A More Explicit Step Two

26 weeks 5 days 

When I was younger, I adored print cartoons like “The Far Side.” They appealed to my quirky, often punny, weirdo sense of humor that was somewhere between intelligent and ridiculous. I felt very sophisticated reading them and understanding the joke (even though, yes, most of them featured talking barn animals. I get it.) 

One of my very favorite cartoons (which I would have sworn was a Far Side until I tried to look it up on the interwebs today, and now I’m not so sure....we’ll call it Gary Larson-esque…) featured two scientists standing in front of a chalk board full of mathematical scribbles. 

On the left hand side of the board: numerical chicken scratches. On the right hand side of the board: an equals sign with more numerical chicken scratches proposing a solution. And right in the middle of the two chalkboards, the phrase:  “Then a miracle occurs.”  The first scientist looks at the second scientist and says (in the very droll voice of all Gary Larson cartoon characters in my head) “I think you should be more explicit here in step two.”

This has been my week regarding life prep for my girl, the River Dancer. 

Because here’s the thing. I’m entering my third trimester. I’m feeling pretty confident that I’ve got this whole pregnancy thing down pat now. I’m enormous. I’m swollen. I’m tired all the time. I lose my balance standing still sometimes.  I can’t sleep worth a damn because there evidently aren’t enough pillows on this planet to build the requisite nest for my slumber nor can our house get cold enough for me to stave off the night sweats.  (Don’t be jealous. I know it sounds super attractive and very glamorous.) I’m getting used to this reality. I don’t much like it, but I get it. I’ve read the books. I’ve kibitzed with my other pregnant girlfriends. This is just my new normal for a while. 

We’ll call pregnancy the left hand side of the above chalkboard. Lots of nonsensical chicken scratches that don’t really make much sense. But there they are anyway, written by very smart people who seem to know what they’re talking about. 

Then, there’s motherhood. I’ve registered for all the stuff. I’ve read the books. I’m prepared for the no-sleep and craziness of those first few months. I’ve been with many of my girlfriends in the first few weeks of motherhood—stayed with them, helped with the dishes and the diapers and all the rest of it—taken care of babies…babysat. I’m pretty maternal. Granted, I know when it’s your own kid things will be vastly different. I’m not trying to pretend like I know what it’s going to be like. But at least I have a frame of reference—in theory, I know what it’s going to take to get the job done. I feel like once Baby Girl arrives, I’ll get the hang of that stuff with her eventually. And we’ll move on to what is our new normal, stumbling through it together.

We’ll call motherhood the right hand side of the cartoon chalkboard. Lots of nonsensical chicken scratches to be sure…but on the OTHER side of the equals sign.   An answer. Something that’s been figured out. A beginning of the next thing;  A starting point for more questions.

The part that no one seems to be prepared for (because no one talks about it) is that whole “miracle occurring” thing in the middle. Not pregnancy. Not motherhood. Not the miracle of life, per se. But rather the miracle of BIRTH, of actually, physically, beyond what is imaginable, expelling the child from your person and into the world.

Now, I do often hear people say things like “Pregnancy is hard. And birth is even harder. But holding your baby for the first time is so so worth all of it, that anything that happens during birth will completely disappear.”

Anything that happens during birth? Hmmmm. Cryptic.

Or maybe it’s that birth is the the shortest of the three stages: 9 months of pregnancy to reflect on; a lifetime of motherhood to reflect on; and a mere (ha!) 2- 24 hours of actual labor leading to birth which happens in just a few minutes. And I guess you’re probably not being super reflective and writing stuff down during that whole person-removal-from-your-lady-parts process. And afterwards, let's be honest...you're wearing some pretty hefty rose-tinted baby goggles (it's like beer goggles...but different.)

Or maybe I’ll be coerced into signing the Secret Pact of Motherhood which requires a Fight Club-esque silence about birth after you’ve participated in it, lest it scare off all potential mothers causing the entire world population to take a dip (First Rule of Birthing: You do not talk about Birthing.)

Or maybe it really is a miracle—a divine intervention that can’t be explained, even if you tried.

MIR-A-CLE from the Latin "Miraculum"; to wonder or marvel at:  an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs

Yeah maybe that’s it. That’s why no one talks about Step Two. Because there are no words of explanation for a miracle. It just sorta happens and you all stand back and marvel at it. I think I like this theory most of all.

As I enter my third trimester, several people have asked me if I’m ready for the big day. I mostly look at them like they’ve got a telephone growing out of their foreheads. What can possibly prepare you for THAT? Of *course* I’m not prepared to push a human being out of my insides. Are you insane?  I literally looked at someone last week who asked me if I was ready for the birthing process and with the drollness of a Gary Larson cartoon character merely asked in return “Are you?” (It was uncomfortable…)

Several people have also asked me if I have written out my birth plan yet. My birth plan? Um…Sure. It goes a little something like this:

Step 1: Have contractions
Step 2: Go to the hospital
Step 3: Get her out of me as quickly and painlessly as possible (i.e. the miracle)
Step 4: Go home and live happily ever after. The end.

(Does this count as a birth plan? Probably not… But wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s what I showed up with at the hospital? Gah…I just might do it. )

I just think it’s funny that people believe that they can plan for this stuff. I feel like you can’t dictate details when you’re in a moment like that. Birth is Step Two: WHERE a MIRACLE occurs (with the help of doctors and nurses and people that will basically take your birth plan, potentially look at it, and then throw it out the window based on what is actually happening in the room at that time.)

