole hospital and oh-shit-that-due-date-is-getting-close thing. I decided to read again, because now, understanding labor was relevant.
Lots of people like to ask you if you're scared when you look ready to pop. I had been telling people that no, I really wasn't scared of labor. And I hadn't been lying. I figured that nature would know what it was doing so my body was going to do its thang whether I was hyperventilating or Lamaze-ing, and I was going to be surrounded by medical professionals in a sterile hospital environment whose sole jobs it would be to ensure my and the baby's health. The baby would come out, just like millions of unsuspecting little souls before had, so why be scared? I have maintained that I'm way more scared at the thought of bringing her home, away from medical people who deal with these itty bitty beings every day, leaving the poor thing with just her father and me and a crazy little puppy to keep her alive after only three days in this godforsaken place we call Out of the Womb. That, my friends, is the true psychotic nature of making a baby: the fact that you have to maintain its survival without having earned a Masters degree in Parental Implementation and Supplemental Infant Psychology.
But then, I read the books.
And now, I already know more about labor than I ever really wanted to, and I didn't even finish the chapter. I think it caused instant acid reflux and eye spasms. I wasn't scared before I read all of the stuff that is supposed to make me feel prepared, but after reading all the information that is meant to make me feel comforted by educating me on the inner workings of ceaseran section versus vaginal delivery and positioning and all-around vagina-ness, I think I'd rather fall asleep and have to face off with Freddie Krueger. So thanks for keeping me informed, books.
Knowledge may be power, but ignorance is bliss.
So my advice? Read stuff if you want to. Stop if you break out into hives...and avoid anything that discusses ALL risks and possibilities. Chances are, your labor and delivery will be routine, and you'll feel freaked out for no reason. And if anything does occur, you'll be way calmer if you don't really know, which will probably just give better results in the end since you won't be clenching up in parts that are rather vital to whipping a baby out of your body. Be a Good Pregnant Woman by preparing yourself the way that makes you most comfortable. And just tell everyone you read everything. Maybe throw in a few medical terms for good effect. And go back to flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan for awhile.
After all, your cooch loves magazine articles on the act of baby-making way more than she could ever enjoy the novel chapters on baby-pushing. So let her just enjoy these last weeks of normalcy. She'll hate you soon enough.
Get back, you say? What do you mean get back? You mean you haven't been fiendishly devouring every piece of information you possibly can over the last 5,000 hours of pregnancy? Bad Pregnant Woman! Bad!
Answer is: no, I haven't. Like most women who find themselves brand-spankin' pregnant, I did at first feel obligated to read a lot. I'm an educated person, and we live in an age where you can be a homebound expert on anything with just the click of a button, so I felt I had no excuse for not reading the brochures, booklets, binders, novels, and encyclopedias which found their way into my home eight weeks into fetus incubation like so many stinkbugs sneaking around my ceilings during the month of October. But I was finding that a lot of what I read was redundant, still kinda vague, or downright inapplicable. Why, at eight weeks pregnant, would I want to read about effacing and dilation and the intricate convulsing of the body when labor time arrives? Hell, no, I don't wanna know! Not yet anyway. So I put the books away--well, I did decoratively arrange them atop the baby dresser when organizing the nursery--and just went about my life. And that was working great.
Until the whole hospital and oh-shit-that-due-date-is-getting-close thing. I decided to read again, because now, understanding labor was relevant.
Lots of people like to ask you if you're scared when you look ready to pop. I had been telling people that no, I really wasn't scared of labor. And I hadn't been lying. I figured that nature would know what it was doing so my body was going to do its thang whether I was hyperventilating or Lamaze-ing, and I was going to be surrounded by medical professionals in a sterile hospital environment whose sole jobs it would be to ensure my and the baby's health. The baby would come out, just like millions of unsuspecting little souls before had, so why be scared? I have maintained that I'm way more scared at the thought of bringing her home, away from medical people who deal with these itty bitty beings every day, leaving the poor thing with just her father and me and a crazy little puppy to keep her alive after only three days in this godforsaken place we call Out of the Womb. That, my friends, is the true psychotic nature of making a baby: the fact that you have to maintain its survival without having earned a Masters degree in Parental Implementation and Supplemental Infant Psychology.
But then, I read the books.
And now, I already know more about labor than I ever really wanted to, and I didn't even finish the chapter. I think it caused instant acid reflux and eye spasms. I wasn't scared before I read all of the stuff that is supposed to make me feel prepared, but after reading all the information that is meant to make me feel comforted by educating me on the inner workings of ceaseran section versus vaginal delivery and positioning and all-around vagina-ness, I think I'd rather fall asleep and have to face off with Freddie Krueger. So thanks for keeping me informed, books.
Knowledge may be power, but ignorance is bliss.
So my advice? Read stuff if you want to. Stop if you break out into hives...and avoid anything that discusses ALL risks and possibilities. Chances are, your labor and delivery will be routine, and you'll feel freaked out for no reason. And if anything does occur, you'll be way calmer if you don't really know, which will probably just give better results in the end since you won't be clenching up in parts that are rather vital to whipping a baby out of your body. Be a Good Pregnant Woman by preparing yourself the way that makes you most comfortable. And just tell everyone you read everything. Maybe throw in a few medical terms for good effect. And go back to flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan for awhile.
After all, your cooch loves magazine articles on the act of baby-making way more than she could ever enjoy the novel chapters on baby-pushing. So let her just enjoy these last weeks of normalcy. She'll hate you soon enough.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Rule # 15: Stay on the Sunny Side (of Shitty)
Like most things in life, just when we think it’s smooth sailing, we find ourselves partway up shit creek. (Ah, I love using my beautiful local colloquialisms sometimes.) I had been having no problems with my pregnancy outside of the normal whining and complaining you’ve born witness to through these writings, and so I cruised right into week 28 (that’s seven months for you non-preggers out there) like the world was as it should be.
And then, there was blood.
Gross, I know. And completely out of place. I had just been going for a routine pee, and when I pulled down the undies, I found what looked like the very beginning of a period. Now, it had been some time since I’d seen the beginning of a period, so the sight of that brownish but bright red spot on my pantiliner doubly shocked me. Then sent me into Holy Shit Mode.
Obviously, whether you’re pregnant, have been pregnant, or can’t stand the thought of cells ever congealing together in your uterus, you can figure out that you shouldn’t have blood leaking through your sweatpants like a newly-blessed sixth grader when you’re seven months down the road. So I called the doctor, had the hubby drive me to the hospital, where I was admitted and poked and prodded and monitored, and where I sat perched upon my little bedcage for three whole days.
In case you’re curious: speculums inserted into your recently bleeding wahoo are super uncomfortable. Of course, so is sitting in a hospital for two days waiting to be told everything is fine, just a fluke, go home and be normal again, please.
So far, I’ve only had that one small instance of bleeding, and nothing since. Far as they can tell, something probably happened with my placenta. The doctor was telling me something about an indentation and a possible “abruption” and more things that I heard but only listened to long enough to gather that the wee one and I are okay and they just need to track us for a bit to make sure we stay okay. Since then, I’ve been allowed to return home and continue bed-arrest for another week from the comforts of my own couch and toilet, and—of course—computer, so I’ve done a little research of my own, and it seems as if I lucked out in the placental abruption market, at least for now. So things could be worse, as they always could, right?
I mean, how bad can being doctor-ordered to sit around and do next to nothing be? If you’re anything like me, it can be torturous, since your brain has a lot of time to run through the gazillion things you could be completing in the time it takes to run through a day from Regis and Kelly to Oprah. Not to mention missing so much work unexpectedly. Oh, my uterus is going to contract just thinking about it!
But here’s the lesson: to be a Good Pregnant Woman, you need to remember you are not Super Woman and you cannot, indeed, do everything just as you had before getting pregnant, or even as you did when newly pregnant. This third trimester kicks your ass, even when you don’t know it is, as I quickly discovered. So prescribe yourself some relaxation and laziness before your placenta says enough is enough and springs a leak. Trust me.
And if you do spring a leak or have contractions before you should be or have your water break and need netting shoved up there and find yourself talking sweet nothings into a standard-issue hospital pillow, look on the sunny side of the shitty situation: you get to preview the people and place where you’ll be delivering, you get to show your husband just how much you really do around the house by giving him the list of chores you are no longer allowed to do, and you get to catch up on some of those guilty pleasure TV shows and stacks of novels that everyone is very quick to tell you you’ll have no time for once little one officially arrives.
Who knew? Good Pregnant Women can find the silver (panty)-lining in anything.
And then, there was blood.
Gross, I know. And completely out of place. I had just been going for a routine pee, and when I pulled down the undies, I found what looked like the very beginning of a period. Now, it had been some time since I’d seen the beginning of a period, so the sight of that brownish but bright red spot on my pantiliner doubly shocked me. Then sent me into Holy Shit Mode.
Obviously, whether you’re pregnant, have been pregnant, or can’t stand the thought of cells ever congealing together in your uterus, you can figure out that you shouldn’t have blood leaking through your sweatpants like a newly-blessed sixth grader when you’re seven months down the road. So I called the doctor, had the hubby drive me to the hospital, where I was admitted and poked and prodded and monitored, and where I sat perched upon my little bedcage for three whole days.
In case you’re curious: speculums inserted into your recently bleeding wahoo are super uncomfortable. Of course, so is sitting in a hospital for two days waiting to be told everything is fine, just a fluke, go home and be normal again, please.
So far, I’ve only had that one small instance of bleeding, and nothing since. Far as they can tell, something probably happened with my placenta. The doctor was telling me something about an indentation and a possible “abruption” and more things that I heard but only listened to long enough to gather that the wee one and I are okay and they just need to track us for a bit to make sure we stay okay. Since then, I’ve been allowed to return home and continue bed-arrest for another week from the comforts of my own couch and toilet, and—of course—computer, so I’ve done a little research of my own, and it seems as if I lucked out in the placental abruption market, at least for now. So things could be worse, as they always could, right?
I mean, how bad can being doctor-ordered to sit around and do next to nothing be? If you’re anything like me, it can be torturous, since your brain has a lot of time to run through the gazillion things you could be completing in the time it takes to run through a day from Regis and Kelly to Oprah. Not to mention missing so much work unexpectedly. Oh, my uterus is going to contract just thinking about it!
But here’s the lesson: to be a Good Pregnant Woman, you need to remember you are not Super Woman and you cannot, indeed, do everything just as you had before getting pregnant, or even as you did when newly pregnant. This third trimester kicks your ass, even when you don’t know it is, as I quickly discovered. So prescribe yourself some relaxation and laziness before your placenta says enough is enough and springs a leak. Trust me.
And if you do spring a leak or have contractions before you should be or have your water break and need netting shoved up there and find yourself talking sweet nothings into a standard-issue hospital pillow, look on the sunny side of the shitty situation: you get to preview the people and place where you’ll be delivering, you get to show your husband just how much you really do around the house by giving him the list of chores you are no longer allowed to do, and you get to catch up on some of those guilty pleasure TV shows and stacks of novels that everyone is very quick to tell you you’ll have no time for once little one officially arrives.
Who knew? Good Pregnant Women can find the silver (panty)-lining in anything.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Rule # 14: Cramp Your Style
One good thing about being pregnant (besides, you know, the impending immaculate pleasure of becoming a mother, that lovable job that's "like no other," as we're told by anyone who has raised a child) is that you don't have to put up with a period. No more tampons for this gal for awhile. No more tracking days or counting birth control pills. No more dumping out the purse in desperation to resort to that tampon you've had in there since 2004 with the bent applicator, or--worse yet--that applicator-less OB tampon your husband got the one time you trusted him with the task of picking some up. No more of it. So much less hassle.
And besides, that little present really is the monthly gift that keeps on giving, isn't it? Because not only do you have to deal with keeping your insides from leaking outside of your new khaki pants, you have to deal with feeling bloated, constipated, diarrhea-ated, migrained, and totally cramptastic. So since pregnancy has its own list of womanly wonders, we get to at least be excused from those former foes, right?
Wrong. Of course.
Welcome to PMS. Pregnancy Mania Shitdrome. And welcome to the crampiest you've ever been in your life.
