Tag Archives: Pregnancy

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.

I’m So Famous, Ya’ll!

So, as you guys can tell, my blog is brand new and I am sort of a crazy person (which, duh, is my inspiration for blogging in the first place) and have been here trying to make light of (or at least come to terms with) my new situation and let me tell you, fellow preggo ladies and/or former preggo ladies and/or regular peeps who stop by here, you have made this whole ordeal MUCH easier. (I haven’t murdered ANYONE! Not ONE person!)

Today, I was nominated by Jell Jell over here for the Liebster Award!

“What  is the Liebster Award?”, you may ask. It’s an award that’s meant to be passed along to blogs with fewer than 200 followers. The purpose is to help give awesome blogs a bit of a nudge in the way of followers and fans.”

Hooray!  Thanks so much for the props! (And recognizing how awesome I truly am…heh heh…)

By accepting this award what we need to do is:

1. Copy and paste the award on our blog.
2. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to us.
3. Reveal our top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
4. Hope that our followers will spread the love to other bloggers.

Here are my choices:

1. The Waiting

2. Growing Itty-Bitty

3. Listful Thinking

4. Life In These Times

5. Southern Fried Chicken in Vegas 

Thanks, ladies and gents! Keep spreading the love!

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!

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:

 

DO NOT FUCK WITH A PREGNANT LADY.

 

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.

Breaking the News

I think that one of the most daunting things about this whole, growing  a human-being thing, is that I will eventually, (not yet, because I am a chicken shit and am only 11 weeks after all) have to tell people that it is happening. I have told a few friends and some family and they have all been very supportive (some, ecstatic and have already started the buying of the baby things) but I am not looking forward to telling everyone else. I have a fair amount of anxiety about doing this for several reasons.

 

1. I am a very private person and have a general distaste for most people. This sounds cold, but I have my close friends and family and I love them, but do I want everyone else touching my belly? No. The idea of having to waddle around my office (full of 23 ladies) and talk constantly about diaper genies, makes me want to stick my head in an oven.  There are a couple of people in my office, in particular, that I would like to avoid talking to about my pregnancy. One of whom is a 31-year-old Mormon who has, by her own admission, never kissed a guy and talks to everyone as though we are heathens and, therefore inferior. (I have nothing against Mormons. I have a lot against really nosy, know-it-all people who are in my business all the time and will inevitably make a huge deal about how I am very vocal about not wanting kids in the first place and GASP! I am not MARRIED! Whatever.  Besides, I have someone who liked me enough to get me pregnant, who’s inferior NOW? Huh?)  I wish there were some way I could turn the baby bump off when I am around people whom I will potentially want to choke. If any of you ladies knows how to do this, please hit me up. I am getting desperate.

 

2. I am not a “kid person”. This is not a secret. I don’t understand people who, as soon as they get pregnant and/or have a baby, instantly forget how to be an actual person. It is like the baby has snatched any ounce of personality and likeability they have ever posessed and they become a walking, talking baby-obsessed freak. I am not afraid I will become that person, but I am worried that people will expect me to. Gross. (I understand that having a baby is a big deal and I don’t take it lightly, but I would like to, at least sometimes, give the illusion that I can still have an adult conversation that has nothing to do with the price of formula.)

 

3. I would like to avoid people, other than the child, calling me ‘mama’. For some reason, the instant you start showing, ‘mama’ becomes your name. Old ladies will call you ‘mama’. I am not above choking old ladies. Just sayin’.

 

I am sure that, if I thought about it more, I could come up with about 3 billion more things that will inevitably annoy the bejesus out of me once everyone knows my little secret, but I will stop here and just be glad in the fact that, currently, my secret is still just that. My tummy, however a little bigger and more annoying, is still just a tummy from what everyone else can see.

I really don’t care that you’ve just broken your leg and a bone is actually protruding through your skin, I SAID I wanted a sandwich!

So, this pregnancy thing sort of turns a lady into another person, doesn’t it? I am fairly certain that, on an average day, I shift back and forth between 47 different personalities. This doesn’t bother me so much, because I rarely notice that it has happened. Except when I catch my head spinning around in circles and projectile pea soup flowing from my face (obviously this is a slight exaggeration but, the pea soup thing? Not so far from what is actually happening once or twice a day…) And I wouldn’t feel so bad about the personality shifting at all, except that My Beloved often gets caught in the crossfire. And, you know, seeing as there is no definitive way to tell when a “shift” will occur, I find that most often he is cowering in a corner trying to escape my wrath. And, of course, that would be the exact moment that I need a hug. And then I am hurt that he doesn’t use his spidey-sense to know that I need a hug and climb out of the fetal position and give me one. And then I start to cry because, “OH.MY.GOD. He doesn’t even love me!” and “Why am I going through all this horrible hostile body take-over madness for someone who is OBVIOUSLY going to leave me? Probably tonight! Where is the suitcase?” Meanwhile, my poor beloved has no idea what has happened. Have I told him that I wanted a hug? No. And now I am hysterically crying and packing the suitcase full of his things and incoherently insisting that “he just leave me. I am a big, pregnant ball of hideousness and he deserves better.” Has he any idea what has just happened? No. He was thinking about playing, “Gears of War” and now  he is, evidently, moving out.

 

And it isn’t just the intense irrational sadness. There is also irrational anger. It is quick and fierce and likens me to Hitler. Because as soon as the hysterical crying has stopped, I am, naturally, hungry. Because being crazy and irrational works up an appetite.  And then I want there to be something very specific and delicious to eat and I need it to be AT. MY. FINGERTIPS. And I need it to be there right now. RIGHT NOW. And MB should know what that something specific is and should have it piping hot and ready to eat at the instant my little, insane heart desires it. And then the conversation goes like this:

 

“I really need a barbequed turkey sandwich and french fries. And macaroni and cheese.”

