Updates on Week 30

Now that you all know how I did with the shower and all the belly touching, I thought I would enlighten you on how Week 30 of pregnancy was for me. Like, without all the cuteness and gratefulness of that post-shower post.

1. I’m either ravenously hungry or so full that I could vomit. The ravenously hungry thing happens several times a day and has to be remedied within minutes or I will get the torturous “heartburn of death”. The disgustingly full thing happens, usually, after I have had three bites of something that I really, really want to eat. Like ice cream. Or a cheeseburger. It is pretty frustrating, at this point. Eating has become terribly annoying.

2. My pelvis is being pulled apart by some invisible force. I feel that someone bangs on it with a hammer while I am sleeping. Or sitting. Or after I walk for more than 20 minutes straight. I am pretty sure that this is one of the most awful things I have ever experienced.

3. There is absolutely no comfortable position to sleep in. I have tried the whole body pillow thing, which did seem to relieve some of the pressure on my pelvis but it also relieved me of the ability to sleep in the same bed with MB, which is tolerable sometimes, but sometimes makes it harder to sleep just because he isn’t there. I have tried stacking pillows in ridiculous positions all around my body, which works for a period of time, until I start hurling (from what I am told) them in all different directions so that I can *get comfortable.

*A myth for pregnant women in their third trimester.

4. I have begun to waddle. I don’t think that I need to say much about this because if you have ever SEEN a really pregnant woman, then you are familiar with this.  It makes me feel like a giant penguin.

5. I am not AS obsessed with cake as I was several weeks ago. I can’t say that my cravings for it have stopped completely, and I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t drool every time I pass this place. (OMG, tiramisu cupcakes. TO. DIE. FOR.) But, for the most part, my cravings for cupcakes have been replaced with cravings for Easy Cheese and/or grapefruit juice. 

6. The peeing has become ridiculous. I feel that I cannot go 35 seconds without peeing. Usually, this pattern starts as soon as I get comfortable in my bed (comfort in bed IS a myth, unless you will be forced to get right up, then it comes quite often) or if I have gone into a store that I am sure will have the most disgusting public restroom ever (the other day, I gagged for a full five minutes after entering a public restroom and peeing at lightning speed and running out, hands still soapy). 

I had a prenatal appointment yesterday and everything appears to be going just as it should be. Glucose test results were “wonderful”, heartbeat is “perfect”, and Baby L seems to be growing at a normal rate. I, on the other hand, am slightly anemic but was assured that I am SO slightly anemic that there is nothing to worry about right now.

So, there you have it.  Now, bring on Week 31!


I did, however, forget #7 wherein I mention the fatigue. Oh, holy Jeebus, the fatigue. I could probably sleep for 16 hours per day if that were acceptable (or if I could do it without anyone knowing what a slack ass I would be). Even though I am almost never comfortable, I can usually sleep about 9-10 hours per night (or at least mostly sleep) and still feel like I could wake up, eat breakfast, and then promptly take a nap. I am starting to develop a desire to start this nesting thing I hear so much again, but I don’t have the energy to move off of the couch. What is a girl to do?


Your Cake is My Cake

When I found out I was pregnant, I felt a little like I had to let go of my whole life. Like I would have to change anything. Like my friends wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me because no one wants to hang out with “the pregnant girl”. Because God knows, I never wanted to hang out with the pregnant girl! I would have to refrain from smoking and we couldn’t go to the dive bar down the street and listen to really bad live music or karaoke. And she would probably want to go home and go to bed at 7:30. All of these things suddenly became true of me. And I couldn’t bare to drag my free, without-parasite friends down. I did, however, find solace in the glorious dream of food. Before you are pregnant, you hear other preggos say things like, “I wouldn’t normally eat this, but the baby wants it.” or “I could never eat this much food if I weren’t pregnant.” I delighted in the idea of chili dogs and french fries and massive quantities of lasagna for dinner. And mid morning snacks of ice cream and potato chips. But there are things they don’t tell you, internet. Oh yes, there are things.

In the first trimester, I wanted to eat my weight in double cheeseburgers, as you know. The main draw of these McDoubles was that the grease factor was such that they coated my stomach and actually prevented my getting heartburn and/or vomiting my face off for several hours. Well played, McDonalds. But once that severe nausea was gone, McDoubles started to taste like the craptastic pseudofood that they actually are. This made my heart sink. For the emotional attachment I had developed for them and they comfort that they gave me could not easily be replaced.