You thought pre-menstrual cramps were bad? I bet you used to call off work sometimes, curl up on your little couch, pop some Midol, and try to nap them off. No can do with the baby-induced crampage. Because they last alllllll day long. For months' worth of days.
It's not so much one continuous cramp. They are definite, individual, singular-at-a-time cramps. Apparently Braxton-Hicks is the name docs like to call them (really? So the wonderful woman who got these named after her had to be some broad who wanted to hyphenate her last name in the honor of equal rights type shit? Good Lord. My husband's last name is definitely the only one I'm carrying, b/c it's his sperm that led to this uterus situation! He gets to carry full blame!). B-H basically means you're having contractions. But don't worry; just practice ones. So you mean I get a sneak preview of early labor? Oh, happy happy joy joy! Somehow, I like the kind of sneak previews you get at the movies better. Sue me.
But it's not so much the actual cramps that will annoy the piss out of you. And we both know you've got PLENTY of piss these days. It's more the feeling that you could majorly cramp up at any second, if you happen to move, pivot, cough, sneeze, breathe, laugh, blink, or exist the wrong way. Like that uterus is just poised for action in there, peering up at you past your lungs, peeking around the lip of your (continuously) enlargening and bumpy nipple, a little sneer on its uterus lining. Sleeping has become a game of samurai-like geniousness. I can't just easily twist and turn like I used to. (And, oh, God, how I do miss sleeping on my stomach!) Now I have to fully wake up, brace myself, flex my hip slightly to test for tightness and achiness--the result of resting on top of my other hip for an hour too long while I snoozed--clench my hands against the mattress, and try to shift my cannon barrel belly without using any ab muscles.
That's right. You try moving something that is attached to your abdomen w/out using your ab muscles to do it, for fear of everything inside deciding to clench up like a lion on the jugular of a juicy zebra.
And it's not just your uterus that wants to cramp all the time. It's other muscles too. Like your calves. Ooooh, yes. I run a daily stable full of charlie horses now. Especially at night time. Like if I'm concentrating too hard on my stomach situation, they get jealous and give a little pull as if to say, "Hey! We've been here longer. And you haven't walked us for two days. Pay attention, bitch, before we pop a cap o' cramp in your ass too!" And forget a morning stretch. Ah, I remember waking up and taking a moment to just yawn my hands far above my head and reach my toes ballerina-style toward the bottom edge of the bed, feeling the spaces open up nicely all along my back. If I even THINK about a toe extension of a downward variety now, it's bye-bye sanity, helloooo knife in my shin. Seriously. Because I'd rather stab a knife in my shin than have to feel another one of those cramps again.
But guess what? No one really cares, as usual, to hear about all of your cramp-ity doo dah days. So, I'm sure you know by now how to be a Good Pregnant Woman when it comes to anything like this: Just grin and bear it. Pretend that when you are rubbing a part of your bump, it's because you're bonding with baby, not because you're actually trying to shove her back up and over to relieve the pressure she just put on your back nerve, or kidney, or general sense of malaise.
And certainly not because you're secretly thinking she better knock it the hell off because she's getting god damned annoying already with the constant attention-seeking behavior. You know someday she's going to be a pain in your ass since she'll be a teenager.
Too bad you weren't warned sooner that she'd start off being a pain in your uterus. So cramp away, little one. Cramp away. Mama is a woman, after all, and she's already keeping score.
And besides, that little present really is the monthly gift that keeps on giving, isn't it? Because not only do you have to deal with keeping your insides from leaking outside of your new khaki pants, you have to deal with feeling bloated, constipated, diarrhea-ated, migrained, and totally cramptastic. So since pregnancy has its own list of womanly wonders, we get to at least be excused from those former foes, right?
Wrong. Of course.
Welcome to PMS. Pregnancy Mania Shitdrome. And welcome to the crampiest you've ever been in your life.
You thought pre-menstrual cramps were bad? I bet you used to call off work sometimes, curl up on your little couch, pop some Midol, and try to nap them off. No can do with the baby-induced crampage. Because they last alllllll day long. For months' worth of days.
It's not so much one continuous cramp. They are definite, individual, singular-at-a-time cramps. Apparently Braxton-Hicks is the name docs like to call them (really? So the wonderful woman who got these named after her had to be some broad who wanted to hyphenate her last name in the honor of equal rights type shit? Good Lord. My husband's last name is definitely the only one I'm carrying, b/c it's his sperm that led to this uterus situation! He gets to carry full blame!). B-H basically means you're having contractions. But don't worry; just practice ones. So you mean I get a sneak preview of early labor? Oh, happy happy joy joy! Somehow, I like the kind of sneak previews you get at the movies better. Sue me.
But it's not so much the actual cramps that will annoy the piss out of you. And we both know you've got PLENTY of piss these days. It's more the feeling that you could majorly cramp up at any second, if you happen to move, pivot, cough, sneeze, breathe, laugh, blink, or exist the wrong way. Like that uterus is just poised for action in there, peering up at you past your lungs, peeking around the lip of your (continuously) enlargening and bumpy nipple, a little sneer on its uterus lining. Sleeping has become a game of samurai-like geniousness. I can't just easily twist and turn like I used to. (And, oh, God, how I do miss sleeping on my stomach!) Now I have to fully wake up, brace myself, flex my hip slightly to test for tightness and achiness--the result of resting on top of my other hip for an hour too long while I snoozed--clench my hands against the mattress, and try to shift my cannon barrel belly without using any ab muscles.
That's right. You try moving something that is attached to your abdomen w/out using your ab muscles to do it, for fear of everything inside deciding to clench up like a lion on the jugular of a juicy zebra.
And it's not just your uterus that wants to cramp all the time. It's other muscles too. Like your calves. Ooooh, yes. I run a daily stable full of charlie horses now. Especially at night time. Like if I'm concentrating too hard on my stomach situation, they get jealous and give a little pull as if to say, "Hey! We've been here longer. And you haven't walked us for two days. Pay attention, bitch, before we pop a cap o' cramp in your ass too!" And forget a morning stretch. Ah, I remember waking up and taking a moment to just yawn my hands far above my head and reach my toes ballerina-style toward the bottom edge of the bed, feeling the spaces open up nicely all along my back. If I even THINK about a toe extension of a downward variety now, it's bye-bye sanity, helloooo knife in my shin. Seriously. Because I'd rather stab a knife in my shin than have to feel another one of those cramps again.
But guess what? No one really cares, as usual, to hear about all of your cramp-ity doo dah days. So, I'm sure you know by now how to be a Good Pregnant Woman when it comes to anything like this: Just grin and bear it. Pretend that when you are rubbing a part of your bump, it's because you're bonding with baby, not because you're actually trying to shove her back up and over to relieve the pressure she just put on your back nerve, or kidney, or general sense of malaise.
And certainly not because you're secretly thinking she better knock it the hell off because she's getting god damned annoying already with the constant attention-seeking behavior. You know someday she's going to be a pain in your ass since she'll be a teenager.
Too bad you weren't warned sooner that she'd start off being a pain in your uterus. So cramp away, little one. Cramp away. Mama is a woman, after all, and she's already keeping score.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Rule # 13: It's Strong Enough for a Man, But Made for a Woman's Thighs
I love when people tell me that, from behind, you can't even tell I'm pregnant. That I definitely only look like I've gained weight in my belly.
Then when I think about it, who does look pregnant from behind? What's that even mean? That I don't have a round hump appearing below my tramp stamp, stretching out its Chinese characters to look like a toddler's attempts at coloring on the living room wall? Thank God for that.
And if I look like I haven't gained weight anywhere other than my belly, Criss Angel should be asking me for trick tips. I mean, obviously the belly gets bigger. And rounder. And feels like a soccer ball has been shoved up your wahoo to rest right below your lungs, so that any normal bending requires the focus of a deep sea diver with low levels of oxygen. Not to mention that, almost 26 weeks in, I'm beginning to notice the feeling that my skin is stretching. Like, I can literally feel it as its happening (or so my Mego Prego brain imagines). It's like a balloon that's been blown up just a tad too far...that's been shoved up your wahoo to rest under your damn lungs. Or like you just ate the largest burrito in your life and all of the gas exhaled by those beans is rolling around inside and refusing to come out. I feel puffy.
I'm that kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that ate a blueberry she shouldn't have and bloated up into a rolly-polly ball.
That's not the only part of me that has expanded, however. Sadly, the thighs are a-thundering.
Now, in my previous life, I used to say that my thighs were chafing. But it wasn't until I actually began procreating life that I discovered the true meaning of the burning, itching, aching, rash-like phenomenon that transpires when sweaty thigh rubs against sweaty thigh for far too long underneath a maternity dress on a hot summer day.
While breaking Good Pregnant Woman form and whining to a friend about this problem, I was given a tip. And I consider this friend of mine to be a savior.
Want to know the secret to stopping the childbearing chafe?
Secret.
That's right. Rub some good ol' deoderant on your inside thighs and waddle away, ladies. No rash. No irritated bumpy pores. Just clean, fresh smelling, glide-worthy legs at your service.
Don't necessarily take to heart everything you are told to rub your body down in, though. I've also been told to lather myself up every night with Crisco shortening to prevent stretch marks.
Takes the phrase "a bun in the oven" to a whole new baking level if you ask me.
So I'm going to stay out of the kitchen shelves and stick to raiding the bathroom medicine cabinet for remedies awhile. Now if only something could pop the pressure in my bloated bump. Even my belly button can't handle it anymore...
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Rule # 12: Namely, Mystery Beats Sarcasm
You have survived the years worth of badgering over when you were going to ever have children and provide your family with the all-important grandchildren & heirs to the family-name throne (for however much or little that really is worth). You've battled through the barrage of stereo-typical questions(and by stereo dash typical I mean the questions everyone asks you so many times you think you're listening to a CD on your stereo on "Repeat One" mode for eternity)involving your gestation, due date, and sexxxxxxx, baby. Oops, sorry. I meant sex of the baby. My bad.
And you found out the sex because a) it's the 21st century and that's pretty easy info to come by these days, b) you felt as if you could be better prepared for the little one and c) you just wanted to shut everyone the hell up for a change (circa Rule # 6). If you're like me, you found out you're having a girl. And you were surprised because for the last eight years of your life, the trustworthy necklace tests have told you nothing but boys boys boys. And boys and boys.
Filthy lyin' necklace test. Threw me off. Good thing I did find out now because I was NOT ready to have a daughter! But no worries, because I am honestly excited. At least for years 1 through pre-tween. ;)
Anyways, I'm sure you've figured out that the questions aren't over. People are prepared for this one, too, you know. Next one up their sleeve?
Oh, how sweet. Have any names picked out yet?
Damnit.
Here's the thing about names: everyone's got different tastes. That's why I've got a baby book with over 100,000 names, about five of which I really truly like enough to mull over. Naming someone is a HUGE responsibility. I mean, you're in charge of assigning a word to someone that will be used to refer to her for the REST OF HER LIFE. When that word is said, it will represent her. So it better be damn cool, unique, beautiful, intelligent, radiant, creative, passionate, and awe-inspiring...because it has to fit her. And she will be all of those things. At least that I am certain about.
So I feel enough pressure--as delivered by myself--to choose a flippin' fantastic word to call my daughter after I deliver her. I do not need every living person who crosses my path to ask about my choices in the hopes of throwing in their two cents.
Perhaps I should charge. If you want to know my choices, that will be two cents, please. All proceeds benefit the Unnamed Reeder Child College & Future Wedding Foundation.
My Good Pregnant Woman advice: play confused, frustrated, overwhelmed, or mysterious. Whatever you do, do NOT divulge your REAL choices. And if you do actually have one name picked out, guard it like a horny dog guards that stuffed animal he has made his hump slave.
If you tell people your choice or possible choices, they will ruin them for you. They'll know someone who knows someone who knows someone by that name who turned out to be a serial killer. Or psychotic schizophrenic bipolar multiple personality. Or different species, like a hairless chihuahua. Then they'll also feel the need to offer you MORE possibilities to consider, and THEN you'll have to pretend you like what they say, even if you don't, and even if they tsk-tsked over your favorite when you told them. Don't do this to yourself. Because you won't have patience to pretend, and you'll hurt their feelings, and then you have to take precious pregnant minutes to feel guilty about being bitchy, and you'll waste enough time on that every time you go to Babies R Us and a sixteen-year-old trainee can't figure out how to ring up your crib purchase for a half hour. (Wow, what a specific example, you may be thinking. Real life, people. Real life.)
