Every Thursday for the last thirty something odd weeks I have excitedly woken up, rolled over (with varying degrees of difficulty) and read the latest weekly update in my pregnancy book. One more week down, one more week of updates, one more week I can mark off that imaginary calendar I have been watching since late October.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Poetry in Motion
I went to the doctor today for my first weekly appointment. Let me give you a brief run down:
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Widespread Panic
This morning, in that hazy place between wake and sleep, I had this horrible dream. I dreamed that I was almost nine months pregnant, had put on almost forty pounds in thirty five weeks, and had just started to realize that I had not a clue what to do with a baby - a baby I was almost certain the hospital was going to send home with me. Then I attempted to roll over, received a ninja chop to my liver, and sat up straight in bed (or sat up as straight as possible which is actually more of a reverse limbo move wherein a lot of straining and groaning takes place) and realized that Holy Crap that's not a dream - that's my life, and my thighs rubbing together.
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Things I Didn't Know Before I Got Knocked Up
1. In a single week, my daily pregnancy calender dropped these two delightful bombs on me:
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And for a close up:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
Remind me how excited I was for him to get here in about ten weeks when I haven't slept, eaten, or showered in days and own no article of clothing that has not been peed, pooped, or spit up on.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Say What?
I know I have blogged about this before but I remain in awe at the things people will say to you when you are pregnant. Its like just because you got knocked up some people forget they still have to abide by societal norms and general social etiquette.
The other night - it was actually like two weeks ago, I have become incredibly lazy in all parts of my life including the ol' blog -- me and the hubs had to attend an epidural class. You are probably wondering what this is because apparently the hospital here is the only one in the whole world who requires this. But its a class wherein you go and learn about epidurals and then sign an informed consent form that you have to have to get an epidural once you are in labor. And word on the street is that if you don't have your white consent form you aint gettin' an epidural. So, just to be on the safe side, we signed up for the April class - Mama don't want to feel nothing during this whole labor/delivery nonsense.
Anywho, as we make our way into the hospital, an elderly lady perched in a wheelchair just inside the door to the hospital greets us with a smile with which, of course, we return people observing general social norms usually do. Then, the wench says to me, "Gurrrrrllll, you already got the weeble wobbles." Say what?? The weeble wobbles? Do you mean to say that this is what I remind you of?
Awesome. At least I can still weeble wobble, Cankle Marie with your orthopedic shoes. Strike that - that is an ugly thing to think about an elderly woman in a wheelchair with no ankles to speak of. But I mean seriously folks, don't ever tell a very pregnant, very waddley woman that she has the weeble wobbles, especially in front of her husband. Because for a solid week after that, Robby was all jokes about the weeble wobbles. Made me want to weeble wobble him. And it really added fuel to the fire that was already lit by his earlier question to me --
Back up a few days and I will relay the most sensitive and loving question my sweet, dear husband has ever asked me (Robby, I know you will be reading this, and you don't probably want me blogging about you, but you undyng concern about my well being cannot go without public praise)
As I was again apparently waddling to the car through a very long and hot parking lot, Robby looked at me and asked me why I was walking like that, you know with my legs spread apart and all waddley like?? Say what sweet hubby of mine? Why am I waddling through this parking lot like there is something between my legs? Because there is something between my legs - its a combination of the child you helped produce and my inner thighs which have grown to be so thick that I am seriously concerned about chafing at this point. I mean my legs look like someone taped one of those big turkey legs you get at the fair to the inside of each of my thighs. I am going to have to start wearing biking shorts to just cut down on the friction - either that or continue to weeble wobble every wear I go. OR maybe I can go borrow Cankle Marie's wheelchair for the next ten weeks.
And finally, if one more person asks me how far along I am (to which I always politely reply the appropriate amount of time minus like a week to make myself feel better) and then get this kind of shocked and horrified expression and respond oh, you have a lot longer to go or oh really that much longer or any other form of the phrase holy crap fatso you are going to be freaking huge by then, I am going to jump you. I mean get it together folks. Learn to control your facial expressions before you question me on my due date. Oh, and weird guy from Monday - telling a woman who just told you she isn't due until the end of June that she looks miserable already and its going to be a long ten weeks is reason enough for me to slit your tires. If I could bend over that low. Your gut hangs out further than mine and you look miserable too and you have a lifetime to go judging by the size of that donut you are shoveling in your mouth.
Say what?