 

“Okay, I will run out in a just a minute and get you all of that.”

 

“Okay, but I have really bad heartburn and I really need to eat.”

 

“You know, I have had really bad heartburn for the last couple of hours, it is really weird.”

 

“Look. There is an alien growing in my abdomen and I have had heartburn for six WEEKS, and I really need to eat food.  I am sorry that I don’t seem sympathetic about your heartburn but I think I have trumped you. Sandwich!”

 

“…”

 

Naturally, the conversation ends, sandwich is delivered and half of it is eaten (because you know, once I got that specific thing, I realized that what I really wanted was fried chicken) and then I need a hug. But MB has taken his place, cowering in a corner.

 

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

And So It Is…

pregnancy test - negative

pregnancy test - negative (Photo credit: slayerphoto)

I’m the type of girl who, for the last, oh…about the last 31 years of my life, have maintained that children are not for me. They drool and they cry and they shit on themselves regularly and therefore? What use are they to me? I prefer to fill my time by having conversations about hot bartenders at cute little martini bars across the street from the ocean. Or sipping wine on my screened in porch listening to the marsh sounds at sunset. Or, at the very least talking to people who can form words or…you know…syllables. So, you can imagine my chagrin when a few weeks ago, I woke up anticipating my trusty period…and she never came. And then the next week. Still no period. I wouldn’t have started to panic at all except for my undeniable urge to inhale disgustingly greasy cheeseburgers from various fast-food establishments several times a day. I didn’t need any convincing. I was knocked up. And with knocked -up and knowing I couldn’t keep it from my lovely boyfriend (and domestic partner) J for very long, comes a myriad of wildly inappropriate and irrational thinking. You know, things like, “I wonder how many margaritas I can drink in the four hours before I have to go to bed in order to get up for work tomorrow. Surely 17 margaritas tonight and none for the next seven months can affect this baby.” and “If I put off taking the test for another week, I can smoke double the cigarettes until then to get my fill in.” or, “From what height building can I jump and successfully make this all end, but maintain the use of all of my appendages?”. It’s no joke, internet, this is what goes through a girl’s head when faced with the prospect of being ripped out of normal early-thirty-hood where the wine flows like water and where a mimosa is a totally acceptable morning beverage to a world where sore boobs and heartburn reign triumphant. And let’s not forget that you can kiss your mimosas goodbye. 

(Sidenote/Rant:  Okay, internet, have you ever been pregnant? Wouldn’t it make more sense if the two most gloriously relaxing things in the universe, alcohol and cigarettes, were encouraged during pregnancy? Wouldn’t all the fat preggo ladies be much calmer and pleasant to be around? They would be slightly buzzed and mellow, but they would most likely not be biting your head off because you didn’t put the lid on the toothpaste and now there is a tiny speck of sticky mess on the freshly cleaned counter. Right? See? GIVE US THE BOOZE, UNIVERSE! If ANYONE deserves it, IT. IS. US. End sidenote/rant.)  

When J brought home the test and handed me my last pack of cigarettes EVER, I really didn’t even need to take it. But I also knew that, if I didn’t, I would continue to drink and smoke just like normal. Which, honestly, to me, didn’t sound so bad but J preached about the dangers of smoking and fetal alcohol syndrome and all those bullshit reasons the media has created to make pregnant women MORE miserable. Eventually, I bought into the hype, drank the last of the pinot grigio in the fridge and chain-smoked until my lungs felt like they were filled with sandpaper and I sounded like an 80-year-old man. Because this, ladies and gentleman, is how I felt it was necessary to react on the day that I found out that my life was over.

Some of you might think, “Wow, she’s dramatic! Life over? No! It is just beginning!” and to those of you, I say this. You are delusional. Because I know that for the next 7 months, I will be confined to places like Babies ‘R’ Us and support groups for women who have recently decided that they are suicidal (read: expecting). Because that’s where they banish pregnant ladies to. Don’t act like you don’t know.

I’m not sure I can do it. Onesies and tiny shoes don’t do it for me, people.

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Lessons

I thought that after a little time since finding out about this whole pregnancy thing, I would be a little more used to it. You know, able to accept that in a few short months, I would be popping out a screaming, shitting little monster and then nurturing and raising it for the next 18 years, but it really hasn’t sunken in yet. But I have definitely recognized its presence in my life. Behold:

 

Things I have experienced and/or learned since becoming pregnant:

 

1. Spontaneous vomiting is a real thing. You don’t know when or where it might occur but it does. And there you are trying desperately not to puke on your boss. (And not necessarily because you haven’t ever wanted to puke on your boss, but because actually doing these things could be considered rude and/or give away the fact that you are growing a kid.)

 

2. No amount of cheeseburgers is ever sufficient. Ever.

 

3. I sometimes hate my beloved because:

                a) His penis is the reason I am in this mess in the first place.

                b) I have suddenly realized that men fart a lot. And they smell. Which can bring about spontaneous vomiting as mentioned above.

                c) He eats sour cream or A1 sauce on everything. That is just nasty.

                d) He doesn’t understand that, even though I have not touched the ice cream in the freezer, I may someday want to eat it and that it is OFF LIMITS to him unless, he too, is growing something alien in his uterus.

 

4. To save time, I have learned to vomit IN the shower, to avoid being late to work. My genius amazes even me.

 

5. The size of my boobs will soon exceed the size of my head.

 

If nothing else, I am finding that this whole thing has become quite a learning experience. Although, like Algebra, I am not sure this knowledge will be useful for anything in the future.