Warning: this is an incredibly long and rambling post.
In the past almost three months, my life has changed dramatically. I know you are thinking, "well duh, you got yourself knocked up. Change was inevitable." And to this thought I can only agree with you. I knew the moment I sat my glass of wine down to pee on that stick and it started dinging and lighting up and singing the itsy bitsy spider my life was about to change. Forever.
*And no, this did not actually happen. Well the part about the wine did. All that actually happened on that stick was a little line popped up so fast I couldn't even get my drawers back up. (Which leads to one hopping around the bathroom with their pants around their ankles saying words that are not appropriate for this blog while scrambling to find that other pregnancy test and willing your bladder to give you just one more stream of pee.) However, I do feel that a positive pregnancy test should give you a little more than just a line to tell you everything in your life has changed, and you should begin your meltdown (or celebration depending on your frame of mind) immediately. A little clip from this song might would be an appropriate song for the EPT to sing when you are, in fact, pregnant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1R4rhY3qZ8 (give it to about the 27 second mark to start the song -its the only clip I could find, but it truly is worth your patience - in fact, I am changing this to my cell phone ring for Robby)
But, I ramble. Almost immediately everything started to change. That next day I went to this nurse practitioner I know and told her my predicament: I have had two positive pregnancy tests but I cannot be pregnant because I do not think I want to be pregnant quite yet so I am here for a professional, medical opinion. This, of course, leads to her and one of her nurses handing me cotton balls from that stereotypical glass container (they should really invest in some tissues) and asking me if they should "call someone" as I have my third complete meltdown in twelve hours.
But, I managed to pull it together and took all my paperwork home and began reading. And so began my still ongoing, almost daily, vocabulary lesson. I wanted to share a few with you.
First up: listeria. Before I became with child, I would have bet at least twenty bucks that Listeria was a country in Eastern Europe probably somewhere near the Czech Republic where nearly all of the women were named Natasha and their last names had lots of kszy's in them. However, listeria is actually a bacteria that is in seemingly everything, will kill you and your unborn child, and is the reason you cannot eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses (still not sure what all this entails) raw fish, and the list goes on and on and on. Now, some women get real freaked out by this whole listeria thing. I, on the other hand, took it as I should really try not to get food poisoning. Which, lucky for me, I have been trying to not get food poisoning my whole life because it sucks. So, well this one has been a pretty easy adjustment for me -
Second, minky dot.What a dumb word. I don't have an alternate definition for this word because I had never heard of it. Minky dot. Sure, I know what it is now and I will concede that there may be a little minky dot in my life (cue Mambo Number 5: " a little Minky Dot in my life" -- sorry I cannot help myself). But come on folks, lets call it something else. I have always called it that fuzzy fabric with the dots on. Which seems to get the point across. Minky dot. Ha.
Third, and for those of you who have never been pregnant read this very closely. It has changed my life forever. Episiotomy. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? DO YOU? DO YOU???? Well if you do, and if you have had a baby, and had one of these, hats off to you my friend. For those of you who don't know, well I would love to let you just keep living in ignorance, but I simply cannot do this. Mostly because I am so completely freaked out that I want you to be as completely as uncomfortable as I am. An episiotomy is when the doctors CUT you from your vagina to your anus during childbirth. My friends say oh you want them to cut you or it tears. WHAAAT? That can tear? That can happen? This is worse than when I found out that people poop during labor. Oh my gosh. I cannot do this. I am not the kind of person who can take a ripping perineum (which could be vocabulary word 3a - its the medical term for the area between your whoo haa and your rear end). But, I have been researching this phenomenon extensively since I discovered its existence. Apparently, it grows back, to normal, with little to no complications or long standing effects on your body ---most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because, of course, everyone knows a horror story. But I cannot concentrate on the possible after effects, side effects, or complications because I am too freaked out that this even happens. They should teach this to young girls in health class. Bet it would dramatically reduce teen pregnancies. Because this is more frightening to me than the prospect of actually raising the child.
I have to sign up for that epidural next week. If there is going to be ripping or cutting, I don't want to know about it.