If you don't just pretend to not have it narrowed down yet or to like so many names you couldn't possibly share them all anyway, you'll end up being sarcastic. People will ask you what you're considering and you'll say, "Noname," or "Abba," or "Shithead," with the most serious and loving tone you can muster. By the way, I know for a fact two out of three of those have appeared on birth certificates here in America. And they aren't dancing queens, either.
While sarcasm will amuse you and your friends endlessly, it's Bad Pregnant Woman form to really do this to good-intentioned albeit annoying aquaintances. So get used to squeezing those shoulders up toward your neck in that helpless signal kind of way. And keep a pen and paper handy.
You'll want to keep track of all of the names people offer you, since they'll be on your Epic Failure list forever.
And you found out the sex because a) it's the 21st century and that's pretty easy info to come by these days, b) you felt as if you could be better prepared for the little one and c) you just wanted to shut everyone the hell up for a change (circa Rule # 6). If you're like me, you found out you're having a girl. And you were surprised because for the last eight years of your life, the trustworthy necklace tests have told you nothing but boys boys boys. And boys and boys.
Filthy lyin' necklace test. Threw me off. Good thing I did find out now because I was NOT ready to have a daughter! But no worries, because I am honestly excited. At least for years 1 through pre-tween. ;)
Anyways, I'm sure you've figured out that the questions aren't over. People are prepared for this one, too, you know. Next one up their sleeve?
Oh, how sweet. Have any names picked out yet?
Damnit.
Here's the thing about names: everyone's got different tastes. That's why I've got a baby book with over 100,000 names, about five of which I really truly like enough to mull over. Naming someone is a HUGE responsibility. I mean, you're in charge of assigning a word to someone that will be used to refer to her for the REST OF HER LIFE. When that word is said, it will represent her. So it better be damn cool, unique, beautiful, intelligent, radiant, creative, passionate, and awe-inspiring...because it has to fit her. And she will be all of those things. At least that I am certain about.
So I feel enough pressure--as delivered by myself--to choose a flippin' fantastic word to call my daughter after I deliver her. I do not need every living person who crosses my path to ask about my choices in the hopes of throwing in their two cents.
Perhaps I should charge. If you want to know my choices, that will be two cents, please. All proceeds benefit the Unnamed Reeder Child College & Future Wedding Foundation.
My Good Pregnant Woman advice: play confused, frustrated, overwhelmed, or mysterious. Whatever you do, do NOT divulge your REAL choices. And if you do actually have one name picked out, guard it like a horny dog guards that stuffed animal he has made his hump slave.
If you tell people your choice or possible choices, they will ruin them for you. They'll know someone who knows someone who knows someone by that name who turned out to be a serial killer. Or psychotic schizophrenic bipolar multiple personality. Or different species, like a hairless chihuahua. Then they'll also feel the need to offer you MORE possibilities to consider, and THEN you'll have to pretend you like what they say, even if you don't, and even if they tsk-tsked over your favorite when you told them. Don't do this to yourself. Because you won't have patience to pretend, and you'll hurt their feelings, and then you have to take precious pregnant minutes to feel guilty about being bitchy, and you'll waste enough time on that every time you go to Babies R Us and a sixteen-year-old trainee can't figure out how to ring up your crib purchase for a half hour. (Wow, what a specific example, you may be thinking. Real life, people. Real life.)
If you don't just pretend to not have it narrowed down yet or to like so many names you couldn't possibly share them all anyway, you'll end up being sarcastic. People will ask you what you're considering and you'll say, "Noname," or "Abba," or "Shithead," with the most serious and loving tone you can muster. By the way, I know for a fact two out of three of those have appeared on birth certificates here in America. And they aren't dancing queens, either.
While sarcasm will amuse you and your friends endlessly, it's Bad Pregnant Woman form to really do this to good-intentioned albeit annoying aquaintances. So get used to squeezing those shoulders up toward your neck in that helpless signal kind of way. And keep a pen and paper handy.
You'll want to keep track of all of the names people offer you, since they'll be on your Epic Failure list forever.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Rule # 11: Stop, Prop, and Roll (Out of Your Shoes)
It's a conspiracy. Seriously.
The world knows I've adamantly attempted to maintain some semblance of fashion sense and cuteness (see Rule 8) during this pregnancy thing. But I'm not idealistic, or unreasonable. I knew that my high heels were unfairly banished to the back of my closet as soon as my belly button popped like a cooked turkey. I was prepared for this limitation in my footwear.
So my solution? Flats. Plenty of cute, comfortable, solidy stable flats that I could wear to work and look professional, pregnant, and still cute all at once.
But nooooooooooooooo. Could the world give me this one little thing? Could it use its mystical forces to grant me the ability to wear stylish flats with ease so that I felt as if I'd maintained at least an iota of my former self in this bloated state?
Of course the hell not.
Let me break it down into a little equation for you:
[Pregnancy + End of Summer + 3(Days of >90 degree heat) + Cute shoeware] / Working Conditions - Air Conditioning = Feet Bloated Like a Dead Floating Body in an Episode of CSI (any spinoff of preference works here)
I'd like to say that this wasn't a problem until the end of my day today, when I sat in my classroom with three fans blowing on high and two windows opened to maximum capacity with the lights rebelliously turned off, only to find it still sweltering. I'd like to pretend that only after three full work days of those conditions, with over a hundred hot-air-filled teenagers in & out of my room, did I discover it impossible to cram my toes into the pair of black flats I've owned for two years. You know, one of those pair of old reliable shoes that you've broken in, so that they conform to your feet just right. If your feet had parents, these shoes would be them; that's how comfortable, reliable, and supportive they are to your tootsies. I'd like to say that only after hours of sweating and water retention were my swollen soles no longer welcomed with open Mary Jane straps.
But I can't. Because the sad truth is, they were really tight this morning, when I shoved them on in the last two minutes I had to pack my lunch and skid out to my car.
Take it from me, my prego friends: don't live in denial like I did. You won't have near enough patience, tact, or tolerance to outlast the inevitable disappointment you're headed for when you ignore the blister that's formed on your heel before you even turn the ignition to start the day. Just purchase cheap clogs that will match most outfits and avoid full-length mirrors, so you don't have to see what you've been reduced to by your uncooperative body and its lovely little passenger.
So thanks, summer, for needing to be so damn hot that my FEET look like WATER BALLOONS one needlepoint away from explosion. And thanks, pregnancy, for making me feel like an 85-year-old granny who needs to wear support stockings and prop her feet on a crocheted footstool after ten minutes of any movement.
Good thing I'm getting a custom-made baby out of this deal.
The world knows I've adamantly attempted to maintain some semblance of fashion sense and cuteness (see Rule 8) during this pregnancy thing. But I'm not idealistic, or unreasonable. I knew that my high heels were unfairly banished to the back of my closet as soon as my belly button popped like a cooked turkey. I was prepared for this limitation in my footwear.
So my solution? Flats. Plenty of cute, comfortable, solidy stable flats that I could wear to work and look professional, pregnant, and still cute all at once.
But nooooooooooooooo. Could the world give me this one little thing? Could it use its mystical forces to grant me the ability to wear stylish flats with ease so that I felt as if I'd maintained at least an iota of my former self in this bloated state?
Of course the hell not.
Let me break it down into a little equation for you:
[Pregnancy + End of Summer + 3(Days of >90 degree heat) + Cute shoeware] / Working Conditions - Air Conditioning = Feet Bloated Like a Dead Floating Body in an Episode of CSI (any spinoff of preference works here)
I'd like to say that this wasn't a problem until the end of my day today, when I sat in my classroom with three fans blowing on high and two windows opened to maximum capacity with the lights rebelliously turned off, only to find it still sweltering. I'd like to pretend that only after three full work days of those conditions, with over a hundred hot-air-filled teenagers in & out of my room, did I discover it impossible to cram my toes into the pair of black flats I've owned for two years. You know, one of those pair of old reliable shoes that you've broken in, so that they conform to your feet just right. If your feet had parents, these shoes would be them; that's how comfortable, reliable, and supportive they are to your tootsies. I'd like to say that only after hours of sweating and water retention were my swollen soles no longer welcomed with open Mary Jane straps.
But I can't. Because the sad truth is, they were really tight this morning, when I shoved them on in the last two minutes I had to pack my lunch and skid out to my car.
Take it from me, my prego friends: don't live in denial like I did. You won't have near enough patience, tact, or tolerance to outlast the inevitable disappointment you're headed for when you ignore the blister that's formed on your heel before you even turn the ignition to start the day. Just purchase cheap clogs that will match most outfits and avoid full-length mirrors, so you don't have to see what you've been reduced to by your uncooperative body and its lovely little passenger.
So thanks, summer, for needing to be so damn hot that my FEET look like WATER BALLOONS one needlepoint away from explosion. And thanks, pregnancy, for making me feel like an 85-year-old granny who needs to wear support stockings and prop her feet on a crocheted footstool after ten minutes of any movement.
Good thing I'm getting a custom-made baby out of this deal.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Rule # 10: Keep Counting the Ways
Another milestone is within reach. I am just a few days away from 24 weeks. Or 6 months, whichever you prefer. And folks, you do have your preferences.
Before getting pregnant myself, I used to wonder why pregnant women had to be so obsessive as to relay the length of their pregnancy via weeks. They sounded like teenagers in their first "real" relationship who were all too eager to share the good new lovey news.
"Oh my God, we've been together for, like, two weeks and four days. We're celebrating our three week anniversary this weekend! I love him so much!!!!"
I used to always smile politely at their peppy pregnant answer of 14 weeks while quickly doing the math in my head to determine how many months they were, since after all, the world knows a woman is pregnant for nine months, and all I really wanted to know was how close she was to popping.
Then I got pregnant myself, and discovered that I'd been lied to. Just like the fact that Christopher Columbus apparently did not sail the ocean blue in 14-hundred and 92 to discover the America where we live, pregnancy is not nine months long, my friend. It's ten.
What?, you ask. Or perhaps you actually are thinking, WTF?
Doctors measure pregnancy by weeks. Forty of them to be exact, which, if you are a math genius like myself, you've already figured out makes ten months instead of nine. That's because they actually begin tracking your pregnancy from the first day of your last period. Why? Because they can. And because they can't pinpoint the exact hour during which sperm hit egg, so they go back to the last milestone they can track: that monthly shedding of a uterus wall. That You Are Woman, Hear Me Bitch marker of every month.
So this is why pregnant women love to answer you with weeks instead of months, because upon known conception, they are brainwashed to track this thing by the week. It's how the doctors talk to us. Their little measuring tapes that they start breaking out around week 20, like you're an obese 15 year-old at Fat Camp, measure your appropriate size via WEEK NUMBER, not inches. Measuring at a week ahead of where they've tracked means you may deliver a week early.
Of course, I measured exactly on the mark last visit. Sigh.
Basically, bear with us when we automatically spew numbers at you on a 1-40 scale, because it's how we've been trained. But ladies, if you wish to be Good, consider your audience when answering this question: if this is a woman who has given birth in her life within the past, well, EVER, week her up. She'll know, understand, and love it. If it's a woman who hasn't given birth herself but has been surrounded by the hormonal hell of pregnancy often, hit her with that seven-days-at-a-time count.
If, however, this is a young lady who has not waded through the world of waiting for her water to break, try to give her months. She'll feel more comfortable and look at you like you've still got some normal human being left about you. If it's a guy, father or not, I suggest you just be vague. If they ask how far along you are, say, "Due end of December!" or "Almost there!" or "Well, getting there!" and smile, because they don't understand it anyways and they are just trying to be nice. Thanks, boys.
After all, you are the ones that get us into this nine month mess for forty weeks. And I never was any good at arithmetic.
Before getting pregnant myself, I used to wonder why pregnant women had to be so obsessive as to relay the length of their pregnancy via weeks. They sounded like teenagers in their first "real" relationship who were all too eager to share the good new lovey news.
"Oh my God, we've been together for, like, two weeks and four days. We're celebrating our three week anniversary this weekend! I love him so much!!!!"
