Tag Archives: Pregnancy

A First

I have this friend who sends me a Happy Mothers Day text message every year even though he knows that I don’t have any kids. I was never sure if he just didn’t pay attention to who he was sending out his mass texts to, or if he just did it…well…because he is a moron. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had sent it to MB too, actually. Anyway, this morning, I rolled over and before my eyes were even open, I heard my phone vibrate and then I heard MB whisper, “Happy Mother’s Day, baby. You’re the prettiest mommy ever.”  And then I melted into a heap of goo on my side of the bed. Because seriously, you guys, like, within days, I’m gonna be someone’s mommy. And not in that figurative way that happens when your friends call you mom at parties because you hold their hair when they puke. No. Like an actual mommy.

I’m planning to spend today just like I spent yesterday: floating in my own mommy’s pool and wishing I could have some sort of delicious alcoholic concoction to take the edge off all of this waiting and hoping that, by the end of my swim, I am in labor. (Just as an aside, though, can I just tell you how wonderful the water feels when you feel as though you are the size of a house? If you haven’t yet taken advantage of a swimming pool or other body of water, you should get on that. I felt like myself. Almost.) But I wanted to come by here and wish all of you mommies and soon-to-be mommies a Happy Mother’s Day. I hope that you all get to spend it doing something that makes you happy.

Kind of a Big Deal

I know many of my readers are pregnant ladies ad many of you are aware that I was terminated from my employment just two days after announcing my pregnancy. I urge you to PLEASE read! Pregnancy discrimation is alive and kicking. Help stop it!

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“Tina,” who is pregnant and works as a health aide in a nursing home, is told by her doctor that she should not lift more than 35 pounds.  Her job description requires lifting 40 pounds regularly, but lighter duty jobs, such as answering the phone and working at the reception desk, are available.  Nevertheless, her employer stops scheduling her for shifts and tells her she must take unpaid Family Medical Leave, which would run out before the delivery of her baby and leave her without the income she needs to pay the 50% of her medical insurance her employer does not cover.  Left with no choice, Tina loses her job.

“Jessica,” who is pregnant and works as a pharmacist’s assistant, needs to sit down occasionally throughout her day.  Chairs are available for customers, but the pharmacy does not permit the staff to use them.  As a result, Jessica loses her…

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An Open Letter to My Daughter (Just Minutes Before Her Birth)

Dear Baby L,

I want to start by being honest with you hear and telling you that you will not be born in mere minutes. You are perfectly content to continue to reside in my uterus and according to the doctor that I saw this morning, will remain there for several more days. The title of this post is mainly just to send a signal to the universe (and you, I suppose, letting you know that IT IS TIME, and lets get this show on the ROAD.) But before you do grace us with your presence, I wanted for us to have a little talk, you know, our first mother/daughter.

If you have ever read this blog, then you are well aware that I was not really totally excited about becoming a parent. I didn’t really trust myself to be someone’s mom. And, to be honest, I am still not so sure I know what the hell I am getting myself into. I was pretty open about how crazy and horrible and beautiful making you was and you might be offended about the fact that I sometimes cussed at you here or called you a parasite. But seriously? Let’s face it, girlie, you kind of WERE a parasite. (Just sayin’.) You’ll understand all that when you have kids. But I want you to know, nonetheless, that even though I may not have been ready for all of this crazy that has happened or to become your mom, I am pretty sure I am ready now. And I am going to do the best damn job I can. But if I do happen to put your diaper on backwards or forget to put those weirdo mitten things on your hands and you scratch yourself in the face, it is NOT because I don’t love you. It is because I am a completely incompetent parent and am totally learning. I swear, it will get better. (Until I have to talk to you about boys and/or puberty. Then I just might totally fuck you up. And yes, your mother just said “fuck” because you aren’t born yet and cannot repeat everything I say like a parrot.)

Secondly, we should talk about your father. You may notice that he is a complete softie for you. And you may also have noticed that if you bat your eyelashes enough, you can pretty much attain anything your little heart desires. (This works for me too, by the way, and I rather like it. Don’t screw it up.) You should know that he already loves you more than anything in the entire universe. And your father has the biggest, purest, most amazing heart anyone could possess and you should treat him with respect. Because he is moral and loving and generous and will give of himself in ways that most people cannot. He is a gift to the universe and his kindness is rare. And he helped make you. And I have NO doubt that he will someday embarrass the bejesus out of you, and you will want to run and hide from him, but that’s normal. Just try and remember how special he is and be kind to him (and to others) because if not, you will break his heart.

