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.

Girls gone docile

I met a woman about a year ago that ran specialty tours through the inner countryside of China—boat trips down the Yangtze River; camping trips in inner-Mongolia; mountain climbing in Tibet. Her organization was called Wild China, and I loved the authentic adventures that she offered. There’s something very alluring about the word “wild,” don’t you think?

I am not Anthony Bourdain. I don’t seek out the craziest foods in the darkest alleys of the strangest cities just for kicks. I do not eat cat tongue. (I do not knowingly eat cat tongue.) And I know enough not to put myself in dangerous positions or in shady places. I’ve traveled enough, am cautious enough, to know what’s safe and what isn’t.

All of that said, I do like a good adventure. When I visit a new city, I like to wander around a bit—try the local flavors, visit places that aren’t just on the tourist map, and see things like parks and homes and discover how people really live.

This time last year, Shanghai was a bit like Wild China to me—not the inner-China boat trips or Anthony Bourdain types of wild China—but my own version. I wandered. I saw things. I ate things. I met locals. I sat in parks. I took artsy photos. I did very China-esque things like tea-tastings ceremonies and bartering for pearls and silk in the marketplace. And it was a lovely, lovely trip.

Fast-forward a year to China version 2.0.

I’m very happy that this was my second trip to Shanghai and not my first. Because hear me now, believe me later: Shanghai pregnant is a whole different adventure.

I use the term “adventure” loosely, to say the least. Because the most adventurous thing I did was to brave the 14 hour flight (twice) which isn’t to be laughed at, by the way, because even though I drank water constantly and walked around the airplane every thirty minutes as my bladder dictated, I still ended up with legs and ankles so swollen that I looked like someone’s great grandmother after a salt bender.

Upon arriving here in Shanghai, I was reminded that the air quality is significantly poorer than that of the US, both from the smog of industry and general pollution, and from the fact that the 23 million people who live in Shanghai haven’t gotten the memo that the US put out about that whole smoking thing being bad for you and those around you. And given the fact that right now, I get winded basically walking across the street, I found that outside walking adventures weren’t particularly appealing to me and presented more of a challenge that I would have thought.

Which is ok since the temperature was about 40 degrees, windy, and with rain seven of the ten days I was there. Not what one would call outside hanging-out weather. Which again is ok since I couldn’t breathe anyway.

Strange fact about my pregnancy: I have had very very little morning sickness. And the queasiness that I have had has never actually been in the morning, but rather hits me just after I get off of work as I approach dinnertime.

One of the highlights of my trip last year was that the hotel where we stayed (and would be staying again this year) had an enormous (like, overwhelmingly enormous) buffet breakfast. Even if you don’t eat anything else all day long, you could stuff yourself full of delicious breakfast and be set for the day. I’ve never seen anything like this place. Seriously, sometimes I dream about this breakfast, the best part of which being that you can have sushi, or traditional Chinese, or salad bar, or the Noodle bar, or Western Breakfast, or fruit bar, or pastry bar, or…wait for it…ice cream sundaes during the *breakfast* hour. (I will not admit to having had ice cream for breakfast. J is shaking his head at me disapprovingly right now. I can feel it.)

So imagine my surprise when, on the first day, I excitedly bounded downstairs to said delicious breakfast and almost threw up from nausea. I couldn’t understand it. I was so completely distraught. When explaining my disappointment to J later in the day, he basically just laughed at me. “Um, over there breakfast is during your normal dinnertime, dear. So your evening sickness at home has actually turned into legit morning sickness when you’re on the other side of the world.”

(Son of a…) The first time I have morning sickness is while I’m sitting in front of the most incredible breakfast ever?

Sigh.

(P.S. In case you were curious…spicy Hunan fried flat noodles, while delicious, are not the answer to morning sickness.)

The jet lag was also much more intense this time as well. Which makes some sense since last year, I think I combated it with a long, relaxing deep-tissue massage, a sleep aid and/or a glass of wine before bedtime, and cups of coffee to keep me awake during the daytime hours until I got on a schedule. Pregnant? No massage, sleep-aid, wine or coffee. Nope. Nope. Nope. Annnnnd nope.

Hmph.

And try a China visit while tea and MSG is off limits, too. Seriously—give that one a go and let me know how you do.

I found myself struggling with common sense and practicality; following pregnancy lore and doctor’s advice to the letter of the law and trying to reconcile all these things while I was there. Because I get that I was probably being crazy militant about it all and that I can’t be pregnancy perfect all the time.

Millions of children (literally, millions) are born in China every year amid the smog and pollution and cigarette smoke while mothers drink the hell out of some green tea. And they seem to be doing ok.

I’m sure I didn’t have to actually skip extended outside time in order to not contract lung cancer.

And it probably wasn’t completely necessary for me to sleep 9 undisturbed hours every single night lest something horrible happen to me.

And it was probably ok to walk around outside in winter weather a little bit without the fear of contracting pneumonia.

Hell, most doctors say I could even have had coffee in the morning and a glass of wine at night if I really wanted to do it.