I used to always smile politely at their peppy pregnant answer of 14 weeks while quickly doing the math in my head to determine how many months they were, since after all, the world knows a woman is pregnant for nine months, and all I really wanted to know was how close she was to popping.
Then I got pregnant myself, and discovered that I'd been lied to. Just like the fact that Christopher Columbus apparently did not sail the ocean blue in 14-hundred and 92 to discover the America where we live, pregnancy is not nine months long, my friend. It's ten.
What?, you ask. Or perhaps you actually are thinking, WTF?
Doctors measure pregnancy by weeks. Forty of them to be exact, which, if you are a math genius like myself, you've already figured out makes ten months instead of nine. That's because they actually begin tracking your pregnancy from the first day of your last period. Why? Because they can. And because they can't pinpoint the exact hour during which sperm hit egg, so they go back to the last milestone they can track: that monthly shedding of a uterus wall. That You Are Woman, Hear Me Bitch marker of every month.
So this is why pregnant women love to answer you with weeks instead of months, because upon known conception, they are brainwashed to track this thing by the week. It's how the doctors talk to us. Their little measuring tapes that they start breaking out around week 20, like you're an obese 15 year-old at Fat Camp, measure your appropriate size via WEEK NUMBER, not inches. Measuring at a week ahead of where they've tracked means you may deliver a week early.
Of course, I measured exactly on the mark last visit. Sigh.
Basically, bear with us when we automatically spew numbers at you on a 1-40 scale, because it's how we've been trained. But ladies, if you wish to be Good, consider your audience when answering this question: if this is a woman who has given birth in her life within the past, well, EVER, week her up. She'll know, understand, and love it. If it's a woman who hasn't given birth herself but has been surrounded by the hormonal hell of pregnancy often, hit her with that seven-days-at-a-time count.
If, however, this is a young lady who has not waded through the world of waiting for her water to break, try to give her months. She'll feel more comfortable and look at you like you've still got some normal human being left about you. If it's a guy, father or not, I suggest you just be vague. If they ask how far along you are, say, "Due end of December!" or "Almost there!" or "Well, getting there!" and smile, because they don't understand it anyways and they are just trying to be nice. Thanks, boys.
After all, you are the ones that get us into this nine month mess for forty weeks. And I never was any good at arithmetic.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Rule #9: ...Wait, What Was I Going to Type?
I've never had the most reliable short-term memory. I mean, with trivial items, sure. I was a regular Rain Man. Lost the receipt from dinner last night? Got it, down to the centavos. Can't recall the exact time you dropped off that prescription to be filled? 3:18 pm, my friend. How old was I when I ate so much chocolate my nose bled? Four. Always four.
My memory was always photographic enough to make high school and most of college a breeze too. I could close my eyes and see my notebook sheet, doodles and all, to recall enough of it to b.s. my way through any short answer or essay.
But as I grew up and flipped sides of the desk, from student to teacher, and flipped through life roles, from daughter to wife, I became busy, with lots more to multitask more of the time, so forgetful moments became inevitable. You know, forgot to turn in lesson plans by 8 am Monday morning so took them down at 10, or went to visit the mother-in-law and forgot to take that tupperware back for her. The usual. Misplaced keys. A rented movie returned one day late. Mowing over a pile of dog shit you never cleaned up. That type of stuff.
So if you find yourself in any of what I just listed, brace yourself for when Mego Prego Brain hits. When your life role flips once again so that it's standing on edge between non-mother and mother (since you really are in a weird in-between pregnancy purgatory during the 40 weeks it takes for a child to cook up), you will realize that, honey, you ain't seen--or forgotten--nothin' yet.
It's as if pieces of your brain just fall away. Like you've suddenly become someone who smoked crack for a decade and can no longer retain information for longer than five minutes. You'll tattoo yourself with half-assed scribbled attempts to remind yourself of all the important things you need to do, none of which will be helpful since the ink will smear in the sweat you work up when walking from your car to your front door.
I wish I could list for you all of the things I've forgotten just in this past week to demonstrate its impact. But that's just the problem. I've already forgotten what I've forgotten.
And once you've forgotten something for the fifth time, you'll experience an appertaining rage unparalled by any prior experience in your life. Your veins will burn and your eyes will slit and your lip will curl. If you could punch your brain for being such a slacker asshole, you totally would. But you can't, so you'll just growl, loudly. In public. In the middle of the grocery store aisle. And you won't care who sees. Or hears. Or listens. Or backs away slowly, hands in the air.
My Good Pregnant Women, we must call this what it really is: a brain disease. Pregmensia. Bumpheimer's. The life source growing inside you is sucking away your mental powers, and there's nothing you can do about it. There is no cure. Well, I guess there is, actually. If you call birthing a cure. You just have to hope there was no permanent damage done to that cerebral membrane.
Therefore, I announce this to be one area where people really DO need to cut us some slack! I'm developing the next person to enter this world who matters, so don't ask me to remember to bring you in the recipe for my baked macaroni and cheese. Don't tell me a five-digit number to memorize as my new password. And if you even think about handing me papers I need to hold onto for two months, just turn around and walk the other way, then walk back my way in two months when I'll pretend to care a little more.
In the meantime, get yourself a large and very sticky pad of Post-Its and...
Shit. I had something profound for you to write on there, but I forget. F--- it. Milk the stomach and just go nap every chance you get. No one will dare say anything to you.
And thank God for that, since you won't listen or remember what they had to say anyway.
My memory was always photographic enough to make high school and most of college a breeze too. I could close my eyes and see my notebook sheet, doodles and all, to recall enough of it to b.s. my way through any short answer or essay.
But as I grew up and flipped sides of the desk, from student to teacher, and flipped through life roles, from daughter to wife, I became busy, with lots more to multitask more of the time, so forgetful moments became inevitable. You know, forgot to turn in lesson plans by 8 am Monday morning so took them down at 10, or went to visit the mother-in-law and forgot to take that tupperware back for her. The usual. Misplaced keys. A rented movie returned one day late. Mowing over a pile of dog shit you never cleaned up. That type of stuff.
So if you find yourself in any of what I just listed, brace yourself for when Mego Prego Brain hits. When your life role flips once again so that it's standing on edge between non-mother and mother (since you really are in a weird in-between pregnancy purgatory during the 40 weeks it takes for a child to cook up), you will realize that, honey, you ain't seen--or forgotten--nothin' yet.
It's as if pieces of your brain just fall away. Like you've suddenly become someone who smoked crack for a decade and can no longer retain information for longer than five minutes. You'll tattoo yourself with half-assed scribbled attempts to remind yourself of all the important things you need to do, none of which will be helpful since the ink will smear in the sweat you work up when walking from your car to your front door.
I wish I could list for you all of the things I've forgotten just in this past week to demonstrate its impact. But that's just the problem. I've already forgotten what I've forgotten.
And once you've forgotten something for the fifth time, you'll experience an appertaining rage unparalled by any prior experience in your life. Your veins will burn and your eyes will slit and your lip will curl. If you could punch your brain for being such a slacker asshole, you totally would. But you can't, so you'll just growl, loudly. In public. In the middle of the grocery store aisle. And you won't care who sees. Or hears. Or listens. Or backs away slowly, hands in the air.
My Good Pregnant Women, we must call this what it really is: a brain disease. Pregmensia. Bumpheimer's. The life source growing inside you is sucking away your mental powers, and there's nothing you can do about it. There is no cure. Well, I guess there is, actually. If you call birthing a cure. You just have to hope there was no permanent damage done to that cerebral membrane.
Therefore, I announce this to be one area where people really DO need to cut us some slack! I'm developing the next person to enter this world who matters, so don't ask me to remember to bring you in the recipe for my baked macaroni and cheese. Don't tell me a five-digit number to memorize as my new password. And if you even think about handing me papers I need to hold onto for two months, just turn around and walk the other way, then walk back my way in two months when I'll pretend to care a little more.
In the meantime, get yourself a large and very sticky pad of Post-Its and...
Shit. I had something profound for you to write on there, but I forget. F--- it. Milk the stomach and just go nap every chance you get. No one will dare say anything to you.
And thank God for that, since you won't listen or remember what they had to say anyway.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Rule # 8: Beg, Borrow, But Please, Don't Squeeze
So you have emerged: pregnant, proud, prodigiously stomached. You finally feel as if you're experiencing that neater part of pregnancy everyone else likes to tell you about: little "butterflies" of the baby's first movements (or, in my experience, what feels like muscle twitches in my uterus region, not so much the gentle gliding wisp of a wandering wing), a rounded tummy, perhaps even a rare sighting of visible movement from the outside, or the official ultrasound where that alien you saw back in the beginning now actually looks baby-like. The good times are a-rolling.
Then you realize you're going to be seen in public and need to dress like a person who is not homeless. Or blind. And you're screwed.
Why? Because most maternity clothing is just not flattering. And if you wish to be a mamasita fashionista on a budget such as I do, you're in for severe disappointment. Because while there are cute maternity clothes out there, they're like anything else in life: the more you like it, the more it costs. I've found some fabulously adorable items in my many store scavenges and internet stake-outs and I hold my breath in anticipation...then I see the price, and I exhale with an expletive or two.
My main problem with spending any money is that a) I'm only going to be wearing this clothing for less than a full year of my life, b) I'm going to continue getting bigger, so I can't really be sure anything will fit me for more than a few months at a time anyway, and c) I'm going to get huge eventually and have a feeling nothing will make me feel as cute as my zebra-striped, red-heeled stilletos used to, so why spend money on things that aren't going to do their job?
If you can relate to such a dilemma, I am here to warn you: Whatever you do, you MUST break down and purchase a few of your own cute items with your own money, so that you have some guaranteed winners in your closet. Once you've hit the point where maternity jeans really are the only comfortable option (I'm pretty much there, and I'm just about 22 weeks), be a Good Pregnant Woman and REMOVE ALL NON-PREGNANT CLOTHING FROM YOUR CLOSET. Why do I say this? Because it's what you tell a recovering alcoholic to do with all of the bottles he used to have stashed before returning home: get them out of sight for good. If you don't get those clothes out of there, you're going to suffer fashion depression. Two reasons for this:
1. You will falsely rationalize to yourself that you can still fit into certain pieces. Then you will put on a cutesy spaghetti-strapped, flowy blouse from White House Black Market that you always thought made you look a little pregnant before you actually were, believing that now it'll be perfect since you actually are pregnant so it's okay if you look it, and then you'll walk to the mirror where your confidence will drain slowly out of the visible ring around the location of your half-popped belly button, which will be accented by the formerly adorable shirt. You'll immediately take off this item and desperately try another loose-fitting top with a rouched bottom that you are POSITIVE will work without a problem only to notice your maternity bra generously announcing itself through the thin material. At this point you will sit half-naked with the most pitiful little tears clinging to your eyes as reality rears its ugly head at you. Non-pregnancy clothing is, indeed, completely unsalvageable. And then you may raise your fist to the sky and say, "Damn you, pregnant blogger lady! You tried to tell me and I didn't believe you!" Then you may drop to your knees dramatically while screaming "Nooooo!" at the sky.
2. If you keep all of your skinnier clothes in your constant line of vision every morning you attempt to find something to put on, you're going to be nostalgically remembering the days when you looked fabulous with much less effort, and many more choices. While you stare at that red wrap dress with the plunging neckline, you'll be pulling out a full-length black turtleneck dress with some weird zipper accent that makes you look like you're 20 years older than you really are. You're just asking to be sad about the whole situation. And you'll start to wonder why you would have ever been so anxious to speed up to where you had a bump, because you'll be bearing witness to the fact that there's a payoff for bumpdom: frumpdom.
The other reason for this sacrifice in style is because you will definitely not want to spend enough money to completely replace your entire wardrobe, so you'll end up borrowing from any and every formerly pregnant woman willing to offer her items to you. And believe me, this is the best source you've got, although there are dangers. You may find yourself with a few exciting items that you'll want to kiss your friend for owning and allowing you to have, but you'll mostly get bland items that are usable (if there was ever a time to stock up on cheap costume jewelry that can pop, it's now!) and a few horrifying items that you'll just stare at like roadkill. You'll wonder how any woman could bring herself to stoop to suede cowboy pants, or potato-sack pastel grandma flower prints. You may even experience a flashback to morning sickness or first trimester nausea when you mistakenly envision yourself in these items.