There were also no chili dogs. Does this mean I didn’t dream of chili dogs all day long? NO. It means that chili dogs or anything containing tomato sauce (including lasagna) caused so much discomfort that I would have sooner gouged my eyes out with spoons than eaten them. I sat daily, eying my now fiance, MB, wishing that I could dip him in chili and cheese and eat him up without experiencing karmic and regular heartburn. (There is a moral here, never fantacize about eating the one you love.) But the hunger that I experienced without constant McDoubles only caused MORE heartburn and MORE nausea.

During the second trimester, I told myself that, because this would be the “honeymoon phase” of pregnancy, I would eat salads and things that were not cooked in a vat of oil. This is easier said than done. Because I don’t want a salad. I want cake. I want cake right now. And I don’t care what kind of cake it is. Or who this cake belongs to. I will eat this cake lightening fast and with little to no remorse. Your cake is my cake.20120213-115958.jpg

I don’t even eat sweets, internet. I am a potato chip girl. I love the delicious, salty crunch of Ruffles. I want to dip them in buffalo cheese dip that I reserve to make for special occasions and put them between the bread of ALL sandwiches alike. But now? I can’t eat potato chips. They are too salty and they are not cake.

A misconception about the glory of eating during pregnancy was that you will have a crazy, huge appetite and can eat constantly. I was looking forward to this. Not because I have been a restricter or anything in the fast, but mostly because I really just effing love food. My Norwegian grandparents taught us to eat like we would never eat again, but along with that Norwegian tendency, I also inherited the ability to gain weight by THINKING about food. So, I was excited to be pregnant and to have an excuse. They don’t tell you, though Internet, that you will salivate over food all day long, but when you begin to eat it, ravenously hungry and close to inhaling the person who is kind and brave enough to dine with you, you will not be nearly as hungry as you think. In fact, you will take exactly three bites of that beautiful me


al and then realize that the baby inside you has shifted to sit on the exact place that simultaneously makes you have to pee and vomit. You are full. After dreaming of this giant plate of pasta deliciousness all day. (And you don’t even like pasta.) You will have to-go boxes from every establishment you have passed by over the course of the last three months because, let’s face it, internet. You are full now, but this will not stop you from stopping at 13 more restaurants on the way home and trying again.


On the Edge

I have been a bad blogger. I know, I know. Don’t hate me.

The truth is, I have been a little stuck inside my head lately. I have, throughout everything that has been going on, held on to the hope that my situation will work itself out and that, at the end of the day, things will be fine. This has been easier said than done. I applied for Medicaid at the start of this whole ordeal, after having losing my job and health insurance and have been not-so-patiently waiting and submitting all sorts of ridiculous paperwork to the powers that be, trying to secure medical care so that I don’t have a baby with 3 arms. At first, I truly was optimistic. Because I have heard that Medicaid can be a life saver, and even though I am proud and a bit too stubborn to readily accept help from people or even admit that I need it, I pressed on. I held my head high knowing that I am doing what is best for me and the baby. The health of my baby is more important than feeling defeated (because sometimes, internet, I do feel defeated and more than that, betrayed by a company that I was loyal to for years for firing me just days after the announcement of my pregnancy. Because, really?! How do they sleep at night?) I let my guard down and admitted I needed help. And you know what? The Medicaid system sucks.

After everything I did and all the waiting for results. Still nothing. Not only nothing, but now I find out that they denied my claim because they “did not receive all necessary documentation”. Mind you, their online system shows that everything WAS received over three weeks ago. BOTH TIMES THAT I SENT IT (just to be on the safe side). And I’ll be damned if I can get anyone on the phone who isn’t a total BITCH or who speaks English or who knows how to work the computer. (Seriously. This is not a joke.) So, there are unreturned calls and 45 minute hold times that end in absolutely NOTHING. Meanwhile, our little bean is just kicking it inside my belly. (And by kicking it, I mean kicking the hell out of ME.)

And I am six months along today. And I am starting to panic. Because I have no idea what to do. I have never felt more helpless in my life.

My Beloved has been wonderful. He reassures me that we will do whatever we have to do. And if he has to work 3 jobs, he will. I can be comforted by this for about 3.5 seconds, until I feel a kick or a hiccup and then I want to hurl many glass things at many walls and stab people and all sorts of other violent things. (This could have something to do with hormones…)

I desperately wanted to write a post about the Zaxby’s commercials about the fried pickles that makes me salivate and be all charming and funny, but I can’t. The reality is, this situation is sucking all of the charm and wit out of me and making me a big, panicky psychopath and I really just want some effing fried pickles and a prenatal OB appointment.

Unicorns? Gumdrops?