Yet even so, the control freak in me wishes folks could be a *little* more explicit in Step Two, because as much as I want to believe it to be so, I'm pretty sure it isn't actual magic that takes place in the delivery room.

Because of this, J and I will start with the birthing and lactation classes soon (signed up last week!) I’m pretty sure that once we begin with the breathing exercises and the birthing videos in which the magic of birth is broken down for me frame by painful frame, I’m going to take back everything I’ve said here about wanting more information and shall run screaming in the opposite direction like a cartoon chicken with my head cut off.

How about *that* for a Far Side cartoon, Gary Larson.

Lasts and Firsts

24 weeks, 6 days

I hate the phrase “in my opinion.” 

Of *course* it’s your opinion. If it was someone else’s opinion you were spouting, it would be a quote (or plagiarism.) Additionally, tacking “humble” on to this phrase as in, “in my humble opinion” is ridiculous. Anyone who has to throw that in to the conversation probably isn’t really very humble to begin with and is most likely just trying to underline the importance of their point…snarkily (yup, still a word.) 

All opinions are your own, because a person’s opinions are based on one thing only: one’s experiences. At some point, you read something or saw something or did something or felt something or heard something that has lead you to believe what it is you believe. Experience of some kind must precede an opinion. There’s no other way to get one that belongs to you. 

And even then, I’m not sure I trust your opinion if you haven’t actually personally experienced the thing yourself. You can read about mountain climbing or watch people mountain climb or be besties with climbers whilst shopping at REI and wearing a carabineer on your belt at all times (belay on.) Those things will give you opinions on climbing, for sure. But until you’ve actually gone mountain climbing, I don’t think you get to have a legit stance on how hard it is or beautiful or fulfilling. You’re just working from other people’s notes until you’ve done it yourself.

I bring this up as a soon-to-be-first-time-mom because right now, I’m just working from other people’s notes on this whole life as a mother business. I have read things. I have seen things. I can guess based on past experiences how I’m going to react to things. But I don’t get to have a legitimate view on topic yet because I have yet to do it. 

This turns out to be pretty ok, since everyone else on the planet seems to have an opinion that they are dying to share about what it’s going to be like when I am a parent.

Now, first off, don’t get me wrong. I love to hear stories. I appreciate hearing tips. I’ll listen to advice and cautionary tales all day long. Because I myself don’t have any of my own yet. So sure. Give it to me straight, doc. I can take it. 

However. 

It seems like what people *most* like to share regarding what it’s going to be like when I myself am a mom are what I like to call the “List of Lasts.” 

“Enjoy it now, this is the last time you’ll be able to do that (fill in the blank of what “that” is based on whatever conversation you’re having with that someone at that moment.) 

“Ah, if I would have known ahead of time what parenting would be like, I would have done more travel/ eating out/ drinking/ partying/ date nights/ movies/ sleeping/ fill-in-the-blank enjoyable, fairly routine activity, because when you have a kid you won’t be able to do any of that anymore.” 

“Enjoy your alone time with your husband while you can. Once you have a kid that will be the last of that.” 

“Enjoy your beach body while you can…” (Ok, so I’ve never really had a beach body, so I’m feeling alright about this one.) 

“Enjoy being unencumbered while you can…” (Who in the world is really totally unencumbered ever, kids or not? I digress…) 

I even have a small number of single friends (and/ or friends without kids) who have seemingly started to slowly write me off based on their assumptions of how I might deal with The Lasts, assuming that since we soon will have one less thing in common that I won’t want to/ be able to ever go back to doing any of those things on the List of Lasts again. “Can’t talk to her about sleeping in/ traveling/ partying because she’s going to be in mourning for those things for the next 18 years. Best not to include her thus reminding her of her former life…” 

I gotta tell you people, you’re not doing a very good job of selling this whole parenthood thing to those of us who haven’t done it yet. Because for now, your opinions are the only notes I’ve got to work from. And they are bleak. 

Now, I KNOW you’re trying to be helpful and encourage me to take full advantage of the next three months to the best of my ability. And I appreciate the head’s up. But dude. Come on. You’re killing me with regrets I didn’t even know I was supposed to have about a former life I haven’t even left yet. 

Additionally, there is nothing in my past that would indicate to me that having a child is going to keep me from eventually sleeping/ traveling/ having a drink/ playing with my friends in the future. Frequency is probably going to take a hit, for sure. But I don’t feel like I as a person am going to fundamentally change who I am. My ability to get the chance to do the things I love? That’s gonna change, sure. But not the nature of what those things are. Maybe I’m wrong—again, I haven’t been there yet myself. But I just don’t see it happening. And I’d at least like to have the benefit of the doubt until I’ve got some experience proving the contrary. Not a List of Lasts, people. Just a List of Less Frequents. 

All of that said, I do think there’s a silver lining here. I’m pretty confident all you parents out there SECRETLY have another list (but strangely don’t share with newbies): the List of Firsts. 

First sight of your child. Her first smile. First bath. First nap on your chest. First kiss on the cheek. First word. First “ma ma” or “da-da.” First steps. I’m guessing all that stuff is pretty awesome. And totally worth the price of admission. 