But that's what you've got, so make it work, just like everything else. Because there's only one thing other stylish ladies will accept as an excuse, and you've got it plastered all over: BABY ON BOARD! So just don the plain black dress, throw on the big hot pink beads, step up the mascara, and smile pretty, mama.
The zebra-striped heels are waiting patiently. And what a sweet reunion it'll be.
Then you realize you're going to be seen in public and need to dress like a person who is not homeless. Or blind. And you're screwed.
Why? Because most maternity clothing is just not flattering. And if you wish to be a mamasita fashionista on a budget such as I do, you're in for severe disappointment. Because while there are cute maternity clothes out there, they're like anything else in life: the more you like it, the more it costs. I've found some fabulously adorable items in my many store scavenges and internet stake-outs and I hold my breath in anticipation...then I see the price, and I exhale with an expletive or two.
My main problem with spending any money is that a) I'm only going to be wearing this clothing for less than a full year of my life, b) I'm going to continue getting bigger, so I can't really be sure anything will fit me for more than a few months at a time anyway, and c) I'm going to get huge eventually and have a feeling nothing will make me feel as cute as my zebra-striped, red-heeled stilletos used to, so why spend money on things that aren't going to do their job?
If you can relate to such a dilemma, I am here to warn you: Whatever you do, you MUST break down and purchase a few of your own cute items with your own money, so that you have some guaranteed winners in your closet. Once you've hit the point where maternity jeans really are the only comfortable option (I'm pretty much there, and I'm just about 22 weeks), be a Good Pregnant Woman and REMOVE ALL NON-PREGNANT CLOTHING FROM YOUR CLOSET. Why do I say this? Because it's what you tell a recovering alcoholic to do with all of the bottles he used to have stashed before returning home: get them out of sight for good. If you don't get those clothes out of there, you're going to suffer fashion depression. Two reasons for this:
1. You will falsely rationalize to yourself that you can still fit into certain pieces. Then you will put on a cutesy spaghetti-strapped, flowy blouse from White House Black Market that you always thought made you look a little pregnant before you actually were, believing that now it'll be perfect since you actually are pregnant so it's okay if you look it, and then you'll walk to the mirror where your confidence will drain slowly out of the visible ring around the location of your half-popped belly button, which will be accented by the formerly adorable shirt. You'll immediately take off this item and desperately try another loose-fitting top with a rouched bottom that you are POSITIVE will work without a problem only to notice your maternity bra generously announcing itself through the thin material. At this point you will sit half-naked with the most pitiful little tears clinging to your eyes as reality rears its ugly head at you. Non-pregnancy clothing is, indeed, completely unsalvageable. And then you may raise your fist to the sky and say, "Damn you, pregnant blogger lady! You tried to tell me and I didn't believe you!" Then you may drop to your knees dramatically while screaming "Nooooo!" at the sky.
2. If you keep all of your skinnier clothes in your constant line of vision every morning you attempt to find something to put on, you're going to be nostalgically remembering the days when you looked fabulous with much less effort, and many more choices. While you stare at that red wrap dress with the plunging neckline, you'll be pulling out a full-length black turtleneck dress with some weird zipper accent that makes you look like you're 20 years older than you really are. You're just asking to be sad about the whole situation. And you'll start to wonder why you would have ever been so anxious to speed up to where you had a bump, because you'll be bearing witness to the fact that there's a payoff for bumpdom: frumpdom.
The other reason for this sacrifice in style is because you will definitely not want to spend enough money to completely replace your entire wardrobe, so you'll end up borrowing from any and every formerly pregnant woman willing to offer her items to you. And believe me, this is the best source you've got, although there are dangers. You may find yourself with a few exciting items that you'll want to kiss your friend for owning and allowing you to have, but you'll mostly get bland items that are usable (if there was ever a time to stock up on cheap costume jewelry that can pop, it's now!) and a few horrifying items that you'll just stare at like roadkill. You'll wonder how any woman could bring herself to stoop to suede cowboy pants, or potato-sack pastel grandma flower prints. You may even experience a flashback to morning sickness or first trimester nausea when you mistakenly envision yourself in these items.
But that's what you've got, so make it work, just like everything else. Because there's only one thing other stylish ladies will accept as an excuse, and you've got it plastered all over: BABY ON BOARD! So just don the plain black dress, throw on the big hot pink beads, step up the mascara, and smile pretty, mama.
The zebra-striped heels are waiting patiently. And what a sweet reunion it'll be.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Rule # 7: Weight It Out
You want that bump, right? Those early weeks of pregnancy just dragging on with nothing more than what looks like a beer gut make you long for the day your stomach proudly proclaims that there IS a baby on board, no doubt about it. However, you want ONLY the bump. You don't want extra packing in the thighs, ass, neck, face, toes, ears, fingers, ankles. Oh, god, the ankles. Please don't let this mama develop cankles!
Quite the conundrum, right? You want to get bigger--for the first time in your life, actually--but not too big. You don't want to be one of those women who look like a Weeble-Wobble by week 30. Your doctor doesn't want you getting too big either. Question is, how much can you really control it?
Since getting pregnant, I've maintained basically the same eating habits. I don't feel as if I eat much more than I did before, and while I should probably be making healthier choices more often, I have tried to ensure I eat somewhat healthier. More fruit, even more vegetables (which I still don't like, but I'm trying!) I've even improved on my exercise, going from basically a slump of no routine to walking my dog every day for around 30 minutes. I live on a large hill, so it is a decent trek we take up and around it.
Despite this, I managed to gain 10 pounds in one month according to my doctor's office's scale. WTF?? I freaked out mentally when I was informed of this. While that particular doctor waved it off and told me not to really worry, that every woman has a period where she gains more, I was still pretty upset. How the hell could I have gained 10 pounds when the only things I was doing differently were GOOD changes? Not to mention if that pattern kept up, I'd be 70 pounds heavier when all was said and done. Hell to the no!
So after that appointment, I pretty much through a strike against any drinks besides water. Yep, boring old water, all day every day for a month. Occasionally I'd indulge in an apple juice or a Sprite, and once in a great while, an iced tea--my biggest vice and greatest pleasure. I continued working out with the doggy and eating like I always had before.
This brought me to my next appointment. When it came time to stand on the scale, I removed my shoes, took a deep breath, and watched her inch the sliders up with enough anxiety to pop my eyes into their own hemisphere. Scale steadied. Number recorded.
Only one pound gained. One pound.
Know that feeling you get when you walk into a bar and you know you're looking hot in your new halter top and high heels, when your hair curled just the exact right way for once and your smoky eye make-up is making you look fierce, and you glance around the room you just walked into and you KNOW you have all these other bitches beat? Yeah. That's how rock star I felt when I found out I'd only gained one pound.
I did it! I was back from the brink of entering Fatty McFattersville! No more 10-pound months for this babymaker!
Then I met with the doctor. A different one than last time, because I go to a group practice and have to rotate through all the faces I may end up peering at from his/her perch between my legs in a few months. And he says I've gained about 15 pounds overall so far.
I'm 20 weeks pregnant. I've gained 15 pounds overall. Hey, not too shabby, I think to myself. Plus people love to tell me how I've only gained weight in my tummy. (Not completely true. The thighs are breathing down the tummy's neck. But why tell? I'll indulge people and shower in whatever niceties they have while I still can.)
But then the doc says to "keep an eye on that. We really like you to have gained between 5-10 pounds by this point and between 25-35 for your whole pregnancy."
Alright, dude. I know you're just doing your job. I know you meant nothing by it. But did you REALLY just tell a pregnant woman to watch her weight? Do you KNOW what it feels like to watch your body fill out and plump up like a zeppelin waiting to take off when you've spent most of the past two decades obsessing over keeping things as neatly tucked away as possible?
Non-pregnant people, especially those who have never been pregnant in their lives, love to tell you to indulge, you're allowed, you're eating for two! You've got the best built-in excuse ever to pig out, and everyone secretly wants you to for some reason. But then the doc, well, he's telling you to not gain too much. So you're left feeling confused. To eat, or not to eat.
Baby always answers that question.
So here's the Good Pregnant Woman behavior I can offer: eat. Eat what you like. Pay some attention to being a little healthier, definitely drink water like it's ambrosia, and do steer clear of things you know you're not supposed to eat, like a lot of seafood. But ENJOY the food you do eat. I don't care if I do gain 10 pounds a month if it means my baby's well-fed for development and I'm loving the fact that I'm not choking down tofu and broccoli (oh, my old nemesis) just to try and avoid an extra 2 or 3 pounds. Exercise some to give yourself that mental brownie point and feel good about yourself for still doing it. I love my walks b/c they are good for my dog and good for me. Mental boost = happiness = Good Pregnant Woman.
Even if I gain a pound every week for the remainder of my pregnancy, I'll have gained 35 pounds overall, which is the top of that scale the doc mentioned, so I figure he can shove it. Especially since the hypocrite had a stomach that sagged lower than mine ever will.
So weight it out ladies. The pounds will arrive however they want to, despite some of your best efforts to avoid them. And while we hate it, we also, deep down, love it, because no one can make you feel guilty about gaining weight that you can't help but gain. Not even a stupid MALE doctor.
Just start mentally preparing now for the thousands of hours of crunches you'll be doing once the watermelon removes itself from your stomach and is napping with a binky while you sweat it out for the sake of the old glory.
Someone's gotta strap on those high heels again someday, right? Rockin'. :)
Quite the conundrum, right? You want to get bigger--for the first time in your life, actually--but not too big. You don't want to be one of those women who look like a Weeble-Wobble by week 30. Your doctor doesn't want you getting too big either. Question is, how much can you really control it?
Since getting pregnant, I've maintained basically the same eating habits. I don't feel as if I eat much more than I did before, and while I should probably be making healthier choices more often, I have tried to ensure I eat somewhat healthier. More fruit, even more vegetables (which I still don't like, but I'm trying!) I've even improved on my exercise, going from basically a slump of no routine to walking my dog every day for around 30 minutes. I live on a large hill, so it is a decent trek we take up and around it.
Despite this, I managed to gain 10 pounds in one month according to my doctor's office's scale. WTF?? I freaked out mentally when I was informed of this. While that particular doctor waved it off and told me not to really worry, that every woman has a period where she gains more, I was still pretty upset. How the hell could I have gained 10 pounds when the only things I was doing differently were GOOD changes? Not to mention if that pattern kept up, I'd be 70 pounds heavier when all was said and done. Hell to the no!
So after that appointment, I pretty much through a strike against any drinks besides water. Yep, boring old water, all day every day for a month. Occasionally I'd indulge in an apple juice or a Sprite, and once in a great while, an iced tea--my biggest vice and greatest pleasure. I continued working out with the doggy and eating like I always had before.
This brought me to my next appointment. When it came time to stand on the scale, I removed my shoes, took a deep breath, and watched her inch the sliders up with enough anxiety to pop my eyes into their own hemisphere. Scale steadied. Number recorded.
Only one pound gained. One pound.
Know that feeling you get when you walk into a bar and you know you're looking hot in your new halter top and high heels, when your hair curled just the exact right way for once and your smoky eye make-up is making you look fierce, and you glance around the room you just walked into and you KNOW you have all these other bitches beat? Yeah. That's how rock star I felt when I found out I'd only gained one pound.
I did it! I was back from the brink of entering Fatty McFattersville! No more 10-pound months for this babymaker!
Then I met with the doctor. A different one than last time, because I go to a group practice and have to rotate through all the faces I may end up peering at from his/her perch between my legs in a few months. And he says I've gained about 15 pounds overall so far.
I'm 20 weeks pregnant. I've gained 15 pounds overall. Hey, not too shabby, I think to myself. Plus people love to tell me how I've only gained weight in my tummy. (Not completely true. The thighs are breathing down the tummy's neck. But why tell? I'll indulge people and shower in whatever niceties they have while I still can.)
But then the doc says to "keep an eye on that. We really like you to have gained between 5-10 pounds by this point and between 25-35 for your whole pregnancy."