And yet, for now, my first time mom fears win out. And I was back to my room, out of the cold polluted winter air each night by 6, ordering room service to regulate salt and nutrition, staying warm and dry, and trying to fall asleep by 9 p.m. to get a solid night’s sleep, all the while drinking bottled water like a fiend and sucking on vitamin C drops (and hoarding fruit from the crazy buffet) to try to stay in front of the cold that I am certain is inevitable. Better safe and non-adventurous than sorry, I suppose. (And I’m pretty sure J was amped I took this stance on the matter.)

And so, China 2.0 (Pregnant China) was a wee bit more, um, docile (boring?) than my first trip here. So much for Wild China, eh? Anthony Bourdain would be so disappointed.

Here we go again

I’m sitting in Pudong International Airport waiting to fly home from ten days in Shanghai. Again.

It has been almost exactly one year since I last wrote this blog from this very seat; since last I chronicled my intensions for the year to come: to come home, finally see J, get married, and live happily-ever-after-the-end.

The passage of time is an incredible thing. In one breath, I can say it’s only been a year—365 short days. Yet when I recount what has transpired in that one little year’s time, it is patently astonishing.

So where do I pick up after said incredibly short-long year?

First of all, as you may recall, this time last year, J was coming home from his year Over There. In a relatively sad commentary on the state of the world, as I got ready to take off to fly here again this time, the news on the TV above my head in the airport was still talking about Afghanistan. Last year, I watched J’s unit arriving home from the departures terminal of an airport only about a state away from where he was landing (that still ranks as about #2 on the list of most ironic and completely ridiculous moments of my life, by the way…) And this year, Afghanistan, still on the TV above me. Talk about a long year.

Now, I’d like to tell you that J and I are wildly romantic people who went running across the tarmac into each other’s arms, spinning wildly in circles as we fell to the ground in a loving embrace when we saw each other for the first time in months. But I’m pretty sure our reunion went a little something like this:

“Hi there, stranger.”

“Hey there.”

“Thanks for coming home from Afghanistan.”

“Thanks for coming home from China.”

A long hug. A loving kiss. And then we walked to the car, hand in hand, and drove home, talking like we’d just seen each other the day before, though I’m fairly certain I didn’t let go of his hand for the hour-fifteen drive back to his place from the airport. (Annnd let’s be honest, I think I sat and did the silent one-tear-down-the-cheek-at-a-time-cry-of-relief for at least the first twenty or so minutes.)

And then, of course, we got married. That was pretty fun.

Seriously, I know that everyone says that their wedding was the best one ever. And that it was the happiest day of their lives. And that it was perfect and all that.

But ours really was.

I guess there’s something to be said about a military officer and someone practiced at the art of event planning having almost two years to do nothing but obsess over the details of the day. It makes for a pretty smooth ride the day of the wedding. We were able to relax and laugh and spend quality time with all of our friends—exactly the things we had hoped we could do. The food was amazing; the weather was amazing; the people, the music, the flowers, the venue, my dress. You name it, we got complimented on how good it was.

And I can promise you I’ve never smiled as much or been so over the moon happy. Or so completely in love. Again, I know everyone probably says this about their wedding day. But seeing as you all lived through the year’s worth of my angst building up to it, I hope you’ll indulge me in a little post-event recount (gloat).

So then we live happily ever after, right? Wait—did you just tune in? What makes you think it would be that easy for us?

Our wedded bliss was not, in fact, immediate. J had a school to attend, halfway across the country. He started about a month before our wedding…took a 4 day pass to come GET married (thanks for the time off, Armed Forces)…and then had to go back to school for another month after the wedding. So, just to keep things interesting (and, you know, consistent) we didn’t see each other or live together (or in the time zone) for almost a month after we were husband and wife.

When J finally moved in to our new home, I remarked, only half-jokingly “there’s a decent chance that now that we get to see each other daily that we hate each other. You know that, right?”

J said he was willing to take that chance. He always is.

We took our honeymoon in Puerto Rico. It was lovely. And then we started our normal, regular, everyday life as husband and wife. For the first time in our almost four year courtship, we were living together in the same time zone at the same address. Finally.

Another hurdle cleared. Another deep breath taken.

So why start writing again now, when clearly, all of J’s and my obstacles have been overcome (she says, tongue in cheek)?

We have new intentions, of course.

J and I always intended to have a family—to have kids. And given our advanced age, (I’m only ancient by child-bearing standards) we knew it would have to happen sooner than later.

That said, we did not necessarily intend for it to be THIS much sooner than later. But, whadda ya know. Sometimes, you don’t get a say in the matter.

And so here we are, J and I no longer preparing to be husband and wife, but rather preparing to be parents. At least that is our intension. Upon this posting, I will be exactly 13 weeks and 3 days pregnant. Approximately one week after our one year wedding anniversary, we will bring another human being into the world (who on earth thought that this was a good idea?)

Much like last year, I will now count down the weeks until J’s and my world changes again. One more major life event for us on the horizon. To say that I’m scared out of my mind is a bit of an understatement. To say that J is over the moon excited and happy is even more of one.

So if you’ll indulge my crazy pregnant lady stories, I’d like to share this adventure with you and ultimately, someday, with the wee one currently taking up residence in my nether regions.

All of my mother friends told me I absolutely must start a pregnancy journal, as their greatest regret was that they didn’t write enough stuff down along the way.

Be careful what you wish for, friends. You just might get it.