Of course, I don’t have frames of reference for those yet because I’ve never experienced them. And maybe that’s why you share your List of Lasts instead—Because I *do* have opinions on those things. But it’s a total downer people, seriously. You gotta learn to spin this thing called parenthood or only the totally boring are going to reproduce.

I blissfully don’t yet know what I’ll miss by being a mom. But here’s what I can tell you from my experience thus far. In the last two weeks, Baby River Dancer (as I like to call her) has started to move constantly. I can feel her now all the time practicing her best Michael Flatley impersonations. Last week, J put headphones on my belly and piped classical music right on in for her and she moved and rolled and kicked the whole time (either a hater or a future Beethoven.) And for the first time this week, I felt her hiccup, which is a strange and alien and amazing feeling. 

These were my Firsts. And they were awesome. And now I get to have an opinion. And based on my experience, these were totally worth any Lasts I might give up for the time being. But then, that’s just one woman’s humble opinion.

My nursey theme? Death trap.

22 weeks 1 day 

There are blessings and curses to the ever-accessible interweb. On one hand, you can research ANYTHING. On the other hand, you can RESEARCH anything. And everyone with an internet connection and an opinion gets to tell you all about whatever it is you’re looking for. And you, more than likely, subject yourself to their blather both knowingly and unintentionally. Wikipedia-esque information abounds: opinions and half-truths posed as fact, with reputable sites and sketchy ones lacing the internet together, frenemies to you in your search for knowledge and truth.

I found this to be particularly disturbing during my wedding planning (see various blog posts from last year bemoaning the Wedding Industrial Complex and little 20 year old twits getting married who were full of “sage advice.”) I would log on to ask a question about, say, the shelf-life of a particular flower and get 10 pages worth of text on how said flower poisoned a young girl’s dog-dressed-as-ring-bearer who accidentally ate a bit of it and died and how now all brides should definitely boycott said flower accordingly. Here. Sign my Change.org petition. (Annnnnnd insert eye-roll *HERE.*)

For those sorts of posts, I could sort of shake my head and blow it off: Meh. Freak accident. No harm, no foul. I don’t even have a dog. The flowers will be fine. And if they aren’t? Probably no big deal in the grand scheme. 

 I thought that this experience would prepare me for the joys and pitfalls of online baby registry. When the time came (that was this weekend, by the way) to start registering for baby stuff, I knew there would be a wealth of information (and opinions) available to me as I went along the way. 

Silly, silly me. I had no idea.

First off, the amount of “information” out there is unreal. And by information, I mean opinions. And by opinions, I mean crazed rants from sleep-deprived moms filled with misspellings and grammatical errors. (Does that make me a grammar snob? That I literally stop reading product reviews which are poorly written? Never mind. I already know the answer to that. And by now, you probably do too. )

I have been given no less than 6 lists from friends and acquaintances with the “you must have this before the baby is born” items listed there for me (in spreadsheet form, no less.) They are all markedly different and contain 75+ items each. There are even more lists to be found on the internet. And they’re worse. 

But the winner of the title “Most ridiculous lists of ‘necessities’” belongs to the online stores which sell baby swag. Now granted, I know that they are hawking their wares, so I get that some of their “must haves” are overkill. But I’m guessing that some of them aren’t? Honestly though-- Do I really need all this stuff? Friends plus online stores indicate mostly yes. But clearly they are mistaken. Right? 

And so logical me, I tried to break it down as simply as I could: Baby girl’s gonna need to sleep somewhere. And she’s gonna need to eat something. She’s gonna need some clothes, some diapers, the occasional bath and a way for me to move her from Point A to Point B. Got it. Bed. Food. Onesies. Diapers. Soap. Stroller. Six items. Done. (I’m so naive.) 

So, first I decided to tackle sleep. By the way, for the sleeping, there are over 2287397234 different cribs available for purchase on the internet (I rounded…)

Ok, so one of these cribs. I need a crib. 

And then the “research” begins, telling me that I will also need a mattress (by the way, I totally don’t get that cribs don’t come with mattresses, but that’s another rant for another time.) And then I’ll need several sets of sheets, and pads and waterproofing things. And a rocking chair…no, wait a glider. And a Sleep Sheep. And music. And swaddle blankets and PJs and mittens and socks and a hat and a humidifier and a nightlight. So, alright not just one thing for sleeping, but like, 12 things. (Maybe I could skip the Sleep Sheep?…No, that’s the one thing on everyone’s list. Keep the sheep. Fine. 12 things.) 

 Now *which* 12 things? Let’s go to the customer reviews.
 
Ha. Customer reviews are funny. And by funny, I mean horrifying. They go a little something like this: Every time I find a product I think looks good or interesting, something that my friends and the experts have told me I clearly can’t live without, when I get around to actually picking one out from the 29384 available size/model/colors, the research is undoubtedly the same. 250 (long-winded) reviews: 225 that say it’s the best thing ever, 20 who say it sucks because it’s cheap, flimsy and needs to be returned (this is the non-direction reading population generally), and 5 that say it’s the most dangerous thing ever and likely contributed to the (fill in the blank) infirmity of their newborn. 

Wait, what? 

And this is before we get to the “controversial” sleeping stuff. Blanket? Pillows? Crib bumpers? Should I buy these crazy things? If you google (yes, I used it as a verb) “crib bumpers”, after you get through the top ten sites trying to SELL you crib bumpers, you get to the sites with all the safety alerts. And warnings. And recalls. We’re happy to sell you this stuff! Except, it’s probably super dangerous. But maybe not. Whatever, you make the call. No big deal, really. It’s just your newborn kid’s life. 