Now, briefly on to a little lighter subject matter. Let me tell you what I did yesterday. I went grocery shopping. Spent 106 dollars at Kroger. And do you know what I did for the first time in my life????? I bought whatever I wanted. I did not even once look at the calories in any item I bought. Doritos? Sure, two bags please. And I am talking about the Blazing Buffalo and Cool Ranch kinds - no baked chips for me! Cookies? Why not? Two boxes of already made cookies, sugar cookie mix, icing, and while I was on that aisle, why not pick up some blueberry muffin mix, brownie mix, and oh! they have cornbread mix - I bet that would be good. Canned food aisle - no problem. I skipped the canned green beans and went straight to the rotel tomatoes - I would later gather Velveeta cheese, don't worry - and the Spaghettios and the Chef Boyardee. I can't wait. Also got stuff to make Hot Tomato Grits -
*As a side note, I tasted the hot tomato grits last weekend at Abby's baby shower. Rebecca, if you are reading this, this recipe has changed my life forever, and I have eaten it for at least one meal a day since then. Anything with bacon, cheddar cheese, and rotel tomatoes has to be good. Eat it with an apple on the side, and it is, well it is simply amazing.
Also amazing to me lately: the phenomenon of pickled foods. Which made up a significant portion of my 106 dollars at Kroger. I bought pickles, pickled jalapenos, pickled corn, pickled okra, pickle relish, and pepprocini peppers, and to top it all off, Ranch dressing. Because pickles topped with ranch dressing is the snack of true champions. I am almost positive of this.
While checking out, I felt so self-conscious about my basketful of junk food I found myself telling the check out girl that I was pregnant. To which, she told me she gained 96 pounds while she was pregnant (oh crap - should I put the cake mix back? maybe just get one bag of chips??) and didn't know she was pregnant until she was 4 months along because she never missed her period and was on birth control. Hmmm.
What is about the phenomenon of pregnancy that makes complete strangers think it is okay to discuss the presence or absence of their menstrual cycle with you at the checkout line in Kroger? More on this topic later.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I'm Busting Out - and I want the world to know ....
This past weekend I spent a lovely day doing the baby thing. Started out the a.m. at a baby shower for a friend (congrats Abby - the baby shower was wonderful!) and then went to meet my mom to do an assortment of baby stuff. Most importantly on her list: finding baby bedding to complete the "Baby's Room" (which was once, and still technically is, my room, but my importance in the room seems to be diminishing at about the same speed my belly is growing).
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Band
Before I begin, a quick update: Yesterday, my daily pregnancy calendar stated: "Mom may find her skin drier during pregnancy. Lotions may help." And no they do not have a comment section for me to thank them for their informative posts. I checked.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
PregnaNazis
Well we survived Christmas again. All six of them. It makes me feel like Reese and Vince in that movie "Four Christmases" were wusses. They only had four Christmases to go to and they snuck off to tropical destinations year after year. Not me and my husband. We put on our big girl panties (literally - you try eating six Christmas meals in twenty four hours) and face the music. We hit all six Christmas festivities with a jolliness not even Santa can pull off. Speaking of which, Santa can bite me. He just swoops in, drops off a few gifts, and leaves. Not me. I bring presents, casseroles, and small talk. I bring sonogram pictures and gift receipts (because we both know you are returning that scarf the day after Christmas). Heck, I even bring my husband and my two dogs. Now that I am thinking about it - I am way more useful than Santa. People should collect figurines of me to decorate their mantel.
As I went through this Christmas I thought about my favorite things of the holiday season now that our family unit is expanding by one. And I came to one major conclusion: my favorite thing about Christmas is house trailers with colored Christmas lights and inflatable decorations. Always has been and always will be. There is nothing that can change that, and I just hope my kid has a fondness for the delightfully tacky like me. But I also enjoyed getting gifts for Peanut. And, here it comes...wait for it....second sentimental thing I am saying on this blog about this baby - I get it, in a very small and seemingly unimportant way, what they mean when they say parenthood makes you a selfless person. I was more excited about receiving gifts for someone I have never met than I was for my own presents. Those little stuffed animals and pacifiers made me just a little impatient for Peanut to make his/her grand arrival.