The other night - it was actually like two weeks ago, I have become incredibly lazy in all parts of my life including the ol' blog -- me and the hubs had to attend an epidural class. You are probably wondering what this is because apparently the hospital here is the only one in the whole world who requires this. But its a class wherein you go and learn about epidurals and then sign an informed consent form that you have to have to get an epidural once you are in labor. And word on the street is that if you don't have your white consent form you aint gettin' an epidural. So, just to be on the safe side, we signed up for the April class - Mama don't want to feel nothing during this whole labor/delivery nonsense.
Anywho, as we make our way into the hospital, an elderly lady perched in a wheelchair just inside the door to the hospital greets us with a smile with which, of course, we return people observing general social norms usually do. Then, the wench says to me, "Gurrrrrllll, you already got the weeble wobbles." Say what?? The weeble wobbles? Do you mean to say that this is what I remind you of?
Back up a few days and I will relay the most sensitive and loving question my sweet, dear husband has ever asked me (Robby, I know you will be reading this, and you don't probably want me blogging about you, but you undyng concern about my well being cannot go without public praise)
As I was again apparently waddling to the car through a very long and hot parking lot, Robby looked at me and asked me why I was walking like that, you know with my legs spread apart and all waddley like?? Say what sweet hubby of mine? Why am I waddling through this parking lot like there is something between my legs? Because there is something between my legs - its a combination of the child you helped produce and my inner thighs which have grown to be so thick that I am seriously concerned about chafing at this point. I mean my legs look like someone taped one of those big turkey legs you get at the fair to the inside of each of my thighs. I am going to have to start wearing biking shorts to just cut down on the friction - either that or continue to weeble wobble every wear I go. OR maybe I can go borrow Cankle Marie's wheelchair for the next ten weeks.
And finally, if one more person asks me how far along I am (to which I always politely reply the appropriate amount of time minus like a week to make myself feel better) and then get this kind of shocked and horrified expression and respond oh, you have a lot longer to go or oh really that much longer or any other form of the phrase holy crap fatso you are going to be freaking huge by then, I am going to jump you. I mean get it together folks. Learn to control your facial expressions before you question me on my due date. Oh, and weird guy from Monday - telling a woman who just told you she isn't due until the end of June that she looks miserable already and its going to be a long ten weeks is reason enough for me to slit your tires. If I could bend over that low. Your gut hangs out further than mine and you look miserable too and you have a lifetime to go judging by the size of that donut you are shoveling in your mouth.
Say what?
Monday, April 4, 2011
ANABART
This whole pregnancy thing has really started to drag on and on and on and on. I mean the first few months were all like "oh cool, growing life, having a baby, yippee ki yay (and yes I googled how to spell that). But now, my boobs are permanently resting on my belly, I am constantly out of breath, and the thought of continuing to grow (and then swell) for another approximately 86 more days is almost more than I can stand.
Now don't get me wrong - I am so excited to have a baby, glad he is doing great in there, yadda yadda yadda, insert any other disclosure that reassures you that I am not a terrible person taking for granted how lucky I am to have this opportunity. But seriously folks, MY BOOBS AND MY BELLY HAVE LITERALLY FUSED INTO A SINGLE, COHESIVE UNIT. Like I am worried about something getting lost in there. And its not just the boob/belly thing. I was driving in my car yesterday and noticed that there are parts of my back/arm fat resting against the car seat that did not used to be there. And you can forget about the thighs - they have so much friction going on from rubbing together that I am worried about starting a fire and becoming seriously injured in my nether region.
But, enough about me - well I mean the whole blog is basically about me so I am going to continue rambling about myself, but will at least move onto a less volumptous topic. Because I seriously feel like all I ever talk about is how huge I feel. So, I am going to make it a point to discuss something else.
Last week, I started randomly having Braxton Hicks contractions. You might already know this, but if you don't here is some useful information about this phenomenon- If you start having Braxton Hicks contractions at 27 weeks, this apparently is a-okay. And no reason to call your mother and husband and inform them that you may be having preterm labor because the website you were reading says you shouldn't be having these yet. My doctor infomed me it was perfectly fine. --Now, don't just go based on what I said. I mean I am no doctor and in no way mean for this statement to guide you in anything you do. Just recounting what MY doctor said --
The whole Braxton Hicks thing is really quite a bizarre phenonmeon. First, you are just waddling down the street minding your own business and your whole gullet starts to sqeeze up like you are having a charlie horse in your uterus - and I wasn't even exactly sure where my uterus was! But when it starts to pucker up like a kid eating a lemon you know exactly where it is. And you think to yourself, "Self, I think you are having a contraction. One of those Braxton Hicks things. Perhaps I should google this and see if this normal."