So, buyer beware! It’s either the best thing ever, or causes SIDS (I’m not making light of SIDS by the way, I’m telling you that this is legitimately the kind of stuff I’m reading daily as I try to make decisions about what this kid needs.) And whereas with dogs and flowers and wedding ceremonies and me having a wee bit of wiggle room with epic product failure, with an actual live person I’m supposed to be in charge of keeping alive, I don’t really have that whole product failure option. And wouldn’t I feel like a jackass if said death-trap product wasn’t even one on “the list?” 

It’s all pretty overwhelming to be honest. And seems more than a little bit ridiculous. I’m pretty sure I slept in a crib that wasn’t safety rated anything, and that my family carried me in their arms on the way home from the hospital, not only not in a new-fangled “car seat” but without them wearing seat belts either. And somehow, I made it to adulthood, remarkably.

So how do you wade through it all? What goes on the registry? What EVER shall I buy to keep my newborn safe and warm and fed and dressed and clean without choking hazards or the risk of suffocation?

I think my co-worker said it best. He has an 18 month old little girl. When I asked for his recommendations of things I MUST have before our bundle of joy arrived he chuckled and said, quite simply “car keys and a credit card.” 

“Listen, you’re gonna get a bunch of stuff. And you’re gonna buy hundreds of dollars’ worth of things. And people will buy you baby gear galore. And then she’s gonna arrive and it’s all going to go right out the window. We bought tons of bottles, and she wouldn’t take a single one. We had to go out and buy all new ones. We bought a pack and play and a Moses basket and a bassinet for every possible early sleeping option. And I swear she was the only child on the planet who actually preferred sleeping in the crib from day one. We didn’t use any of that other stuff. I think that I went to Target every day for the first 6 weeks she was on Earth to pick up “one other thing” we forgot or didn’t know we’d need or had to replace. Give J the car keys and make sure you have a go-to store.” 

So there it is. Apparently, there’s no preparation like not preparing at all. Yet even so, I now have a registry. I have 58 things on it. And I’ll probably only use about 20 of them. But the best news? Only 5 people in the country think I’m going to maim my child with the stuff. Thank God.

A womb with a view

20 weeks 6 days 

 First off, let’s all just take a second and recognize the fact that I’m more than halfway there (unless this kid wants to stay in there for more than 40 weeks. And I’m trying to will that not to happen.) So I’m going with halfway there. Hurrah. 

As anyone who has had a baby, or has been close to someone who has had a baby, or you know, has ever known anyone in the history of the world who has had a baby surely knows, the 20 week mark is when things start to get really interesting. You start to feel kicking. You start to really look pregnant (I really look whoa pregnant...like someone-- actually three different someones-- asked me if I was close to full term last week. Up until that moment, I was still basking in the glow of my “I’ve made it halfway there!”-ness. Yeah. That fizzled fast.) 

And MOST importantly (to most people at least) 20 weeks is the point at which the ultrasound folks can, with a pretty decent level of accuracy tell whether or not you’re having a boy or a girl (or an alien. We’re definitely having an alien.) 

Now let me first say this. I have, my entire life, prided myself on being the ONE person that can, with 95% accuracy predict the gender of my friends’ baby bumps. I’m really good at it. I’m almost never wrong. And so, when I found out I was pregnant, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “Obviously, this is a boy.” 

And I never wavered. In fact, every person I met said “Oh, it’s totally a boy,” before I even offered my opinion. Our parents said boy. All my girlfriends said boy. Yup. Of course it is. We mostly only thought about boy names. I only looked at blue/ green/ yellow/ brown nursery sets and clothes. I recalled the times I had done the “gold-ring-on-a necklace” trick and the shady trips to the second rate psychic. Every single time the same—I’ll have two kids, a boy and a girl, in that order. Every single one of my pregnant girlfriends (and yes, believe it or not, I have 6 right now) were ALL having girls and so just by the sheer law of averages, I was going to have a boy (a boy who would have his pick of the ladies, clearly.)

But more than gut feelings and psychic friends, there was the part of me that always thought of a boy as being much easier and a better fit for my personality. Most of my closest friends growing up were boys. I’m not girlie or high-maintenance or…pink. What on earth would I do with a *girl*? I myself was Daddy’s little girl, given more to Legos and bikes and playing outdoors than I was to Barbies and make-up and dance recitals. What did I know about raising a girl? (Except for the 6 years I spent professionally living with teenaged girls in boarding schools…which pretty much solidified my view that girls are impossible to raise and that a boy would be infinitely easier to deal with.)

 And so, based on all this very rational and reasoned information, obviously, this child was a boy. The day of the 20 week ultrasound was upon us. I was excited for the confirmation of our little boy’s, well, parts all being there and all, but I wasn’t really concerned about that piece. Honestly, because I’m an “elderly pregnancy” this ultrasound was the one where they do a deep dig into all the things that could be developmentally askew: Check for normal growth, ensure that all the right parts are growing at the right rate in the right places, measure skull size for indications of Downs Syndrome, look for face abnormalities like a cleft palate or a missing ear. THESE were the things that occupied my mind as we went into the appointment, not the baby’s gender. 