Alright, dude. I know you're just doing your job. I know you meant nothing by it. But did you REALLY just tell a pregnant woman to watch her weight? Do you KNOW what it feels like to watch your body fill out and plump up like a zeppelin waiting to take off when you've spent most of the past two decades obsessing over keeping things as neatly tucked away as possible?
Non-pregnant people, especially those who have never been pregnant in their lives, love to tell you to indulge, you're allowed, you're eating for two! You've got the best built-in excuse ever to pig out, and everyone secretly wants you to for some reason. But then the doc, well, he's telling you to not gain too much. So you're left feeling confused. To eat, or not to eat.
Baby always answers that question.
So here's the Good Pregnant Woman behavior I can offer: eat. Eat what you like. Pay some attention to being a little healthier, definitely drink water like it's ambrosia, and do steer clear of things you know you're not supposed to eat, like a lot of seafood. But ENJOY the food you do eat. I don't care if I do gain 10 pounds a month if it means my baby's well-fed for development and I'm loving the fact that I'm not choking down tofu and broccoli (oh, my old nemesis) just to try and avoid an extra 2 or 3 pounds. Exercise some to give yourself that mental brownie point and feel good about yourself for still doing it. I love my walks b/c they are good for my dog and good for me. Mental boost = happiness = Good Pregnant Woman.
Even if I gain a pound every week for the remainder of my pregnancy, I'll have gained 35 pounds overall, which is the top of that scale the doc mentioned, so I figure he can shove it. Especially since the hypocrite had a stomach that sagged lower than mine ever will.
So weight it out ladies. The pounds will arrive however they want to, despite some of your best efforts to avoid them. And while we hate it, we also, deep down, love it, because no one can make you feel guilty about gaining weight that you can't help but gain. Not even a stupid MALE doctor.
Just start mentally preparing now for the thousands of hours of crunches you'll be doing once the watermelon removes itself from your stomach and is napping with a binky while you sweat it out for the sake of the old glory.
Someone's gotta strap on those high heels again someday, right? Rockin'. :)
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Rule # 6: Play (Along With) the Guessing Game
Everyone loves to be an expert, especially when it comes to figuring out exactly how chromosomes will align and DNA will materialize in your burdgeoning belly. By two days after you've announced your pregnancy, you expect to hear two questions from every single human being you encounter:
1. How are you feeling?
2. Do you know what you are having yet? (Or, if it's really early, Are you going to find out?)
It is that second question which I am referring to in this post. One of my close friends loves to answer people for me on this one. She always says, "Oh, she's having a baby." Actually, I think I should tell her to get more sarcastic. Start saying things like I'm having a goldfish. Or a terrorist love child.
When confronted with this question, you'll have a long time of answering, "Oh, we don't know yet, not for another (insert epoch era amount of time here)." Most people do not get a chance to find out the sex of their baby until at least 20 weeks along, when you go for that mid-pregnancy ultrasound. You know, the one that you envisioned the minute you knew that the sperm finally hit the egg just right...and that has felt like it'll never get here? That's when you have the opportunity to know. But people begin asking you this godforsaken question when you're at about, oh, week 12, and you're having a particularly pudgy, bloated day. So prep the fake smile and start suppressing those sighs, because you've got a lot of 'splainin to do.
Invariably, when you're forced to answer folk that you don't know what you're having, they'll want to know if you intend to find out, and when you can find out. Now, pre-pregnancy, and even pre-everyone-knowing-about-the-pregnancy, I entertained the notion of being surprised, of not finding out if it is a boy or girl until after that movie-worthy cry of clear lungs when popping out from between my splayed legs. Then I got pregnant and everyone found out. And ev-er-y-one began asking me and offering their very valuable, very interesting opinions on the matter.
I'm definitely finding out (and I've got only about one more week to endure the absence of an answer!) so that I can shut people up quicker. If they ask me what I'm having and I can simply say, "A boy" or "a girl," I'm taking a certain kind of wind out of their sails, because the conversation no longer leads to the hidden joys of keeping it a surprise, since a surprise it is not.
The other, and more important, thing it eliminates is people's opportunity to GUESS what you are having. When they know you don't know, then ooooh, mama, they will be sure to TELL you, silly fool. I'm pretty dead even when it comes to everyone's theories on me. I'm an equal gender opportunity pregnant lady.
I had a friend tell me she thinks I'm having a girl because I didn't have much sickness and I've just been tired. My husband had a coworker tell him I must be having a boy because I wasn't very sick and I was tired a lot.
My grandmother says I'm having a girl because I've gained most of my weight in just my stomach so far, and none in my ass. (Little does she know, since she ain't the one chafing through denim.) Two weeks after my grandmother delivered this revelation, my mom told me that, for the exact same reasons, she thought I was having a boy.
And those aren't even the people you mind hearing from. You expect your friends and family to participate in theorizing because, well, there IS a small level of fun in it. It's the strangers that poke you and prod you and offer this intimate wisdom of how your body works even though you've only ever talked to them long enough to exchange hellos a handful of times. Or haven't seen them since you graduated high school. Or only know them through a friend of your cousin. And so on and so on.
So my suggestion? Play the guessing game to give the people what they want, as always, which is a happy, glowing, twinkle-eyed Good Pregnant Woman. But, for the love of your sanity, FIND OUT IF WHAT'S LIVING INSIDE YOUR STOMACH HAS A PENIS OR A VAGINA. Because getting to shut people up even just a little bit more is the best reason I've found yet.
1. How are you feeling?
2. Do you know what you are having yet? (Or, if it's really early, Are you going to find out?)
It is that second question which I am referring to in this post. One of my close friends loves to answer people for me on this one. She always says, "Oh, she's having a baby." Actually, I think I should tell her to get more sarcastic. Start saying things like I'm having a goldfish. Or a terrorist love child.
When confronted with this question, you'll have a long time of answering, "Oh, we don't know yet, not for another (insert epoch era amount of time here)." Most people do not get a chance to find out the sex of their baby until at least 20 weeks along, when you go for that mid-pregnancy ultrasound. You know, the one that you envisioned the minute you knew that the sperm finally hit the egg just right...and that has felt like it'll never get here? That's when you have the opportunity to know. But people begin asking you this godforsaken question when you're at about, oh, week 12, and you're having a particularly pudgy, bloated day. So prep the fake smile and start suppressing those sighs, because you've got a lot of 'splainin to do.
Invariably, when you're forced to answer folk that you don't know what you're having, they'll want to know if you intend to find out, and when you can find out. Now, pre-pregnancy, and even pre-everyone-knowing-about-the-pregnancy, I entertained the notion of being surprised, of not finding out if it is a boy or girl until after that movie-worthy cry of clear lungs when popping out from between my splayed legs. Then I got pregnant and everyone found out. And ev-er-y-one began asking me and offering their very valuable, very interesting opinions on the matter.
I'm definitely finding out (and I've got only about one more week to endure the absence of an answer!) so that I can shut people up quicker. If they ask me what I'm having and I can simply say, "A boy" or "a girl," I'm taking a certain kind of wind out of their sails, because the conversation no longer leads to the hidden joys of keeping it a surprise, since a surprise it is not.
The other, and more important, thing it eliminates is people's opportunity to GUESS what you are having. When they know you don't know, then ooooh, mama, they will be sure to TELL you, silly fool. I'm pretty dead even when it comes to everyone's theories on me. I'm an equal gender opportunity pregnant lady.
I had a friend tell me she thinks I'm having a girl because I didn't have much sickness and I've just been tired. My husband had a coworker tell him I must be having a boy because I wasn't very sick and I was tired a lot.
My grandmother says I'm having a girl because I've gained most of my weight in just my stomach so far, and none in my ass. (Little does she know, since she ain't the one chafing through denim.) Two weeks after my grandmother delivered this revelation, my mom told me that, for the exact same reasons, she thought I was having a boy.
And those aren't even the people you mind hearing from. You expect your friends and family to participate in theorizing because, well, there IS a small level of fun in it. It's the strangers that poke you and prod you and offer this intimate wisdom of how your body works even though you've only ever talked to them long enough to exchange hellos a handful of times. Or haven't seen them since you graduated high school. Or only know them through a friend of your cousin. And so on and so on.
So my suggestion? Play the guessing game to give the people what they want, as always, which is a happy, glowing, twinkle-eyed Good Pregnant Woman. But, for the love of your sanity, FIND OUT IF WHAT'S LIVING INSIDE YOUR STOMACH HAS A PENIS OR A VAGINA. Because getting to shut people up even just a little bit more is the best reason I've found yet.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Rule # 5: Have Friends Who Have Babies
Now that I'm pregnant, I realize how crucial it is to have friends who have babies, or who will be having babies soon too. Now, I don't say this because your children-less friends won't like you anymore once you have the prego cooties, but because friends who currently have babies will understand a side of you that the other friends never can.
However, children-less friends are also crucial, because they will probably gladly keep up the normal course of gossip, witticisms, and work bitching that you so know and love. Since you'll desperately need breaks from all things baby, keep these ladies handy! FWC (Friends with Children, that is) can obviously talk about other things besides babies too, but it's so much harder, because babies are now something new and exotic and scary and cute and (insert adjective here) that you have in common AT THE SAME TIME. It is that "same time" thing that makes it necessary to have them. Your mama and mama-in-law and all other designated birthing female relatives are certainly helpful but too many years have blurred by them. They've selected the good times to remember only, kinda like you may do when you're sitting at home in hour three of a Hoarding: Buried Alive marathon with uterus cramps, and you daydream back to how much fun you used to have dancing on the bar and throwing back Jager in your carefree, selfish, irresponsible, pre-pregnancy days. You somehow glean over those nights that ended with tears by the toilet or the mornings-after of wide-eyed embarassment for what you may or may not have done the night before, God help you if you can remember. Older ladies who had children never think to tell you the real gritty details, the stuff that no one really wants to know...but actually really does want to know.
Like how it's going to feel like WWIII every time you have a bowel movement for weeks after birth. I, for one, hate knowing this but am thankful to know so I can prepare, both mentally and MiraLax-ally. Had I not had a friend who just went through this herself, I'd have never known and would have been blindsided because the mamas don't tell you this. They tell you about that instantaneous, overwhelming, unconditional love that nothing else compares to.
Which is sweet and I'm sure very true and, being the emotional lady I already am, will surely happen to me, but at this point in time, I really love the MiraLax advice. Sentimentality is already overflowing my hormone bank.
Another reason it's good to have friends with babies is so you can babysit. I'm doing it right now. And no, don't go thinking I plopped the kid somewhere so I could type. I actually already have him soundly snoozing for a morning nap. BOO-YEAH! Since from the moment you announce your pregnancy and happen to find yourself in the presence of someone else's infant, you'll be forced to pick the cute slobberbucket up and people will fall over themselves to say, "Ooooh, get some practice, Mama!!" so you might as well take advantage of that sentiment. I don't actually believe that any amount of infant-sitting can prepare you for what it's like to have your own 24/7 b-a-b-y, but at least it gives you an up-close-and-personal, hands-on sneak peek of what's to come. You'll freak sometimes, feel like an idiot other times, and feel like a rock star at the best times. And most of all, it'll let you know that if you can keep someone else's kid alive, you should be able to help your own survive just fine.
So thanks to all of my friends for being so important to me in so many different ways. I need you all...if for no other reason than to spare you! As long as I can spread my irritable mood swings out over all of you, hopefully I won't burn any of you too severely so that you'll continue being my friend until this too-many-cares, selfish (really when you think about it), overly-responsible pregnancy thing is over.
Not to mention I gotta keep good ties so I can bum babysitting duty for myself. Keep those thinkin' caps on, girls! The times they are a-changin'!
However, children-less friends are also crucial, because they will probably gladly keep up the normal course of gossip, witticisms, and work bitching that you so know and love. Since you'll desperately need breaks from all things baby, keep these ladies handy! FWC (Friends with Children, that is) can obviously talk about other things besides babies too, but it's so much harder, because babies are now something new and exotic and scary and cute and (insert adjective here) that you have in common AT THE SAME TIME. It is that "same time" thing that makes it necessary to have them. Your mama and mama-in-law and all other designated birthing female relatives are certainly helpful but too many years have blurred by them. They've selected the good times to remember only, kinda like you may do when you're sitting at home in hour three of a Hoarding: Buried Alive marathon with uterus cramps, and you daydream back to how much fun you used to have dancing on the bar and throwing back Jager in your carefree, selfish, irresponsible, pre-pregnancy days. You somehow glean over those nights that ended with tears by the toilet or the mornings-after of wide-eyed embarassment for what you may or may not have done the night before, God help you if you can remember. Older ladies who had children never think to tell you the real gritty details, the stuff that no one really wants to know...but actually really does want to know.