Well, Google produced the following results:
1. They are named after John Braxton Hicks, the doctor who first described them in 1872. Now, why did it take a male doctor until 1872 to "describe" them and how the heck does he know how to describe them. Does he have a uterine wall that is contracting at irregular intervals? I think not. It really irritates me that we named them after this man. This man that did not have to deal with the ordeal of pushing something out of his whoo-haa a few short months later after he so eloquently "described" them for all the world. So I am renaming them - ANABART contractions. Which stands for Allegedly Not As Bad As the Real Thing contractions. I add the allegedly because if you are having an ANABART contraction, you haven't experienced a real contraction so you don't know for sure. And also, because I plan on having an epidural at like week 32 and every week thereafter so I hope to not feel any real contractions.
2. ANABART contractions are apparently caused by dehydration or a full bladder. So drink up, but don't drink too much. Helpful I know.
3. ANABART contractions can also be brought on by "overdoing" it but can be are alleviated by exercise. Again, helpful. However, I am joining the camp that states they are brought on by overdoing it. I will from this point on be taking every elevator I can find and have stopped doing any type of cooking or cleaning. Considering telling my boss that waking up before 9 or working past 3 is going to be overdoing it and we will have to adjust my work schedule accordingly. For the baby's sake of course.
4. Apparently the best way to tell if your contractions are false labor or real labor is if they continue to get stronger and closer together for a period of time they are probably real contractions. Or if a baby starts coming out. (I added the second part, but it seems logical that if a baby is coming out of your body, it was real contractions and you should probably call someone.)
I will be contacting the authorities who name bodily functions as soon as possible to tell them about the new name. If you have these powerful people's contact information, that would be helpful and appreciated. Sorry John Braxton Hicks, but your time in the limelight is over.
Now don't get me wrong - I am so excited to have a baby, glad he is doing great in there, yadda yadda yadda, insert any other disclosure that reassures you that I am not a terrible person taking for granted how lucky I am to have this opportunity. But seriously folks, MY BOOBS AND MY BELLY HAVE LITERALLY FUSED INTO A SINGLE, COHESIVE UNIT. Like I am worried about something getting lost in there. And its not just the boob/belly thing. I was driving in my car yesterday and noticed that there are parts of my back/arm fat resting against the car seat that did not used to be there. And you can forget about the thighs - they have so much friction going on from rubbing together that I am worried about starting a fire and becoming seriously injured in my nether region.
But, enough about me - well I mean the whole blog is basically about me so I am going to continue rambling about myself, but will at least move onto a less volumptous topic. Because I seriously feel like all I ever talk about is how huge I feel. So, I am going to make it a point to discuss something else.
Last week, I started randomly having Braxton Hicks contractions. You might already know this, but if you don't here is some useful information about this phenomenon- If you start having Braxton Hicks contractions at 27 weeks, this apparently is a-okay. And no reason to call your mother and husband and inform them that you may be having preterm labor because the website you were reading says you shouldn't be having these yet. My doctor infomed me it was perfectly fine. --Now, don't just go based on what I said. I mean I am no doctor and in no way mean for this statement to guide you in anything you do. Just recounting what MY doctor said --
The whole Braxton Hicks thing is really quite a bizarre phenonmeon. First, you are just waddling down the street minding your own business and your whole gullet starts to sqeeze up like you are having a charlie horse in your uterus - and I wasn't even exactly sure where my uterus was! But when it starts to pucker up like a kid eating a lemon you know exactly where it is. And you think to yourself, "Self, I think you are having a contraction. One of those Braxton Hicks things. Perhaps I should google this and see if this normal."
Well, Google produced the following results:
1. They are named after John Braxton Hicks, the doctor who first described them in 1872. Now, why did it take a male doctor until 1872 to "describe" them and how the heck does he know how to describe them. Does he have a uterine wall that is contracting at irregular intervals? I think not. It really irritates me that we named them after this man. This man that did not have to deal with the ordeal of pushing something out of his whoo-haa a few short months later after he so eloquently "described" them for all the world. So I am renaming them - ANABART contractions. Which stands for Allegedly Not As Bad As the Real Thing contractions. I add the allegedly because if you are having an ANABART contraction, you haven't experienced a real contraction so you don't know for sure. And also, because I plan on having an epidural at like week 32 and every week thereafter so I hope to not feel any real contractions.