Because of course, irony follows J everywhere he goes, and this being the one most important doctor’s appointment to be present for in the whole deal, there was miserable traffic that made J late to the ultrasound appointment. I was late too by a few minutes, but J was whoa late, stuck in the inexplicable DC traffic that jams without notice and clears without cause. 

They took me back and the lovely ultrasound tech started with all the “technical pictures”: Head? Check. Normal looking nose/ mouth/ palate region? Check. Thickness of skull? Check. All the fingers and toes? Check x 20. Perfect little spine running exactly down the back? Check. (This, by the way, was the point at which I started crying my face off. Seeing feet and hands. Nothing. A spine? And I’m a blubbering idiot.) 

“You child looks very strong and healthy. Right size. Good growth. These were great pictures—exactly what we want to see at this stage. We’re basically done. I know what you’re having. Should I tell you?” 

“Please not until my husband gets here. He’s on his way. He’ll be so sad if he misses this.” 

Now, up until this point in the story I have had only marginal experiences with my doctors at the center. But this day, they sort of went above and beyond, and being nicer and more reasonable than anyone should be, she agreed to take the next patient, and come back to me in about 20 minutes, thus giving J the opportunity to battle traffic and get there in time so that we could learn the gender of our child together. I was overwhelmed by her kindness. 

“Besides, this kid moves around A LOT. I could stand for some better pictures of the heart and could get you a better picture of the, well, thing you came to see today.” 

And so she left. And I waited. And in walked J, almost an hour later than he anticipated, ready to basically kill people. (It didn’t help that I had gotten weepy during the first ultrasound and he walked in to a wife that had been crying.) I had just enough time to convince him these were happy tears and that our child was perfect and healthy when back came the ultrasound tech. We started again. 

“Well then,” she said as she waved the magic roller ball over my belly. “This is much better. Evidently now that dad’s here, we’re putting on a show.” (I should have known right then...)

Yup. In walks J, and not only does our wee one stop moving around like a crazy person, but turns and lays still for perfect pictures of the heart that we couldn’t get earlier. “Now we have an even better picture of your child’s gender. Do you want to know now?” 

J looks up at the screen at that moment, studies it carefully and says, “Those are ovaries. This is a girl.” 

The ultrasound tech smiled. “Yes! It’s a girl! Congratulations!” 

I looked at her, completely dumbfounded. “Hmm? Are you sure?” And as IF on cue, in one of her earliest acts of defiance against her mother, she moves and SPREADS HER LEGS in a manner that shows us all her lady parts (and yes, we do have that picture.) 

“Well clearly we’re going to have to teach her some manners before middle school.” This was all I could come up with. 

I sat there, slightly overwhelmed, thinking about the news. A *girl.* What? It was unexpected to say the least. (J sat there trying REALLY hard not be smug, but with a shit-eating grin on his face the whole time. He so wanted a little girl. This was his dream come true.) 

And so we left, I in a daze, J in a drunken happiness stupor. She had said girl. I had a picture of the lady parts in my hand to prove it. Unbelievable. 

It struck me that our ultrasound not only gave me a bird’s eye view of our little girl, but changed my entire outlook on this pregnancy. Suddenly, staring at that ultrasound picture, I was 15 years in the future, imagining the prom dress shopping and make-up tips and break-ups, wondering if I had it in me to get out the Barbies and start the dance lessons—things I just hadn’t even taken the time to consider until now. I thought about my mom and how she dealt with a daddy’s little girl (which this child will inevitably be) and how to come to grips with the balancing act of raising a girl to be strong and independent and knowledgeable without being hard and or unfeeling. 

And then, as hard as it may be to believe, I went home and put pink things on a registry. Baby steps, indeed. 

I’m not sure what other people see when they see that first ultrasound. But for me, I saw a whole new world, an entirely new view on what was going to happen next. I’m going to be the mom to a little girl. God helps us all.

A Baby Story

19 weeks 2 days

It cracks me up that once you publicly announce the fact that you are expecting, your life surrounding said pregnancy suddenly becomes the most wanted and interesting information ever in the history of mankind…to EVERYONE. “Tell me everything!” squeal complete strangers. Um. Everything? Really? Who are you again?

It’s one thing when your close friends ask you how you’re feeling..when it all began…if you’ve been struggling with the process and all that. I feel like *those* questions from *those* people are fairly commonplace. And most peoples’ close friends know whether or not it’s cool to ask those sorts of things anyway. But when the stranger on the street comes up to you and says “Oh my god! How long were you guys trying before you got pregnant?!” Really? What part of that question seems like an ok thing to ask a stranger? Isn’t that basically “So, how much unprotected sex did you guys have?” (it’s not basically that question. It *is* that question.) And I feel like that’s pretty much in the category of information not up for public discussion. I don’t think I’m alone in this impression. So what makes people think that it’s acceptable to do this is way beyond me.

And as long as I am baby ranting here, please don’t get me started on the petting of the belly. From my close friends? Yes. Fine. Of course you can rub my Buddha. Make a wish. And good luck. These are the people I would let rub my head if I had a headache or my feet if I was having a rough day. You know…good touch kind of folks. But anyone who falls outside of that group of people? Um…no thank you. Especially since right now, I mostly don’t feel like I’ve got a big baby bump, but rather just displaced belly fat. (Honest to God, the other day I had someone rub my belly in a place that wasn’t even close to baby and I had to tell them that sadly, they were massaging what I *thought* to be my spleen. Bad touch. Baaaaaad touch.)