I am just days away from entering my second trimester. Everyone says that once you enter the second trimester of your pregnancy you are all filled with happiness and pure glee at the idea of having a baby because you can finally eat food without barfing five seconds later or falling asleep in your plate of spaghetti (which also, may or may not be covered with chocolate sauce. Just sayin’.) Needless to say, I was super excited to get through the first part of this experience and on to the good part where it is all unicorns and gumdrops and stuff. I desperately wanted to be able to stay awake past 7:30pm and watch an episode of “The Walking Dead” without vomiting on My Beloved. And I desperately wanted to eat something doused in tomato sauce without feeling, only minutes later, as though I had swallowed a fireball.

And I will tell you, I have definitely noticed some changes. I definitely can stay up past 7:30 now. In fact, I will stay up until 10:30. And then I will sleep for 4 hours until my bladder is on the verge of explosion (which is evidently, common) and I wake suddenly just before I get to that part in the “pee dream” where I am actually ON the toilet and starting to go, saving MB from, yet another example of how my body betrays me (and essentially, him) on a daily basis. After I have relieved my bladder, I will return to bed, where my 27 lb cat will insist on sleeping ON.MY.FACE. Because, he has decided, it appears, that he now has to be by my side (or on my face) every waking second of every day. (I think he does not trust me to gestate.) I will, for an hour, try to avoid eating my cat’s tail or being elbowed in the face by my beloved for one hour at which time, I will leave the bedroom and assume my position on the couch. Watching re-runs of “Three’s Company” at 3 in the morning. I will not fall back to sleep before work because I will be starving and making lists of things I will devour tomorrow as soon as it is an acceptable time to start devouring things. I will “wake up” at 5:30 and report to work. Where it is unacceptable to devour things. And where I will be miserable and full of hate for ten straight hours. I will accept that pregnancy takes you from normal to narcolepsy to insomnia in a matter of days and I will contemplate homicide.

I miss sleeping, internet. Does this get better again?

As for the eating. I noticed that, during the first trimester, there weren’t a whole lot of ridiculous cravings or anything. I did not eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, as my grandmother did. I did, however, find that McDonald’s McDoubles are the stuff that dreams are made of. (Dreams not of the pee-dream variety, mind you.) I did not, but could have easily eaten several McDoubles, several times a day and felt fine about it. Because I wouldn’t have had to kill anyone. (Note to significant others of pregnant ladies, If the lady says McDouble, FIND A McDOUBLE. For the love of GOD.) I wanted chocolate sometimes, which is unusual but, I guess not too unusual for most people. And if I said, “Sandwich!”…well, MB knew what to do. But mainly, the urgency was because being hungry is very painful when you have a parasite sucking the nutrients out of all of your meals. Seriously. This shit hurts.

Things haven’t yet changed too much. The only real difference that I am starting to notice is that I can eat things that are a little more acidey and I think I might even be able to do the hot sauce thing. I haven’t tried yet, because, I rather like to feel as though I have a normal, content esophagus, but I am gonna do it soon. I just may need a pep-talk.

In the meantime, is it weird that I feel that I might actually need to eat a bratwurst? Like, immediately?

What? Me? Hostile?

More and more, I am starting to see why pregnant women should not be allowed out into the world (at least during their first trimester). As I have said, no one at work is yet aware that I have “a bun in the oven” (read: a really pissed off alien inhabiting my abdomen) so they are not aware of the dangers they face if they continue to cross me. If you are not a pregnant woman, heed this warning:




Seriously. She will follow you to your home and set fire to your bed. This is not a joke.


Between the intense hunger, (seriously ladies, before your pregnancy, were you ever so hungry that you would steal food from small children or the elderly? Because I am not above it at this point. Hunger HURTS.) the mood-swings (I think I covered those here ) and the extreme vomiting (spontaneous extreme vomiting, of course. New X-Games sport? Thoughts?), how can a girl be expected to deal with stupid people all day? People whose heads are not pounding? People who aren’t gaining 17 lbs per week?  (This is, luckily, not actually happening, but it feels like it is. I exaggerate. Sue me.)


I, for one, cannot be expected to be nice to people at work. I can barely be expected to be nice at home, where the love of my life and my de-lovely cat reside. The other day, I was watching The Real World (guilty pleasure, I can’t help it) and I actually envisioned myself stabbing one of the cast-members in the neck. With a screwdriver. Yes, it was that specific. And I ask myself, “is it really worth it to watch a television show that causes violent fantasies surrounding narrow-minded, barely-pubescent imbiciles?”


I have decided that my answer is unequivocally yes.


Because fantacizing about killing narrow-minded, barely pubescent imbiciles, keeps me from murdering coworkers and loved ones.