2. ANABART contractions are apparently caused by dehydration or a full bladder. So drink up, but don't drink too much. Helpful I know.
3. ANABART contractions can also be brought on by "overdoing" it but can be are alleviated by exercise. Again, helpful. However, I am joining the camp that states they are brought on by overdoing it. I will from this point on be taking every elevator I can find and have stopped doing any type of cooking or cleaning. Considering telling my boss that waking up before 9 or working past 3 is going to be overdoing it and we will have to adjust my work schedule accordingly. For the baby's sake of course.
4. Apparently the best way to tell if your contractions are false labor or real labor is if they continue to get stronger and closer together for a period of time they are probably real contractions. Or if a baby starts coming out. (I added the second part, but it seems logical that if a baby is coming out of your body, it was real contractions and you should probably call someone.)
I will be contacting the authorities who name bodily functions as soon as possible to tell them about the new name. If you have these powerful people's contact information, that would be helpful and appreciated. Sorry John Braxton Hicks, but your time in the limelight is over.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wildlife
Two back to back blog posts you ask? Well after the day I had today, I simply had to share with you.
As a little background ... I have been working on this big, federal grant proposal that is due Tuesday and as a part of it, I had to get all the sheriff's in my district's signatures. So today, I set out to transverse the Third Judicial District of Mississippi in search of signatures, and well, everyone should travel these roads once in their life. They are full of animals you have to really see to believe.
1. As I leave Oxford heading north on Highway 7, I cross into Marshall County and see the biggest dog I have ever seen standing in the middle of the road. As I slow down wondering why the big dog doesn't move, I realize something. This is not a dog. Oh no. We have a cow that has gone rogue. And she is not happy with the current traffic situation. And she is staring at me like it is my fault that she has escaped from whatever insufficient pen her cow farmer was keeping her. All I can think of is how Robby yelled me not once but twice in the past few weeks to never swerve to avoid an animal walking into the road. I believe his words were: "Just hit the animal Ashley; they aren't worth causing an accident" Hmmmm, for some reason I doubt this is the situation he had in mind. So I decide swerving from a dead stop, cattle Mexican stand off would be appropriate and escape the potentially cattle-strauphic situation. (By the way, don't worry about the cow. I promptly notified the Sheriff's Department about said angry cow and after convincing them that I was not making this up, they left to find the she-devil and return her to her rightful farmland).
2. Fast forward three counties and two hours of my life and I have made it to Union County where I encounter following story. Now, this story has nothing to do with me directly, but it is just too good to not be shared. And it did happen today so it totally counts. Apparently, the officer in charge of supervising house arrest folks had a guy that was having some malfunctioning monitoring equipment so he went to pay Criminal a visit. When he gets there he realizes the problem is with the transmitter thingy (I didn't get the technical terms from him, sorry) which Criminal states is located in his bedroom. Well, upon inspection our supervisor realizes that the wire has been chewed all the way through - by the GOAT in the guys bedroom. I could elaborate on this in so many ways but will let your minds go where they will. All I can say is the man had goat poop all over his room so the goat was apparently making himself at home.
***Relatives: There was no evidence that the goat man was related to us or even living in Ingomar. Just a random guy in Union County. Cue sigh of relief.***
3. Fast forward to somewhere between Chickasaw and Calhoun counties. I notice there is a small field that is on fire next to this little house off the side of the road. It is obvious that this is an intentional fire because there are two men standing by the road supervising the blaze laughing and chatting. The problem is that there are a least ten kids ranging in age from probably 5 to 12 sporadically standing around the field-o-fire with buckets (I am assuming of water) and hoses and shovels (not sure what the shovels are for, didn't stop to inquire). Now, I am all about getting your kids to help around the house on Spring Break, but forcing them to act as your own personal volunteer fire department seems a bit inappropriate. And a bucket of water being held by a seven year old twenty feet from your home is probably not what your insurance guy had in mind when he asked you if you had the appropriate fire preventative devices to qualify for that new lower rate on your home insurance. Just throwing that out there.
