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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
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.
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