Now that that is out of the way, on to my new observations about this little journey I am on. ***Disclaimer: The following rant may offend you. You have been warned and I mean nothing personal. ***
I have discovered a new species of life that I am pretty sure has been around for ages but yet to be fully studied in its natural habitat. I have named these people the PregnaNazis but you can call them whatever you wish. These are the women (and men, see below) who read the entire series of What to Expect in between bouts of morning sickness and already have daycare, pediatricians, and childbirth figured out. They have successfully memorized every list out there on what foods are now off limits and have probably added a few just to sound more self-sacrificial. These are the women who openly gaze at you with disdain at the restaurant when you are lovingly enjoying your SINGLE glass of red wine while attempting to pick out baby names. Now, note to self: perhaps picking out baby names while you comment on how great your pinot noir is isn't strictly PC. But come on! I get like one glass a week, and I will not apologize for it. I am fairly certain French women have been having an occasional glass of wine for hundred of years and they seem to turn out okay.
These are also the same women who have an opinion on every facet of MY pregnancy. Let me spell it out for you PregnaNazi woman at Old Navy. I am simply here picking out elastic waistband jeans because I am worried my lower extremities are going to rot off from lack of blood flow due to the extreme tightness of my current jeans. I am NOT by any means soliciting your opinion on lunch meat, epidurals, or organic baby bedding. I, in fact, am already signed up for an epidural class so there will be no chance they can't stick that big needle into my back at the first sign of labor. I also just finished a cold (gasp) turkey sandwich with soft, probably unpasteurized cheese (double gasp) and plan on having sushi and wine for dinner (OH M. GEE). I have given up alcohol (with the exception of that once weekly glass of wine) caffeine, aspartame, smoking, any semblance of obtaining a flat stomach or losing that last ten pounds, and most of my social life. Bug off - that's all I have to give.
As a side note, for the male PregnaNazis out there. (And yes this is a true subset of the species - rarer but infinitely more annoying). You are a man. And unless you are a board certified OBGYN you have absolutely no right to tell me anything about pregnancy or child birth. I don't give you advice on your prostate health do I? Some of you might think, surely not. Surely there are not men out there with the gall to tell a pregnant lady what to do or not to do. But yes, there are. And until your pee makes two little lines show up on a pregnancy test you may not, under any circumstances, tell me what to do for the next six months - or ever really but especially for the next six months. Because while you may have convinced your wife that an at home water birth would be better for the baby, it will not be better for me, and I would prefer it if my child did not enter the world hearing its mother scream a litany of four letter words while cursing its father for ever being born. And, on top of that, every time I pass our bathtub I would rather not think of what went down in there. Lets keep it clean and keep me at the hospital.
Whew, I feel better. Now, for a snack.
As I went through this Christmas I thought about my favorite things of the holiday season now that our family unit is expanding by one. And I came to one major conclusion: my favorite thing about Christmas is house trailers with colored Christmas lights and inflatable decorations. Always has been and always will be. There is nothing that can change that, and I just hope my kid has a fondness for the delightfully tacky like me. But I also enjoyed getting gifts for Peanut. And, here it comes...wait for it....second sentimental thing I am saying on this blog about this baby - I get it, in a very small and seemingly unimportant way, what they mean when they say parenthood makes you a selfless person. I was more excited about receiving gifts for someone I have never met than I was for my own presents. Those little stuffed animals and pacifiers made me just a little impatient for Peanut to make his/her grand arrival.
Now that that is out of the way, on to my new observations about this little journey I am on. ***Disclaimer: The following rant may offend you. You have been warned and I mean nothing personal. ***
I have discovered a new species of life that I am pretty sure has been around for ages but yet to be fully studied in its natural habitat. I have named these people the PregnaNazis but you can call them whatever you wish. These are the women (and men, see below) who read the entire series of What to Expect in between bouts of morning sickness and already have daycare, pediatricians, and childbirth figured out. They have successfully memorized every list out there on what foods are now off limits and have probably added a few just to sound more self-sacrificial. These are the women who openly gaze at you with disdain at the restaurant when you are lovingly enjoying your SINGLE glass of red wine while attempting to pick out baby names. Now, note to self: perhaps picking out baby names while you comment on how great your pinot noir is isn't strictly PC. But come on! I get like one glass a week, and I will not apologize for it. I am fairly certain French women have been having an occasional glass of wine for hundred of years and they seem to turn out okay.