I would like to explain the rest of the family to you here, but I just don’t have that kind of time. You will encounter some really interesting characters and some of them you will totally adore and some of them will make you want to shove sharp things into your eardrums. And that’s okay. I will warn you about those ones on a private and individual level.

Just know that, in these final days of your hostile takeover of my body gestation, your entire family is looking so forward to meeting you. Your father and I have everything set up for you, including 47 potential places for you to sleep, as we were not sure where you would be most content once removed from my body. We love you infinitely and we will do our best to avoid turning you into a psychopath or a douche canoe.

Love and kisses,

Mom

 

 

FAIL.

I had sort of made up my mind, since the beginning of my pregnancy, that I would give birth on May 4th. Why? I have no idea. Did it happen? Hells no.

Alas, I am still motherfucking pregnant.

My BH contractions started to intensify over the last few days, however, and I was sure that this meant that I was going to go into labor AT ANY MOMENT. And then when I started to actually vomit (AGAIN?! SERIOUSLY?! WHEN DOES THIS END?!), I was SURE that the wait was over and little Baby L was coming. I was positive that I was effaced and dilated and that, like my mother, I must just not be able to feel the contractions yet (she literally had NO IDEA that she was in labor for me until, like, an hour before I was born. We should all be so lucky.) and that I should ready my hospital bag immediately. But then, after the ONE BH contraction which was slightly more uncomfortable than the last, there was nothing. And then there was more nothing. And then, this morning I had an appointment with the doctor, who confirmed that, well, NOTHING IS HAPPENING.

20120507-133913.jpgI can’t say that it is complete nothing. My cervix has thinned a bit, and I am dilating, however, not even ONE CENTIMETER YET…which makes me sort of want to punch someone in the throat. (In fact, I would sort of like to line up some really annoying people and punch them one by one. And then eat a bowl of ice cream. Because…well…I am still, after all, a pregnant lady.) If anyone is interested in putting together a lineup, hit me up, I will send you a list. Some of the people might be SLIGHTLY unattainable (I am sure Phil Collins is busy doing something really obnoxious and will not be available for throat punching), but I will accept look-alikes or any approved equally annoying substitute.

Anyway, that’s where we’re at. Preggo and punchy. Any other way just wouldn’t be right.

 

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Using My Own Uterus

This image shows a white wine glass (WMF Easy)...

Oh, how I miss you, wine.

So, in the final few weeks of this pregnancy thing I’ve been doing, I’ve found myself bitter, cranky, easily excitable, anxious and disinterested in things such as being in public, talking to people, eating vegetables, and getting out of bed.

I think, just judging from what I have read, that all of this stuff is pretty normal. I have entered that miserable stage of pregnancy where I am too big/uncomfortable/exhausted to get much done and I am too over it to care. I just want to have a damn baby now. For fuck’s sake, when am I going to have a damn baby?!

The cravings for a giant glass of white wine that plagued me at the beginning of my pregnancy have been replaced with the craving for a giant caramel latte. Several times daily. (I would seriously mainline if I thought it would satisfy me, at this point.) Don’t get me wrong, internet, I need that giant white wine now more than I have ever needed a giant cocktail. Because I believe that my tolerance is now such that it might completely knock me out and shave a few hours off of this torturous game of “Waiting for Baby Without Murdering Anyone”.

I am pretty sure that Baby L outgrew my pelvis weeks ago. She seems still to be attempting to backstroke through her previously roomy environment, which causes a lot of doubling over on my part. And, you know, having the breath knocked out of me mid-sentence. And nausea.

I am growing increasingly terrified of delivery. I mean, I know the shit’s gonna hurt, y’all. Duh. But the longer the wait, the more I am dreading it. On the one hand, I say, “BRING IT, NATURE, I CAN TAKE THIS. AND I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN.” and on the other hand, I’m all like, “Would it be possible to borrow someone else’s vagina to do this with? I mean, come on, this is a joke, right?” As it turns out, y0u have to use your own vagina. Unless you used someone else’s uterus. And alas, I used my own. I am a moron.