Because of my obvious distaste for making all this info readily available for public consumption, I haven’t really volunteered our Baby Story (yup, I’m making fun of TLC right to their face.) But I got to thinking the other day-- if this is honestly going to be a journal for me and the Lima Bean living inside of me to recount the miraculous and glorious days of this magical pregnancy, I do owe us both a *little* bit of the backstory of how he came to be in existence.

My best friend bought me a pregnancy calendar when she first found out I was pregnant and it was full of places to fill in just this sort of information—how it happened (you know, beyond the basics there, sparky… we get that part) what I’m feeling, what I’m craving, what we’re doing to prepare for the blessed event. I haven’t used the calendar per se, but I have read through the questions therein several times and have decided that if all the other cool moms are writing this kind of thing down for posterity, so should I.

So listen up-- I’m telling it once, people. Don’t ask for it again. And please don’t rub my spleen belly.

J and I, being older than the average first time parents knew that we would have to start thinking about a family sooner than later. (true story—I was told that technically my pregnancy is referred to as an elderly pregnancy. I’m not kidding. Awesome. Charlie Chaplin may have had children when he was 70, but I’m pretty sure he couldn’t pick them up. We chose against this path.) We got married. We went on a honeymoon. We came home and said “hey, let’s start thinking about making this happen.”

And three weeks later we were pregnant.

And one week later, we were not. The doctors said it was what was called a “chemical pregnancy” in that the chemicals in my body thought I was pregnant, but there was no actual sperm+ egg= together forever type hook-up. I of course decided immediately that this meant that I would never be able to have children and I flashed back on all my close girlfriends who had had so much trouble conceiving, their miscarriages and broken hearts. I was convinced that this would no doubt be my lot as well. When my period didn’t come the next month, I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed my body was just readjusting to the new normal. No period. Negative pregnancy test. No big deal.

Next week—no period, negative pregnancy test. Feeling whoa fatty.

Next week—no period, negative pregnancy test. Crying during bad WB “sitcoms.”

Next week- no period, negative pregnancy test. Seriously, why don’t my pants fit?

New Year’s Eve—negative pregnancy test, I drink my face off at the party we hosted (oops.)

Three days after New Years, J, ever the wordsmith, yells from the living room… “Hey, have you peed on a stick recently?” I had not. And so I did. And there it was. Positive.

My reaction? “When in the hell did *this* happen?” Confusion. Disbelief. Shock.

I took the test to the kitchen where J was working and gave it to him. I *believe* I said something very loving and motherly like “So, here’s something interesting.” I believe his reaction was “Dude, what?”

And then we stood there looking at one another, wondering if it was real, having no idea when or how or why. We were fully prepared for the process to take months, maybe even years. But here we were. Completely blindsided, and totally unprepared.

I’m pretty sure I took a pregnancy test every day for the next two weeks, just to confirm that this was all legit. I was so cautious. So doubting. So convinced that it would be another “chemical pregnancy” or close call or sad occurrence. Because of this, I made J promise not to share our news until we were through the first trimester. I think it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Because let’s be clear-- my caution and doubt were getting their asses kicked by J’s overwhelming excitement and optimism. The fact that he didn’t run out the door and shout our news to the world that very second is a testament to both his respect for my wishes and his own sheer willpower.

One of my dear friends, one of the first I shared my pregnancy news with reacted much like I did—not coming out with joy and hugs and congratulations, but rather just looked at me, head cocked sideways, incredulously, and said “I didn’t even know you were trying.”

Me either, friend. Me either.

So do I have a fantastic story of when and how it happened? Nope. Can I say in honesty that the second we got a positive test I was ecstatic and ready to rocket myself directly to Planet Baby? Nope. Are there times when even now, halfway into this process that I still don’t quite believe it’s all happening? You’d better believe it.

But that’s our baby story anyway. Honest and scary and recognizing that we’re completely unprepared for what’s next. That may not be how most couples react, but then, we’ve never really been all that conventional a couple, have we? And that’s just fine with me.

So here we go, onto what’s next. And it’s all good. But seriously… stop with the belly rubs weirdoes.

The Weighting Game

18 weeks

I was a fat kid. Ok, I wasn’t *the* fat kid, but I was a larger-than-average-sized elementary school kid to say the least. I was awkward and chunky and clumsy. I was not an athlete. I was the bookish one with the always sparkling personality and the biting sense of humor that made me the buddy and best friend to the beautiful girls and the popular boys who wanted a laugh or someone to do their homework. I was Jeanine Garofalo in, well, every movie she’s ever been in.

As you might imagine, middle school was not a kinder time.

And then, as it often does, the move into high school and the leaving behind of 13 was life altering. I was in marching band and played volleyball and was in show choir. I was dancing or marching or working out most of the time. My metabolism decided to start working like a teenagers’ does. And I slimmed down an enormous amount (pun intended). But never really to the point that I was skinny. I was a big girl. Taller than most. Denser than most. Muscular and broad shouldered and, well, just heavy.