These are also the same women who have an opinion on every facet of MY pregnancy. Let me spell it out for you PregnaNazi woman at Old Navy. I am simply here picking out elastic waistband jeans because I am worried my lower extremities are going to rot off from lack of blood flow due to the extreme tightness of my current jeans. I am NOT by any means soliciting your opinion on lunch meat, epidurals, or organic baby bedding. I, in fact, am already signed up for an epidural class so there will be no chance they can't stick that big needle into my back at the first sign of labor. I also just finished a cold (gasp) turkey sandwich with soft, probably unpasteurized cheese (double gasp) and plan on having sushi and wine for dinner (OH M. GEE). I have given up alcohol (with the exception of that once weekly glass of wine) caffeine, aspartame, smoking, any semblance of obtaining a flat stomach or losing that last ten pounds, and most of my social life. Bug off - that's all I have to give.
As a side note, for the male PregnaNazis out there. (And yes this is a true subset of the species - rarer but infinitely more annoying). You are a man. And unless you are a board certified OBGYN you have absolutely no right to tell me anything about pregnancy or child birth. I don't give you advice on your prostate health do I? Some of you might think, surely not. Surely there are not men out there with the gall to tell a pregnant lady what to do or not to do. But yes, there are. And until your pee makes two little lines show up on a pregnancy test you may not, under any circumstances, tell me what to do for the next six months - or ever really but especially for the next six months. Because while you may have convinced your wife that an at home water birth would be better for the baby, it will not be better for me, and I would prefer it if my child did not enter the world hearing its mother scream a litany of four letter words while cursing its father for ever being born. And, on top of that, every time I pass our bathtub I would rather not think of what went down in there. Lets keep it clean and keep me at the hospital.
Whew, I feel better. Now, for a snack.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
My Daily Pregnancy Calendar
Dear Online Daily Pregnancy Calendar:
I do appreciate your daily updates regarding my impending motherhood. Mostly because it satisfies my need for instant gratification but also because some of your posts are quite informative. For example, your weekly updates as to Peanut's approximate size make me feel like we are actually working towards our goal - which is to gain ten pounds over the next seven months and then birth a ten pound baby. However, I must complain about a few of your posts as being less than helpful and also point out a few items of my pregnancy you might want to address. Soon.
1. "Washing your face several times a day may help with skin breakouts." Gee, thanks. I went through puberty. My mom bought me a tub of Noxema at age 12 just like yours did. Besides, I wash my face every day anyways - you shouldn't have to tell people this. What you should be offering is some kind of useful advice like what is the strongest, most potent crap I can put on my face that will not cause my child to have three ears. Because obviously, just washing your face isn't enough. Why don't you do a little research and formulate a lotion/cream/wash that will literally strip all the skin off my face (including the places where it is peeling and the places where it is broken out and the places where it has decided to just change colors) and replace it with skin that is, at a minimum, not frightening to small children. Oh, and if you could make this wonder drug all natural and even organic, well that would be helpful too.
2. "Sleeping on your stomach is likely impossible now. Try sleeping on your side." WHEW. Again, thank you so much for this post. I had been planning on getting Robby to rig up some way to tie me to the door frame so I could sleep standing up. Never had it occurred to me to just roll over to my side. By golly, Calendar, you are a life saver.
3. As for a post your might want to include: "You are likely a raving lunatic right about now. This is natural. And so is bursting into tears at any picture of a baby animal, any less than supportive word by your spouse, and at any other time you feel happy, sad, bored, worried, excited, or even breathe." Then perhaps you could include a link to the closest place currently serving sausage and cheese platters with a side of apple cobbler and ice cream.
This just seems helpful, but perhaps its just me?
Sincerely,
Ashley
I do appreciate your daily updates regarding my impending motherhood. Mostly because it satisfies my need for instant gratification but also because some of your posts are quite informative. For example, your weekly updates as to Peanut's approximate size make me feel like we are actually working towards our goal - which is to gain ten pounds over the next seven months and then birth a ten pound baby. However, I must complain about a few of your posts as being less than helpful and also point out a few items of my pregnancy you might want to address. Soon.
1. "Washing your face several times a day may help with skin breakouts." Gee, thanks. I went through puberty. My mom bought me a tub of Noxema at age 12 just like yours did. Besides, I wash my face every day anyways - you shouldn't have to tell people this. What you should be offering is some kind of useful advice like what is the strongest, most potent crap I can put on my face that will not cause my child to have three ears. Because obviously, just washing your face isn't enough. Why don't you do a little research and formulate a lotion/cream/wash that will literally strip all the skin off my face (including the places where it is peeling and the places where it is broken out and the places where it has decided to just change colors) and replace it with skin that is, at a minimum, not frightening to small children. Oh, and if you could make this wonder drug all natural and even organic, well that would be helpful too.