Like how it's going to feel like WWIII every time you have a bowel movement for weeks after birth. I, for one, hate knowing this but am thankful to know so I can prepare, both mentally and MiraLax-ally. Had I not had a friend who just went through this herself, I'd have never known and would have been blindsided because the mamas don't tell you this. They tell you about that instantaneous, overwhelming, unconditional love that nothing else compares to.
Which is sweet and I'm sure very true and, being the emotional lady I already am, will surely happen to me, but at this point in time, I really love the MiraLax advice. Sentimentality is already overflowing my hormone bank.
Another reason it's good to have friends with babies is so you can babysit. I'm doing it right now. And no, don't go thinking I plopped the kid somewhere so I could type. I actually already have him soundly snoozing for a morning nap. BOO-YEAH! Since from the moment you announce your pregnancy and happen to find yourself in the presence of someone else's infant, you'll be forced to pick the cute slobberbucket up and people will fall over themselves to say, "Ooooh, get some practice, Mama!!" so you might as well take advantage of that sentiment. I don't actually believe that any amount of infant-sitting can prepare you for what it's like to have your own 24/7 b-a-b-y, but at least it gives you an up-close-and-personal, hands-on sneak peek of what's to come. You'll freak sometimes, feel like an idiot other times, and feel like a rock star at the best times. And most of all, it'll let you know that if you can keep someone else's kid alive, you should be able to help your own survive just fine.
So thanks to all of my friends for being so important to me in so many different ways. I need you all...if for no other reason than to spare you! As long as I can spread my irritable mood swings out over all of you, hopefully I won't burn any of you too severely so that you'll continue being my friend until this too-many-cares, selfish (really when you think about it), overly-responsible pregnancy thing is over.
Not to mention I gotta keep good ties so I can bum babysitting duty for myself. Keep those thinkin' caps on, girls! The times they are a-changin'!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Rule # 4: Realize Your Role as Sleepless Beauty
Okay, so you probably won't be feeling that beauty part of the title at all, but you should know something: sleep sucks. Already.
Perhaps not all pregnant ladies have this problem. Actually, I'm sure most don't, since we are all glorious little snowflakes in our pregnancy uniqueness. But I'm willing to bet the more you bloat up, the less sleep you are going to get.
This is why it's so important to nap at every opportunity. Being a schoolteacher myself, I am VERY thankful for my work-free summer days so I can catch up on the crazy sex dreams that are getting interrupted nightly by my need to: a) empty my overflowing bladder, b) eat something to satisfy the beast that is a baby in my belly, c) stare at the shadows on my ceiling as if Picasso had put them there, d) flail around uncontrollably in an effort to find a comfortable position, or e) glare at my husband's peacefully snoring-in-sleeping-bliss face and resist Urge # 45 to hit him square in his slightly parted sleepy lips. In an act of mercy (and to keep PETA off my back), I've left off this list my homicidal urges toward my stinkin' little doggy that jumps up and squeezes himself like half-used toothpaste between my husband and I. He cuddles up and puts his head on my tummy, though, so I just pet him while I admire Shadow Picasso and think of it as his bonding time with baby.
Waking up at all hours of the night is not the only problem you'll have, either. As a matter of fact, on many of those hourly nightly vigils, you probably won't even feel that mad because you'll convince yourself this is just like practice for those first nights of newborn to come in however many months.
What annoys me more is my inability to fall asleep in the first place. How can I feel so damn tired all day, only to finally stretch my disfigured lump of a body out on my comfy bed and my specialized pillow and find myself still wide awake during infomercial territory? If I could smack sleep in the face, I would. Don't know who he thinks he is, playing around with me like that. He should know that just 'cause I'm pregnant doesn't mean I won't shank him if given the chance.
So keep popping those prenatal pills every night, ladies, and make sure you've got a good book, a glass of water, a decent light, and a straight path to the fridge, because you're in it for the long haul. God bless mother-to-be-hood.
Perhaps not all pregnant ladies have this problem. Actually, I'm sure most don't, since we are all glorious little snowflakes in our pregnancy uniqueness. But I'm willing to bet the more you bloat up, the less sleep you are going to get.
This is why it's so important to nap at every opportunity. Being a schoolteacher myself, I am VERY thankful for my work-free summer days so I can catch up on the crazy sex dreams that are getting interrupted nightly by my need to: a) empty my overflowing bladder, b) eat something to satisfy the beast that is a baby in my belly, c) stare at the shadows on my ceiling as if Picasso had put them there, d) flail around uncontrollably in an effort to find a comfortable position, or e) glare at my husband's peacefully snoring-in-sleeping-bliss face and resist Urge # 45 to hit him square in his slightly parted sleepy lips. In an act of mercy (and to keep PETA off my back), I've left off this list my homicidal urges toward my stinkin' little doggy that jumps up and squeezes himself like half-used toothpaste between my husband and I. He cuddles up and puts his head on my tummy, though, so I just pet him while I admire Shadow Picasso and think of it as his bonding time with baby.
Waking up at all hours of the night is not the only problem you'll have, either. As a matter of fact, on many of those hourly nightly vigils, you probably won't even feel that mad because you'll convince yourself this is just like practice for those first nights of newborn to come in however many months.
What annoys me more is my inability to fall asleep in the first place. How can I feel so damn tired all day, only to finally stretch my disfigured lump of a body out on my comfy bed and my specialized pillow and find myself still wide awake during infomercial territory? If I could smack sleep in the face, I would. Don't know who he thinks he is, playing around with me like that. He should know that just 'cause I'm pregnant doesn't mean I won't shank him if given the chance.
So keep popping those prenatal pills every night, ladies, and make sure you've got a good book, a glass of water, a decent light, and a straight path to the fridge, because you're in it for the long haul. God bless mother-to-be-hood.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Rule # 3: Learn to be Lazy
When I first told her I was pregnant, my grandmother assured me she wouldn't be giving me any special treatment. "Nothing worse than a pampered woman," she said.
Since that time, I've been allowed to do exactly two things at her house: keep an eye on my pap for her while she runs around outside, and eat. Every now and then, I'm allowed to use the riding lawn mower, but it's been so deadly hot the grass hasn't needed mowed for at least a month.
Something you quickly learn after everyone finds out you're pregnant is that no one wants to let you do anything. Well, except your husband, who will be clueless that there actually are some things you shouldn't do. Like inhale paint fumes in a closed-off area you want to make the nursery, or lift 50 lb. bags of dog food. Or spend five hours in the 90 degree heat to weed and tanbark all day. Everyone else, though, will be quick to prevent you from doing anything remotely dangerous.
Now, at first, you may think this sounds like an awesome state of existence. A built-in, rock-steady excuse to get out of any hard work, or even mediocre work. And sometimes, you are glad for the excuse just for the pure fact that you didn't feel like doing it anyway. But when it gets to the point where you feel like it's amazing you are allowed to even walk anywhere without a protective bubble around you, you become...well, exasperated.
I've always been the kind of person that felt guilty about spending a day doing next to nothing, even when sick. Now don't get me wrong, I have had plenty of them, but I always would feel bad about it. If you are a similar kind of person and you now find yourself pregnant, please, LEARN TO BE LAZY. Fact of the matter is, there are a lot of things you shouldn't do, and you should take it easy. Things that you don't think are pushing it, probably are actually pushing it. I actually did take what had to be less than an hour one day about three months in to my pregnancy to spread some tanbark, and I was knocked out the entire next day, not feeling all that well. I thought it was preposterous that something so little could have such a huge effect the NEXT day, but I must admit, it's the only thing that makes sense. So I've come to terms with my newly inflicted laziness. If I accomplish one thing a day, no matter how small, then I let myself lie around the rest of my free time guilt-free.
And, really, you should too, because as every woman who has ever been a mother will tell you, you won't have much guilt-free time once the kid is out of your stomach. And you won't have a whole lot of relaxation/nap time either, so we might as well get it while we can! Like making deposits in our rest banks for when the funds are running low over the next couple of years. Or decades.
So become a pampered woman, squash the ego when people tell you that you shouldn't do something (trust me, I know how hard THAT is!), and get yourself a big cold glass of sweet nothing-ade. Sip it nice and slow, for about the next nine months of your life.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Rule # 2: Power through the Pudge
When you think of pregnant women, you probably picture full and round little tummies, pleasant little ladies just glowing with cuteness and fertility. No wonder everyone wants to rain beauty and sunshine on these women. So, when everyone else finds out you are pregnant, guess what they picture? You, with that cute little bump of a tummy, decked out in the latest of cute maternity-girl wear, just radiating rainbows.
Everyone wants you to get a good little baby bump. Including you.
What everyone neglects to mention or, I suppose, actually think about--since we are intelligent, rational beings that overlook the things which don't interest us so much--is that it takes FOREVER for a bump to actually form. A noticeable one, anyway. Instead, you are left with the equivalent of a dying balloon for at least the first four or five months. That's been my experience so far. By a dying balloon, I mean that some days, you'll think to yourself, Okay, yeah, that looks as if there's a baby in there and not just fat from the extra serving of Oreos I've been indulging in each night. Then, the next morning, when you wake up and look in the mirror, your tummy will appear deflated and droopy. Not round and cute like an obviously pregnant woman, but slouchy and just plain pudgy, like someone who has given up on the gym or resisting anything fried. Coupled with the zits and the extra chafing in your thighs, you'll feel more unattractive than ever.
And supposedly this is when you're to be feeling your best during pregnancy. Oh, awesome.
Whenever you go out, you'll feel pressure to produce a bump. You want to please the crowd, after all, and they've been waiting 8, 10, 12 ( or in my case, 17) weeks to see the physical proof of this procreation. They want that bump to be there just as badly as you do, if not more, because without it, it's weird if they touch your stomach. And, man, do they ever want to touch all up on your stomach as soon as awkwardly possible.
This is where you have to just power through the pudge. Work it. I tend to choose looser dresses when I have to deal with the public, so that when I talk to people, or when they ask me the usual questions (about morning sickness or breastfeeding or knowing the gender or feeling movement), I can drape my hand just below my gut in that pregnant woman caress so that it looks like more of a rounded mass than it actually is. Ladies and gentleman, I present you the Pseudo-Bump. People will always see what they want, anyway, so this has worked quite nicely so far. The crowd always goes wild.
As every woman you meet who has already been pregnant will be eager to tell you, you'll get a bump soon enough. And by the time that balloon is stretched to the max and ready to pop, you'll look back on what is now this aggravating stage with a misty eye and the film of nostalgia. So suck it up, stick it out, and give the people what they want.
Because if you can learn anything else from these formerly-pregnant women, it is this: once you actually have the baby that is supposed to be in your pudgy stomach, you'll forget about this stage entirely, and in later years will continually refer only to the most gracious, amazing moments of your pregnancy, developing mother amnesia over those first 20 or so weeks when nothing very gracious or amazing happened.
Everyone wants you to get a good little baby bump. Including you.
What everyone neglects to mention or, I suppose, actually think about--since we are intelligent, rational beings that overlook the things which don't interest us so much--is that it takes FOREVER for a bump to actually form. A noticeable one, anyway. Instead, you are left with the equivalent of a dying balloon for at least the first four or five months. That's been my experience so far. By a dying balloon, I mean that some days, you'll think to yourself, Okay, yeah, that looks as if there's a baby in there and not just fat from the extra serving of Oreos I've been indulging in each night. Then, the next morning, when you wake up and look in the mirror, your tummy will appear deflated and droopy. Not round and cute like an obviously pregnant woman, but slouchy and just plain pudgy, like someone who has given up on the gym or resisting anything fried. Coupled with the zits and the extra chafing in your thighs, you'll feel more unattractive than ever.
And supposedly this is when you're to be feeling your best during pregnancy. Oh, awesome.