As my due date not-so-rapidly approaches, I get a lot of messages from friends saying, “Baby?” or “When are you going to go into labor?”  And to them, I would like to say: I truly love you and appreciate all of your concern. But obviously, if you haven’t heard from me, I am still growing this little parasite and I don’t want to talk about it until she is officially OUT. And sleeping in a bassinet. And not in my rib cage. No offense. I just sort of want to grab an array of kitchen utensils and do some home surgery on myself at this point, and I just don’t have the patience to talk about how I am STILL FUCKING PREGNANT.  Did I mention that I love and appreciate you? I will call you when this thing gets going.

 

 

 

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I Thought Y’all Knew!

Gummy prenatal vitamins DO exist and I sincerely apologize for not letting you all know 9 months ago! Down with horse pills!

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**Update**

This post is for Jells, in response to this post!

Nine Months. A Total Lie.

You’ve all heard the phrase, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”, right?

Then you can understand, internet, why I haven’t been a regular, every day kind of blogger lately. But I am here today to make amends, (to some degree) so let me tell you right off the bat, internet, that your hair looks LOVELY today.

Ahem…

Today, I am 36 weeks pregnant. That, if you are doing the math, is NINE MONTHS. And if you believe what you have heard about pregnancy lasting nine months, then it would stand to reason that I would currently be IN LABOR. But…alas…I am not. (And that nine months of pregnancy thing? A total lie. They say that, but they are lying. 40 weeks does not equal nine months.) I am, however, dousing things in hot sauce to speed up the process. Heartburn or no heartburn. I can’t take anymore. I can’t remember who said to me, around week 25 or so in response to my inquiry about why pregnancy has to last so long, “At least you aren’t an elephant, they gestate for 22 months. That’s almost TWO YEARS!” but I would like to say to this person, a) SHUT THE FUCK UP and b) you have a point. My thoughts on this vary. BUT, the sentiment has stayed with me. And for the record, I am glad that I am not an elephant. And gestation really isn’t the only reason. Their skin looks painfully dry.

For lack of anything nice to say, here are a few notes on my 35th week:

1. My belly has seemingly doubled in size. Until now, strangers had been oblivious of “the bump” and had treated me just as rudely as they always had. This gave me a small amount of comfort because either they hadn’t noticed that I was knocked up (which essentially meant that I wasn’t nearly as gigantic as I thought) or that people were just as big of assholes to pregnant ladies (which made me feel less like I was handicapped in some way). MB and I went to a flea market last weekend as an attempt to get me out into the land of the living and while we were out and about, three people made conversation about my pregnancy. This was both unsettling (because I realized that I probably now AM as gigantic as I feel) and comforting (because people actually WERE nicer to me than before I was knocked up). I didn’t punch anyone. Not even the lady in the dairy section of the grocery store who yelled across the aisle at me to comment on how low the baby is sitting, judging from the shape of my belly.

2. I’m a bit snappy. Throughout the whole pregnancy, no matter how irritatign things were, I managed to refrain from snapping at MB. Like, almost, AT ALL (which, if you know me, is a total accomplishment). But now? All bets are off, internet. I will bite his head off. And if someone witnesses said head biting, I will bite their heads off as well. No one is safe. I am a loose cannon. (Which should make this baby shower I have to attend tomorrow interesting! HA!)

3. I hurt. Pretty much everywhere. I never understood how a tiny baby, kicking you in the ribs from the inside could be painful. And then it started happening to me. And then I started viewing it as some sort of karmic retribution for accidently dropping my sister when she was a baby. (It was totally an accident, I tried to lift her out of the bassinet because she was crying! Sheesh!) The back pain, I can handle. I am used to my back feeling like it is breaking in half. And the hip pain has mostly subsided (unless I am trying to sleep on my sides or walk through a parking lot).  But my muscles ache. And my head hurts. And the nausea HAS RETURNED. (Did you hear that, ladies?! NAUSEA. AGAIN!) And I am pretty sure that this child is already the size of a 12-year-old.

I am ready to do this thing.

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Welcome to my Cervix.

 

Uterus and uterine tubes.

Uterus and uterine tubes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So, its getting down to the wire, internet. I now have 5 weeks until my due date.  This has been the longest goddamned countdown of my life, and here it is, very near the end. And here I am, starting to freak the fuck out.

It is easy, at the start of a pregnancy (and really) all through the second trimester (if you ask me) to realize that you are pregnant and deal with that, but somehow avoid the reality of the situation wherein you will actually somehow have to expel this baby from your LOINS. That reality started to set in at my last OB appointment. The ARNP I have been seeing for the entirety of my care said, “Everything looks good. Next time, we’ll do some cultures and look at your cervix!”