2. "Sleeping on your stomach is likely impossible now. Try sleeping on your side." WHEW. Again, thank you so much for this post. I had been planning on getting Robby to rig up some way to tie me to the door frame so I could sleep standing up. Never had it occurred to me to just roll over to my side. By golly, Calendar, you are a life saver.
3. As for a post your might want to include: "You are likely a raving lunatic right about now. This is natural. And so is bursting into tears at any picture of a baby animal, any less than supportive word by your spouse, and at any other time you feel happy, sad, bored, worried, excited, or even breathe." Then perhaps you could include a link to the closest place currently serving sausage and cheese platters with a side of apple cobbler and ice cream.
This just seems helpful, but perhaps its just me?
Sincerely,
Ashley
Sunday, December 12, 2010
There is a baby in there, like a for real baby!
So I went to the doctor Thursday and all is amazingly well. I thought I was going to get to hear Peanut's heartbeat but even better - for some reason they did another sonogram (I was under the impression you only got a sonogram on your first visit and your 20 wk visit, but who am I to remind them I have already had one sonogram? Let them hash it out with insurance) and it was one of the coolest things I have ever seen.
I am sure most of you know that when you are pregnant, there is a baby inside you. Like that is the basic principle of pregnancy - you grow a kid, squeeze it out, and attempt to not kill it or give it too many "mommy issues" to work out with its future therapist. However, when they roll that little rolly thing across your stomach and you see this corresponding little alien life form jumping and flipping around and you know that is going inside your very own uterus...well, its pretty dang cool.
And there you have it ladies and gentlemen. I have officially made my first sentimental statement about my unborn child. And because I am getting all sentimental on you, I am posting our sonogram pictures. Just so you can be as equally amazed at my child's growth and perfection as I am. I am fairly certain he/she is the best looking, most perfectly developed fetus out there. But, hey, maybe thats just me...
This is Peanut at week seven. First doctor's visit. You can understand why I didn't immediately make the connection that I was growing a human. It looks like, well it looks like a freaking Peanut.
This is Peanut at week eleven. The first pictures are of the regular sonogram; the second two are the 4D. They are the really cool ones.
By the way, for those of you who are wondering. That is its umbilical cord its holding. It is not: 1) a sausage link - that just doesn't make sense; 2) a fishing pole - refer to reasoning in #1; 3) his male anatomy - sorry Rob, but if your son was sporting that as his already formed male anatomy he would be a freakshow; in a bad way. And yes, these are all three things people have asked me if that is. I hope the first two folks were joking. Knowing those who asked about the third option, they were only half kidding.
And finally, because I have to complain about something - its my own little coping mechanism after all, I have a simple plea to all the "grabbers" out there:
I think its offensive and creepy that people rub pregnant women's bellies. No one wants to be rubbed on - well in public anyways. But I mean I guess I can understand the draw - I mean its like a kid who just got a buzz cut: there is just the draw to rub on it. (Again, perhaps this is just me?) With that said, you can only even marginally be okay in rubbing a very pregnant woman's belly. Not mine. Now now. Not even if I just told you I was pregnant. We both know I am only eleven weeks prgnant. We both know women who are eleven weeks are not showing. So the logcal conclusion you should make is that the mound you are rubbing on is nothing more than the gullet I have become to lazy to suck in. I am not rubbing your muffin top or the dimples in your butt so why would you think its socially acceptable to rub my gut? Because there is baby the size of a sugar packet somewhere nestled deep within? I think not.
Friday, December 3, 2010
And finally....after two attempts...week ten
Yesterday I ventured into uncharted territory. Week Ten. Exciting for several reasons.
1. I am 25% of the way done. 30 more weeks until Raw Tuna, Wine, and Me have a wonderful and joyous reunion. Actually, if Peanut is on schedule (which he probably won't be knowing his father) 29 weeks, 6 days, but I mean who's counting?