Whenever you go out, you'll feel pressure to produce a bump. You want to please the crowd, after all, and they've been waiting 8, 10, 12 ( or in my case, 17) weeks to see the physical proof of this procreation. They want that bump to be there just as badly as you do, if not more, because without it, it's weird if they touch your stomach. And, man, do they ever want to touch all up on your stomach as soon as awkwardly possible.
This is where you have to just power through the pudge. Work it. I tend to choose looser dresses when I have to deal with the public, so that when I talk to people, or when they ask me the usual questions (about morning sickness or breastfeeding or knowing the gender or feeling movement), I can drape my hand just below my gut in that pregnant woman caress so that it looks like more of a rounded mass than it actually is. Ladies and gentleman, I present you the Pseudo-Bump. People will always see what they want, anyway, so this has worked quite nicely so far. The crowd always goes wild.
As every woman you meet who has already been pregnant will be eager to tell you, you'll get a bump soon enough. And by the time that balloon is stretched to the max and ready to pop, you'll look back on what is now this aggravating stage with a misty eye and the film of nostalgia. So suck it up, stick it out, and give the people what they want.
Because if you can learn anything else from these formerly-pregnant women, it is this: once you actually have the baby that is supposed to be in your pudgy stomach, you'll forget about this stage entirely, and in later years will continually refer only to the most gracious, amazing moments of your pregnancy, developing mother amnesia over those first 20 or so weeks when nothing very gracious or amazing happened.
Rule # 1: Never Let 'Em See You Down
Pregnancy is a super emotional time. It's literally like going through puberty again, mentally and physically. I personally have had to deal with terrible skin conditions on my face since this all started. Not to mention random--and I mean VERY random--weepiness.
Again, pregnancy sounds fantastic, doesn't it?
You will begin to experience many small things that add up to huge annoyances as you travel the pregnancy road, but be warned: DO NOT DIVULGE YOUR COMPLAINTS ON THESE ISSUES TO ANYONE. Well, anyone other than your mom, best friend, and husband. Mainly divulge every detail to your husband to remind him why you actually deserve to sit around most of the day and do nothing but sleep and eat snacks.
Why not, you ask? Because you cannot dare let them see through the veneer of extreme happiness you are supposed to now radiate. How dare you complain about anything, when you are experiencing the most awe-inspiring thing we humans are capable of: the creation of life!
So, when friends, co-workers, casual acquaintances, or members of your grandmother's church congregation ask you the unfailing, "Ooooh, how are you feeling?" or "Have you decided if you are going to breastfeed?" or "How far along are you?," don't bother to tell them how you really feel: annoyed, bored, sick, ugly, useless, irritated by their presense, not much different than you did last month when you weren't pregnant, like you've wasted precious nap time by talking to them, or any of the other million answers that might run through you rhead when they ask you this. Oh, and also, do not punch them in the face. This urge is understandable when you are, oh, let's say at a wedding, for example, and everyone around you is whooping it up in celebration of the happy couple and free alcohol, and Person #60 decides to give you a big hug of congratulations and shout at you, "So how are you feeling? Any morning sickness? Do you know what you're having yet??" as she spills a little Captain all over your bubbling-over boobs. You, like me, could not be blamed for wanting to smash in her teeth, or wishing you could just snatch that Captain and Coke out of her unsteady hand and slam it down yourself to avoid wasting any more of it on your boobs. But you cannot do that. That would be Bad Pregnant Woman form.
So, instead, when everyone in your immediate radius asks you how you are feeling 10-85 times a day, to be a Good Pregnant Woman, you must simply grin, fake that twinkle in your eye, touch your pudgy belly in that "Thank-be-to-God-for-such-a-beautiful-blessing-of-cells!" way, and tell them you feel great, fantastic, wonderful, important, purposeful, hear you roar. Because they don't actually want to hear about the pimples, puking, pains, and pudginess concerns. That would shatter the romanticized view they all have of what it's like to be presently pregnant. They want to hear that you are a woman who feels as if she is fulfilling her human purpose. So, for their sakes, try to be that.
Then just go home and call your mom. Or take a nap. You'll have earned it.
Again, pregnancy sounds fantastic, doesn't it?
You will begin to experience many small things that add up to huge annoyances as you travel the pregnancy road, but be warned: DO NOT DIVULGE YOUR COMPLAINTS ON THESE ISSUES TO ANYONE. Well, anyone other than your mom, best friend, and husband. Mainly divulge every detail to your husband to remind him why you actually deserve to sit around most of the day and do nothing but sleep and eat snacks.
Why not, you ask? Because you cannot dare let them see through the veneer of extreme happiness you are supposed to now radiate. How dare you complain about anything, when you are experiencing the most awe-inspiring thing we humans are capable of: the creation of life!
So, when friends, co-workers, casual acquaintances, or members of your grandmother's church congregation ask you the unfailing, "Ooooh, how are you feeling?" or "Have you decided if you are going to breastfeed?" or "How far along are you?," don't bother to tell them how you really feel: annoyed, bored, sick, ugly, useless, irritated by their presense, not much different than you did last month when you weren't pregnant, like you've wasted precious nap time by talking to them, or any of the other million answers that might run through you rhead when they ask you this. Oh, and also, do not punch them in the face. This urge is understandable when you are, oh, let's say at a wedding, for example, and everyone around you is whooping it up in celebration of the happy couple and free alcohol, and Person #60 decides to give you a big hug of congratulations and shout at you, "So how are you feeling? Any morning sickness? Do you know what you're having yet??" as she spills a little Captain all over your bubbling-over boobs. You, like me, could not be blamed for wanting to smash in her teeth, or wishing you could just snatch that Captain and Coke out of her unsteady hand and slam it down yourself to avoid wasting any more of it on your boobs. But you cannot do that. That would be Bad Pregnant Woman form.
So, instead, when everyone in your immediate radius asks you how you are feeling 10-85 times a day, to be a Good Pregnant Woman, you must simply grin, fake that twinkle in your eye, touch your pudgy belly in that "Thank-be-to-God-for-such-a-beautiful-blessing-of-cells!" way, and tell them you feel great, fantastic, wonderful, important, purposeful, hear you roar. Because they don't actually want to hear about the pimples, puking, pains, and pudginess concerns. That would shatter the romanticized view they all have of what it's like to be presently pregnant. They want to hear that you are a woman who feels as if she is fulfilling her human purpose. So, for their sakes, try to be that.
Then just go home and call your mom. Or take a nap. You'll have earned it.
An Introduction, Of Sorts
So, if you are anything like me, you awoke one morning and found yourself married to your high-school sweetheart, in the process of fixing up the small home you own, in your mid-twenties, and sick to death of being hounded by that incessant question everyone else seemed to have on their mind since the second after you pronounced the syllables in "I do": So when are you going to have kids??
This question, for the longest time (about two years, to be exact), annoyed me. Honestly, I could have developed morning sickness on the spot just to puke all over the person asking me this for the six-billionith time. But then one day, I realized that I, too, wanted an answer to that question. Everywhere around me, I was seeing babies. The already-born and the not-quite-born kind. Images of dimples and toothless grins and tiny hands and tiny feet splayed everywhere, just for me. Nothing but Pampers Cruisers and Gerber cuteness splayed over the TV. Baby Week on Discovery Health. Marathons of 16 and Pregnant on MTV, even.
That's when it hit me: My God. I want one.
Now, I am a very rational, analytical person. Seriously. So I didn't arrive at this decision after one restless night's sleep. I agonized over it for months, turning it over and over in my head, little mental pros and cons Post-its cramming the space in my brain. I thought about it morning, noon, and night, in every aspect of my life. What finally tipped the scale was that my birth control prescription was about to run out. After a pretty quick and to-the-point discussion with the hubby, we decided to just let it run out and see what happened.
Within two months, something happened.
And as much as I cried and dreamed and felt so sure I wanted to be pregnant, the minute my pee on that stick came back with the digital word "Pregnant," my first thought was, F---! What the hell did I just do to myself?!?!?!?
Which is the first thing I wanted to tell all of you potential mothers-to-be out there. If you think you want to get pregnant and then become pregnant and then have this initial mental freak-out about it, you are NOT a Bad Pregnant Woman. In fact, you are quite normal. Much more normal than anything you will ever read in the gargantuan amount of informational pamphlets, emails, booklets, books, and all-knowing womanly family members which will be flowing your way over the next few months.
Now every woman's pregnancy is different. I've been lucky enough to not have morning sickness. I know, shoot me through the computer right now. I have, however, experienced mild nausea, major uterus cramping and pains (like the kind you get right before your period starts), dizziness, headaches, and fatigue. Lord, have I been tired for no real apparent reason. Other than, of course, I'm busy building miniature human organs and whatnot.
So far, pregnancy sounds wonderful, right? Mmm-hmm.
I am currently around 17 weeks pregnant. Since my husband couldn't keep his trap shut, most people knew around weeks 8-10. That means I've been dealing with the new revolving door of questions that everyone asks for at least two months already. And, oh, how tiring that is all on its own!
So beginning now, with this stage of pregnancy--the one where you're officially in the "honeymoon" trimester, as they call it, but feel like you just look chubby and not pregnant and are still experiencing some of the less-than-glamourous symptoms that you only had while on your real honeymoon if you were hungover--I want to offer you a guide. Based entirely on my own opinions and experiences, of course, I'd like to tell you how to be a Good Pregnant Woman, since everyone will be watching and waiting and weighing your every move and verbal reply over the next nine (or ten) months. I am not always a Good Pregnant Woman...but may you learn from my snafus.
Let the rules commence!
This question, for the longest time (about two years, to be exact), annoyed me. Honestly, I could have developed morning sickness on the spot just to puke all over the person asking me this for the six-billionith time. But then one day, I realized that I, too, wanted an answer to that question. Everywhere around me, I was seeing babies. The already-born and the not-quite-born kind. Images of dimples and toothless grins and tiny hands and tiny feet splayed everywhere, just for me. Nothing but Pampers Cruisers and Gerber cuteness splayed over the TV. Baby Week on Discovery Health. Marathons of 16 and Pregnant on MTV, even.
That's when it hit me: My God. I want one.
Now, I am a very rational, analytical person. Seriously. So I didn't arrive at this decision after one restless night's sleep. I agonized over it for months, turning it over and over in my head, little mental pros and cons Post-its cramming the space in my brain. I thought about it morning, noon, and night, in every aspect of my life. What finally tipped the scale was that my birth control prescription was about to run out. After a pretty quick and to-the-point discussion with the hubby, we decided to just let it run out and see what happened.
Within two months, something happened.
And as much as I cried and dreamed and felt so sure I wanted to be pregnant, the minute my pee on that stick came back with the digital word "Pregnant," my first thought was, F---! What the hell did I just do to myself?!?!?!?
Which is the first thing I wanted to tell all of you potential mothers-to-be out there. If you think you want to get pregnant and then become pregnant and then have this initial mental freak-out about it, you are NOT a Bad Pregnant Woman. In fact, you are quite normal. Much more normal than anything you will ever read in the gargantuan amount of informational pamphlets, emails, booklets, books, and all-knowing womanly family members which will be flowing your way over the next few months.
Now every woman's pregnancy is different. I've been lucky enough to not have morning sickness. I know, shoot me through the computer right now. I have, however, experienced mild nausea, major uterus cramping and pains (like the kind you get right before your period starts), dizziness, headaches, and fatigue. Lord, have I been tired for no real apparent reason. Other than, of course, I'm busy building miniature human organs and whatnot.
So far, pregnancy sounds wonderful, right? Mmm-hmm.
I am currently around 17 weeks pregnant. Since my husband couldn't keep his trap shut, most people knew around weeks 8-10. That means I've been dealing with the new revolving door of questions that everyone asks for at least two months already. And, oh, how tiring that is all on its own!
So beginning now, with this stage of pregnancy--the one where you're officially in the "honeymoon" trimester, as they call it, but feel like you just look chubby and not pregnant and are still experiencing some of the less-than-glamourous symptoms that you only had while on your real honeymoon if you were hungover--I want to offer you a guide. Based entirely on my own opinions and experiences, of course, I'd like to tell you how to be a Good Pregnant Woman, since everyone will be watching and waiting and weighing your every move and verbal reply over the next nine (or ten) months. I am not always a Good Pregnant Woman...but may you learn from my snafus.
Let the rules commence!
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