4. Finally, I make it back to Oxford and run by office to check in before heading home. I get a call on my phone from a number I don't know. Its my vet. Who lives in my neighborhood. Who is calling me to tell me my devil dog is running around the neighborhood. Now, let me tell you about Devil Dog. She stays in our backyard during the day which is closed in by a six foot privacy fence. Which, after she continuously refused to stay in, Robby strung with electrical wire that is supposedly streaming high voltage electricity all along the bottom of the fence. Now, in Devil Dog's defense, I checked the wire and its not currently working. But I have to ask myself, how many times did that stupid dog go up to that wire and get shocked before trying today and realizing it wasn't working. I mean, she just didn't think to herself, "hey, I havne't dug under this fence in a while, the last time a tried I got electrocuted, but I mean, maybe today will be different." I bet her heart skipped a beat when she realized she was free. Free at last. Her and Mad Cow should really get together - they could write a book called Going Rogue. Oh wait, someone already did that...
As a little background ... I have been working on this big, federal grant proposal that is due Tuesday and as a part of it, I had to get all the sheriff's in my district's signatures. So today, I set out to transverse the Third Judicial District of Mississippi in search of signatures, and well, everyone should travel these roads once in their life. They are full of animals you have to really see to believe.
1. As I leave Oxford heading north on Highway 7, I cross into Marshall County and see the biggest dog I have ever seen standing in the middle of the road. As I slow down wondering why the big dog doesn't move, I realize something. This is not a dog. Oh no. We have a cow that has gone rogue. And she is not happy with the current traffic situation. And she is staring at me like it is my fault that she has escaped from whatever insufficient pen her cow farmer was keeping her. All I can think of is how Robby yelled me not once but twice in the past few weeks to never swerve to avoid an animal walking into the road. I believe his words were: "Just hit the animal Ashley; they aren't worth causing an accident" Hmmmm, for some reason I doubt this is the situation he had in mind. So I decide swerving from a dead stop, cattle Mexican stand off would be appropriate and escape the potentially cattle-strauphic situation. (By the way, don't worry about the cow. I promptly notified the Sheriff's Department about said angry cow and after convincing them that I was not making this up, they left to find the she-devil and return her to her rightful farmland).
2. Fast forward three counties and two hours of my life and I have made it to Union County where I encounter following story. Now, this story has nothing to do with me directly, but it is just too good to not be shared. And it did happen today so it totally counts. Apparently, the officer in charge of supervising house arrest folks had a guy that was having some malfunctioning monitoring equipment so he went to pay Criminal a visit. When he gets there he realizes the problem is with the transmitter thingy (I didn't get the technical terms from him, sorry) which Criminal states is located in his bedroom. Well, upon inspection our supervisor realizes that the wire has been chewed all the way through - by the GOAT in the guys bedroom. I could elaborate on this in so many ways but will let your minds go where they will. All I can say is the man had goat poop all over his room so the goat was apparently making himself at home.
***Relatives: There was no evidence that the goat man was related to us or even living in Ingomar. Just a random guy in Union County. Cue sigh of relief.***
3. Fast forward to somewhere between Chickasaw and Calhoun counties. I notice there is a small field that is on fire next to this little house off the side of the road. It is obvious that this is an intentional fire because there are two men standing by the road supervising the blaze laughing and chatting. The problem is that there are a least ten kids ranging in age from probably 5 to 12 sporadically standing around the field-o-fire with buckets (I am assuming of water) and hoses and shovels (not sure what the shovels are for, didn't stop to inquire). Now, I am all about getting your kids to help around the house on Spring Break, but forcing them to act as your own personal volunteer fire department seems a bit inappropriate. And a bucket of water being held by a seven year old twenty feet from your home is probably not what your insurance guy had in mind when he asked you if you had the appropriate fire preventative devices to qualify for that new lower rate on your home insurance. Just throwing that out there.
4. Finally, I make it back to Oxford and run by office to check in before heading home. I get a call on my phone from a number I don't know. Its my vet. Who lives in my neighborhood. Who is calling me to tell me my devil dog is running around the neighborhood. Now, let me tell you about Devil Dog. She stays in our backyard during the day which is closed in by a six foot privacy fence. Which, after she continuously refused to stay in, Robby strung with electrical wire that is supposedly streaming high voltage electricity all along the bottom of the fence. Now, in Devil Dog's defense, I checked the wire and its not currently working. But I have to ask myself, how many times did that stupid dog go up to that wire and get shocked before trying today and realizing it wasn't working. I mean, she just didn't think to herself, "hey, I havne't dug under this fence in a while, the last time a tried I got electrocuted, but I mean, maybe today will be different." I bet her heart skipped a beat when she realized she was free. Free at last. Her and Mad Cow should really get together - they could write a book called Going Rogue. Oh wait, someone already did that...
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