Tag Archives: Humor

We Did It! Broken News!

…and I am not talking about the act that got us into this mess in the first place!

Yesterday, My Beloved and I broke the news to the remaining family members who hadn’t already been told by my mother or his sister. We brought a cheesecake to his mom’s house for dessert with the words, “We’re Preggo!” written in chocolate chips across the top. She must’ve stared at it for 45 seconds before screaming with glee and then laughing/crying for ten minutes. It was just the response we had hoped for. I actually got a little teary-eyed for, like, the second time during the whole 15 weeks that I have been pregnant. (And this time, not because I really just wanted to chug a bottle of wine or sleep through the night…or you know…take my head OUT of the toilet for a whole ten minutes in a row…)

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Almost Time (Breaking the News Part Deux)

I am starting to realize that, the more time that goes by, the closer it is getting to the time when I will actually have to start telling people about this whole baby thing. I am not really showing yet, at least not to other people. I can tell that my belly no longer likes to be contained in my favorite jeans and that there is a little less room in my drawstring pants which once required constant attention so that I was not walking around nude from the waist down. But other than that, things, to the naked eye, are just as they have been. But I know that this stage will not last forever. I know that soon I will be sporting that “baby bump” that I dread so much. I still haven’t told the majority of my family, and not because they will react terribly or anything like that, but because I really try and find some creative, yet suitable (or totally inappropriate) way to break any news. (Once, when I decided to move across the country, I told my mom that I had a brain tumor and had three months to live, you know, that way when she found out I was just moving, she would be relieved and not kill me. Although, she may have wanted to kill me more after that…whatever.) 

 

I don’t really have the energy to make some big, elaborate announcement complete with confetti and all that jazz. I kind of just want to send an email to all of the family that says, “I’m knocked up. Send presents. Do not touch my belly. I will cut you. Good day.” And while that might do the trick for the family (some of whom live on different continents), I am not sure that I can be that nonchalant about it with these bitches in my office. You see, I work with 23 women and no men. NO MEN. And yes, it is pure hell. Especially for someone like me, who prefers the company of people who compliment the beer-pong playing, shot-taking, frat boy in me. Because it is less work to be a frat boy. You don’t have to think, much less emote. At all. (Hanging out with dudes is like an emotional vacation after being in my office for 40 hours per week.) I am worried that, with these office people, (with whom I never share an ounce of information about my personal life) I will not be able to properly convey (without physical violence) that I am not kidding about the fawning and oohing and awwwing and belly touching. It will not happen or they will die. DIE.

 

I think I decided that the best way to break the news is to tell the family first (probably on Thanksgiving) some in person, some via whatever other method I can tolerate said family member best, and then posting something on Facebook. My dilemma is, I don’t want nine million replies to the post asking questions. I also am not sure how to be witty and still be clear that I am hormonal and am perfectly capable of ripping throats out.
Why can’t everyone just read my mind already? Sheesh. What a bunch of inconsiderate bastards. This is too stressful!

OB Visits: A Survival Story

My frist OB visit was about three and a half weeks ago. And I didn’t blog about it because it really wasn’t anything but a glorified and ultra-long GYN visit wherein I was only barely able to contain my homicidal tendencies while I sat in the waiting room under an air vent blasting 20 degree wind (seriously, gale force) directly into my face. I got there, expecting that I would be somewhat comforted to be in an environment where women go for their first confirmation, like a real medical one, that they are, indeed, growing a human. I thought that this, if anywhere, would be the place where I would find some serenity. Internet, OB offices, however frilly and ridiculously decorated they are, are not serene. My OB office struck me as impersonal and pretentious. And you may ask, “Why would you not run for the door the second you made this observation?” And my answer to you would be, “Holy HELL! I don’t know about OB visits or offices or even where another one is located in vicinity to my apartment. I don’t know what they normally look like! Or why the Medical Assistants all have the same haircut! Or why they want to freeze all the pregnant ladies into big ol’ preggo pops in here!  Why are you asking me questions like this?!” (A little crazy, maybe, but this is how I would answer you. And you would like it.)

 

So, two hours after I had arrived, paid an obscene amount of money for all of my co-pays for the duration, been informed that my insurance (due to as clerical mistake on the part of my office) was “invalid”, peeing in a cup and having a lady feel around inside my abdomen and inspect my lady parts, I had been told nothing. I was given a lab order and a prescription for Zofran and sent home with a future appointment. That was it. Did anyone confirm that I was pregnant? Nope. Did anyone do ANYTHING that was of any use or comfort to me? Absolutely not!

 

So, as you can imagine, I didn’t have high hopes for my second visit. (Except that maybe my BP wouldn’t be quite so high that the techs thought I was about to stroke out, I get nervous, what can I say?)  Someone, in passing, had mentioned that the second visit would be the visit where they would let me hear the heartbeat for the first time. But, I mean, come ON, internet. We all know that they would be telling me that this would all be just a cruel joke. You know, like April Fools Day except, in November. And not at all funny, mind you. So, again, denial sets in and I don’t even think about it.

 

Because there would have to actually BE a baby in order for anyone to HEAR a baby. Duh.

 

So, my second appointment was this past Friday. And I showed up early and I sat in the ice box (read: waiting room) and tried not to stare at all the bellies and wonder which ones of them was as bitter about being there as I was. I peed in a cup. I had my BP taken. I did not have a stroke. And then I was put into a room to fester (read: wait for the doctor). She came in after about 35 minutes, thanked me for my patience, went over a brief medical history sheet with me and then told me to sit on that weirdo table thing that creeps me out. I was reluctant. But she was so cheeful and adorable. I wanted to pinch her cheeks and/or kick her in the shins.  I couldn’t decide. But it didn’t matter, both would have been slightly inappropriate.

 

But I did as I was told and I lay back on the table and she put the cold goo on my tummy and we listened. At first I heard this loud “swush, swush” and was unimpressed. I was annoyed that I was freezing and that I could have been at home wrapped in a blanket, watching something uplifting on TV. You know, like Maury. And then the doctor’s face lit up and she said, “The really fast one is the baby. It sounds perfect.” I felt awful because although it was amazing to actually think about what was going on in that room, I really just couldn’t think about anything except bolting up and running out of there at top speed. I thought, for a second, that the doctor’s eyes were welling with tears so I promptly diffused the situation by saying something ridiculous, probably about sandwiches but I can’t really remember because the whole thing is a huge blur.

 

Just like that, though, it was over. There was some real evidence that I had not just spontaneously stopped menstruating and started craving corned beef hash. I am going to have a baby. A fucking baby, ya’ll. For reals.

 

So…like any expectant mom would do, I ran to my car, and started to cry hysterically and contemplate driving my car into the ocean, which, let’s face it, was only three blocks east. I could practically see it. I decided to go ahead and drown my fears and sorrows and all that stuff, not in the ocean, but in way too many dollar menu items from McDonald’s.

 

But me and the “baby”? We made it. We are significantly fatter than last week. But we are alive. And our hearts sound perfect.

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?

Because it is Too Early to Be Snarky…

I will let someone else do it.

 

Please enjoy this post from a MALE perspective! (Hooray! Also, I hope he doesn’t mind that I linked to him. I just think that this was too awesome not to share!