One of my most vivid memories of that time was going into the doctor for my “I’m going into high school” physical. He actually reweighed me three times (first the check in nurse…then the follow up nurse because she thought my chart was wrong…and then the doctor because he was convinced that the numbers had been inverted by the other two before him.) “There’s no way you actually weigh THAT!” he exclaimed. And all my hard work—my sliming down—my muscle tone suddenly didn’t make any difference to me. Even the doctor couldn’t believe how heavy I was.

It didn’t help, of course, that my best friends at that time (actually from middle school onward in my life) were all the star athletes; the homecoming queens; the cheerleaders and dance team. And I was, well, not them. Surrounded by the beautiful people but never really counted amongst them.

I’ve never been comfortable with my size. I’ve gone up and down for as long as I remember. I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t on a diet. And I’ve done every diet on the planet—some really healthy, some really not. I had moments of sheer depression because I had gained so much that no clothes would fit me in the major department stores anymore, and times when I was so frustrated that I had lost so much weight that I had no clothes that fit and didn’t have money enough to replace them. But even when I was at my very very skinniest (and pictures of me look like I’m anorexic and disgusting with bones sticking out in all the wrong places and clothes literally hanging off of me) by the medical books’ definitions, I was still considered overweight, bordering on obese.

I don’t feel like my story is unique in any way at all. In fact, I would wager most women could sing their own variation on this theme. Never satisfied. Always too big or small. Always wanting to look some other way. Not feeling comfortable in your skin. Always getting conflicting messages. I’m sad to say that I think that’s sorta how girls grow up. And it’s definitely true of my junior high and high school and college years.

What I find interesting about all this right now is that being pregnant skews your perception of size and shape even further-- everything you ever thought you knew about weight gain and being healthy fly right out the window.

It’s funny that to me though the conflicting messages you get about your weight and weight gain when you’re pregnant really aren’t all that different than when you aren’t.

First, you get these: “Eat what you crave—it’s what the baby needs! (baby needs Ben and Jerry’s an awful lot, apparently….) “You’re eating for two! Go for it!” (or six?) “It’s the first time your whole life that no one will judge your size.” (That one’s just a boldface lie…)

Of course, then there’s the rest of the world.

“You must eat healthy all time!” (good luck with that, by the way…) “You shouldn’t gain too much weight or you’ll be big forever!” (Um, I think that ship sailed…) “You should be exercising every day to keep yourself fit.” (Yes, let me leave my 9 hour a day job, drive home an hour and take my unbelievably swollen feet and stuff them into some tennies for a nice long jog.)

On the first day of our “pregnancy orientation” I was told by a women that weighed approximately 100 pounds that I should really try not to gain more than about 15 pounds with the pregnancy since “you’re already a bigger women.” And then she laughed and talked about how she herself gained 60 pounds but was able to take it all off. I hate her.

I have friends right now that are tiny who are pregnant and gaining adorable little 7 pound basketballs right in the middle of their bellies. By way of contrast, I myself have already put on what appears to be a whiskey barrel that extends from my boobs to my butt (additionally, it’s possible that my thighs are also giving birth as it appears that they too have put on quite a bit of weight. Wouldn’t that be a medical miracle?)

Last week, J and I went in for a regular OB appointment. It had been six weeks since the last one. And just like with my regular doctor’s appointments, the only part that brought me anxiety was coming in and stepping on the scale. (True story—J comes with me to all my appointments (bless him) and has seen the doctors basically do every gynecological exam in existence and violate me twelve ways to Sunday. This, he watches. I still make him look away when I step on the scale. Old habits die hard I guess.)

I had quadrupled in belly size since my lat appointment and was silently losing my mind about what the scale would say and how chastised I would be for this unholy number, even though I had been eating pretty healthy, not really overindulging, and walking a couple miles every few days with J in the evenings.

I had gained a whole 1.6 pounds. Whew! Only 1.6 pounds. (Wait…Whew? Shouldn’t I be excited about the weight gain this time?)

Feeling relatively good about this news (small gain that’s probably almost all legit baby and not chips and salsa) I went into my appointment feeling strong. Got a good check up. Asked some good questions. Felt like things were going well. And then came the question.

“Have you felt the baby kick yet?”

“Not kick, really. Lots of flutters and movements and weird aches that sorta feel like motion. But nothing I would identify as actual kicks.”

“Well, for you it will probably take a little longer to feel something, given your, um, extra padding.”

My what?

“Now, notice I didn’t say fat. I said ‘a little extra padding.’ I’m not calling you fat. Just that you have extra padding.”

Ok, I’m *pretty* sure that pointing out three times to me that you are NOT calling me fat, but that you are instead choosing a cute little substitute-for-fat phrase, actually counts as calling me fat. Thanks for saving my ego with your clever wordplay there lady.

And in the end, I left the appointment feeling a little bit defeated.

I’m not so vain as to diet during my pregnancy. I eat what I want, when I want. I haven’t had a ton of craving yet, so I don’t feel like I overindulge in one thing or the other. If I’m hungry and find something that tastes good, I eat it like it’s my job (that’s actually been the bigger problem than cravings and overindulgences—not much sounds good to me these days other than orange juice and grilled cheese sandwiches.) J and I walk a couple miles after work a couple nights a week. That’s getting ever-so-slightly harder, but I’m glad we do it. It helps me mentally.

But even so, every time I hear someone say “eat as much as you want! It’s the one time in your life you can do it!” it still has the opposite effect on me, and I shy away from the second cookie or the French fries or the milk shake. Because I know that as per my normal, non-pregnant life, the weight gaining game has a different set of rules for us big girls with extra padding. And pregnant or not, I don’t think that those rules change.