2. This is farther than I have even been in my pregnancy. And yes, before you call me and give me a big duh, every day in your pregnancy is farther than you have ever been - kind of like every day you are alive is older than you have ever been, please allow me to explain. I thought I was nine weeks pregnant when I went to the doctor the first tme. But I was only seven weeks. So I had to redo weeks seven, eight, and nine on my weekly pregnant calendar (which by the way does not make me a dork, it makes me a Blackberry user with a lot of time on their hands while at work). Anyways, I had never made it to the mysterious Week Ten until yesterday. And in case you were wondering, Peanut graduates from an embryo to a fetus this week. Watch it, the kid is on a roll. He also begins producing testosterone if, in fact, he is a he - which I think really explains why men act the way they do. They honestly can't help it. All their faults have been with them since Week Ten. No matter if Peanut is of the male or female persuasion, he (or she) has begun producing urine. Which grosses me out to the infinite degree. I mean do I just have a bunch of urine floating around in there? Dis.gust.ing. If I would sit down and read my What to Expect book perhaps they would answer this question - I heard on TV somewhere at some point in my life that Baby Fetus drinks it or something equally as gross but I just can't even stomach that possibility.
3. On a lighter note Week Ten seems to have been the magic number in battling the naseau - I not only brushed my teeth without gagging last night, but also managed to floss. I also have regained most of my energy and feel almost human again. Do not fret though. I have not regained any desire to go to the gym. Perhaps I will make this a permanent change. I have also not regained any type of self control when it comes to the daily intake of worthless calories. I almost ran over an old lady with a walker yesterday in my rush to order my Phillip's Hamburger. For those of you unfortunate enough to not have had one of these let me paint you a picture: hamburger fully dressed, with two (maybe three) kinds of cheeses, ham, maybe bacon, and a whole lotta greasy love. It is amazing. I am still really into the whole apple craze. Had some apple juice and a sliced apple for breakfast. Which because it is a "healthy craving" allows me to spend the rest of my day daydreaming of chicken gyros, bacon cheeseburgers, and maybe even some Rotel cheese fries.
As a parting thought, my increased sense of smell has made me realize something quite embarassing. My feet stink. I apologize to all of you that have had to endure this.
1. I am 25% of the way done. 30 more weeks until Raw Tuna, Wine, and Me have a wonderful and joyous reunion. Actually, if Peanut is on schedule (which he probably won't be knowing his father) 29 weeks, 6 days, but I mean who's counting?
2. This is farther than I have even been in my pregnancy. And yes, before you call me and give me a big duh, every day in your pregnancy is farther than you have ever been - kind of like every day you are alive is older than you have ever been, please allow me to explain. I thought I was nine weeks pregnant when I went to the doctor the first tme. But I was only seven weeks. So I had to redo weeks seven, eight, and nine on my weekly pregnant calendar (which by the way does not make me a dork, it makes me a Blackberry user with a lot of time on their hands while at work). Anyways, I had never made it to the mysterious Week Ten until yesterday. And in case you were wondering, Peanut graduates from an embryo to a fetus this week. Watch it, the kid is on a roll. He also begins producing testosterone if, in fact, he is a he - which I think really explains why men act the way they do. They honestly can't help it. All their faults have been with them since Week Ten. No matter if Peanut is of the male or female persuasion, he (or she) has begun producing urine. Which grosses me out to the infinite degree. I mean do I just have a bunch of urine floating around in there? Dis.gust.ing. If I would sit down and read my What to Expect book perhaps they would answer this question - I heard on TV somewhere at some point in my life that Baby Fetus drinks it or something equally as gross but I just can't even stomach that possibility.
3. On a lighter note Week Ten seems to have been the magic number in battling the naseau - I not only brushed my teeth without gagging last night, but also managed to floss. I also have regained most of my energy and feel almost human again. Do not fret though. I have not regained any desire to go to the gym. Perhaps I will make this a permanent change. I have also not regained any type of self control when it comes to the daily intake of worthless calories. I almost ran over an old lady with a walker yesterday in my rush to order my Phillip's Hamburger. For those of you unfortunate enough to not have had one of these let me paint you a picture: hamburger fully dressed, with two (maybe three) kinds of cheeses, ham, maybe bacon, and a whole lotta greasy love. It is amazing. I am still really into the whole apple craze. Had some apple juice and a sliced apple for breakfast. Which because it is a "healthy craving" allows me to spend the rest of my day daydreaming of chicken gyros, bacon cheeseburgers, and maybe even some Rotel cheese fries.
As a parting thought, my increased sense of smell has made me realize something quite embarassing. My feet stink. I apologize to all of you that have had to endure this.
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