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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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.
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