So pass the celery sticks already, would ya? A girl’s gotta eat something.

Quickening

14 weeks 6 days

This week I think I felt what the experts call “quickening.” I know that it’s earlier than most people say that quickening is detectable. But I swear, it’s true. I was just lying in bed, wondering why I was nervous—what the butterflies in my stomach were all about…why the flutters? Then I wondered what I had eaten that would make me feel gassy…maybe it was just gas? It was definitely something I had never felt before.

It was then that, all of a sudden it hit me and I was like… “Oh. Huh. You know what? I think that’s the baby. Isn’t that interesting?” And I laid there for about ten minutes just kind of being shocked and amazed that there was a living person inside of me fluttering around. Hmh. Who knew?

It’s funny. So far, I feel like this pregnancy has sorta been like that to me; An interesting, slow process that I’m just kind of quietly discovering and getting used to as I go along. I know that lots of other people gush and swoon and squeal and scream about stuff like that. That all this stuff is so exciting and magical that you must immediately begin speaking about everything baby-related at a decibel level higher than that of a dog’s hearing. I definitely have friends and family that are operating there. And I appreciate their enthusiasm for sure.

But I’m not there yet. I’m still in the, “hmm…isn’t this all very unexpected and interesting?” phase. Very reserved. Very level headed. No squealing necessary.

There are times still that I’m like…wait, am I really pregnant? Is this real? Really happening? No way am I pregnant for real. I couldn’t be. We barely “tried.” It just sorta happened. It’s not supposed to just sorta happen at our age. We’re supposed to struggle mightily like all my friends have. It’s supposed to take years. Even the doctors and books say so.

But then I look down and remember that I’m already fairly sizable and that the raging and consistent heartburn and mild nausea that I have basically non-stop are my daily physical reminders that this is legit. Whoa.

I’m not totally sure why all of this seems so surreal to me. But it still does.

They say that a woman becomes a mother the second she gets pregnant and the man becomes a father when he holds the child for the first time. But I gotta be honest, between J and me, I feel like so far it’s totally the opposite. He’s already so very there (he’s gonna be such an amazing father…) And I’m, well, I’m only getting there…slowly. Slowly but surely. But slowly nonetheless.

I’m happy to say that my lovely and amazing husband is the planner between the two of us. J spends his time operating in the future, always. Planning for tomorrow. For five years from now. He’s reading all the books. He’s doing all the prep work. He blows me away with how unreasonably good he is. And I couldn’t be happier about that. Because for some reason, I myself am not quite to the planning for tomorrow phase yet. It’s basically taking all of my current energy to worry about the right now.

This is not to say that I’m not excited about being a mom. I so very much am. And that I’m happy to be pregnant. Because I absolutely am. I’m just having a super hard time articulating the happiness right now in a way that seems appropriate for me.

Maybe it’s because I’m older and all my friends have had babies and I’ve done the excitement and magic part on behalf of them and it seems weird for me to do it for myself. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen so many of my friends struggle mightily with conception; have seen them deal with such loss and heartache—perhaps I’m protecting myself from what I’m secretly convinced is inevitable sadness.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I’m still scared out of my mind of all the things that expectant mothers are scared of. Of the unthinkable happening…of doing something wrong during the pregnancy… of turning out to be a terrible mom when the time comes. You know. The usual.

Although, here’s the frustrating part. I *think* all of this is “the usual.” But I’ll never really know that. Because expectant moms don’t usually talk like this—at least not out loud or publicly. You never hear folks talk about the scary parts. It’s always “oh we’re so excited and thrilled and couldn’t be happier and life is so perfect and pretty.” Even as I write all this, I’m waiting for the judging to start. “How could she SAY such things?? We don’t talk about such scariness and doubt!!” I can even hear my child someday reading this journal saying “Damn, mom. That was harsh. Couldn’t you just be happy that I was about to bless your life?” (My kid isn’t even born yet, and already mouthy. Figures.)

And I *am* happy that I’m about to have a child bless my life.

I’m just a little afraid to say it out loud yet. Afraid to get too excited. And I’ll definitely never be a gushing squealer.

Does that make me a bad mom already? I hope not. I don’t think it does.

I will say this—J and I had an ultrasound at 9 weeks. At that point, we were giving birth to a lima bean, basically. We could see *something* but it was just sort of blobby. Nine days later we had another ultrasound (due to some ridiculous, borderline comical mix-ups with our OB and ultrasound techs at the hospital who are very excited about double scheduling most of our appointments. That’s a fun story for later.) In those nine days, our lima bean had sprouted visible limbs. And a nose. And a profile. And a noggin three times the size of the body (our child will be so smart…)

I looked at J with tears in my eyes. “Holy crap, we’re having an actual kid.”

“Yes dear. Welcome to the party. I’ve been here almost 3 months now.”

That made it real.

With the feeling of the quickening beginning, our upcoming ultrasound (the big one—the 20 week gender one, place your bets now!) and the halfway point rapidly approaching, I think it’s gonna get much more real…fast. And then maybe my heart will start to flutter, to quicken as well. But until then, please indulge me in my slow and steady reactions. I’m probably not gushing on the outside so much, but on the inside, I promise, I’m giddy as a school girl.