At first, the statement, “look at your cervix” was mildly unsettling. You know, just because I don’t really want anyone to ever talk to me about wanting to look at it. It is private, y’all. Leave my cervix alone. Not to mention that I am feeling like a big, disgusting blimp and haven’t been able to shave my bikini line in order to appropriately display my lady parts.  (Gasp!) I am aware that my ARNP is used to looking at women’s nether regions and that she probably won’t care about my shaving habits.  And I am no stranger to the GYN and people have ventured here before. But I am also aware that this “cervix viewing” can only mean one thing. I am almost done. And one day SOON, a person is going to squeeze out of my vagina and this shit is going to HURT.

I have, thus far, managed to block out the fear of pain and discomfort and pooping. At least for the most part. Hell, I have been so anxious to get this kid out of me, that it has barely been a thought in my head. (Back pain, hip pain, breathlessness, intense heart burn and constant peeing tend to do that to a person, I guess.) But now, here in the home stretch, I am starting to think about what happens when I actually DO go into LABOR. (You know, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The moment I have been praying would happen RIGHT NOW for the past two weeks.) There is no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I am strong and capable of delivering this child, but I am terrified of the pain and the distruction of my friend, my trusty vagina.

I have read a lot of really good birth stories. I have appreciated how candid and real everyone has been with their most intimate moment, when they meet their child. But lets be real, internet, how much pain are we talking? I mean, I know that the generic answer to that question is something like, “The pain is totally worth it once you see the face of your child” and I TOTALLY GET THAT. But, be for real! Is my head going to spin around? Will I spit pea soup? Will my body split completely down the middle?

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Getting our Shit Together

When the urge to nest hits you, it is difficult to think of much else. Over the last few weeks, I have had an increasingly strong urge to clean all things. Up high, down low. Pretty much everywhere. The problem with this nesting urge is that it comes at a time in my pregnancy where I am pretty much unable to maneuver my gigantic ass in order to clean these things. I can start a project, work at it for ten minutes or so, but then have to sit down and regain my breath and/or overall body function.

Yesterday, however, solely because MB is now aware that he is on “my fiance is pregnant and overly emotional house arrest”, we got a lot accomplished (read: HE got a lot accomplished, I dusted things that I didn’t have to squat to get to).  We were able to put together our adorable swing, the play yard and the stroller and clean the entire basic living area of the house from top to bottom. I feel relieved. Of course, there is still a lot to do, but progress is progress.

Now the dilemma for me is that we have this play yard just sitting in the middle of the living room as a constant reminder that I AM STILL PREGNANT. We don’t even have a BABY to put in this thing yet. And it makes me more impatient than I already was! (If that is possible.) It is hard enough not to be impatient when something is constantly kicking you in your bladder and reminding you of the days when you were empty and peed like normal people with normal sized bladders.

The next stop on the mother of all to-do lists is to pack my hospital bag. I am super ignorant as to what this bag should contain, however, and am worried that I will either forget something super important or pack like I am going on a vacation somewhere. I know that I don’t need to bring 32 pairs of shoes and I am in no danger of packing a bikini (because I cringe at the thought of THIS body in a bikini), but I am pretty sure I will pack like I always do. Like a crazy person. Because you never know how many sundresses you will need after giving birth. You know…necessities. A friend suggested that I check out a website that has a check list for this type of thing, so I guess that will my plan for tomorrow. I will have to try and work it in between my bouts of intense anxiety.

My mood is, however, improving. I didn’t even burst into tears yesterday. Not even once! And today, when I woke up to find that bees had invaded one of our bathrooms, I did not panic and did not become a profanity-screaming lunatic. I calmly explained to MB that, the buzzing sound I thought was the result of a common house fly stuck between the blinds and the window pane was actually about ten bees which had taken over the bathroom. Then I called my landlord, who is on vacation and probably doing Easter things with his grandchildren and calmly explained that this is not cool at all and that I am terrified of bees and chemicals used to kill bees and that exterminators are busy eating ham and searching for Easter eggs and cannot be bothered, but kindly asked that he have someone fix this tomorrow morning (or I will surely go insane). In the meantime, MB attacked the bathroom armed with some sort of spray and a shoe and all seems to be good for the time being. (And he only got stung one time!) Phew.

God, I am exhausted.

 

 

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