Tag Archives: Second Trimester

Panic and Maternity Pants

My Beloved and I decided to go ahead and share our news with our family and friends on Thanksgiving. You know, because, everyone is thankful for the upcoming opportunity to change diapers and get puked on for a couple of years only to be rewarded with more and different things such as, “the terrible twos” and the realization that you may never eat in a restaurant again. Oh! And germs! And paying for college! I digress. Anyway, yeah. Thanksgiving.

 

We decided that, since no one is really making a big to-do about the holiday this year and my mom is out of state for a funeral (and, already knows and is buying massive quantities of unisex baby gear), we just would “bring dessert” to dinner on Thursday. We’ll bring a pumpkin pie with the words “we’re pregnant” written on top and then present it to his mom and watch her spaz for a while and then I will gorge myself with turkey (or said pie) and then take a nap. That’s the plan. I then plan to Facebook bomb everyone else because if  I have to say the words one more time, I might hurl myself off a bridge. This way, everyone can react from the privacy of their own homes and will, hopefully, not feel the need to call and discuss it with ME. Because, as previously discussed, I am not sure I can handle the oohs and awwwws. I am queasy enough, people. Besides, if you are a person I would allow oohs and awws from, then you didn’t find out about it over Facebook. Duh.

 

The only person in my family left to tell was really my dad, because my mom has opened her big, fat mouth to everyone else, although she keeps insisting that she hasn’t but when my grandma said, “So, am I hearing rumors about you or not?” I sort of figured it out.  I was waiting for a time to actually speak with him, (he is fairly hard to get on the phone because there is a 16 hour time difference) but finally decided that, if I didn’t want him to find out on Facebook too, I’d better send him an email pretty soon. I did that yesterday. I feel that my dad is going to be a big, sappy mess when I talk to him. And that makes me uncomfortable.

 

The anxiety is slowly lifting for me, though. I have been able to speak openly with several of the women in my office but have asked that they are respectful of my privacy and so far, that seems to have worked. As we near Thanksgiving, I am starting to feel more and more comfortable with the idea that people will know and I can just move on with my life, panic free! (And believe me, I am aware that it may seem ridiculous the amount of panic I have about this but I am uber-private and having the kind of news I cannot hide takes away a bit of my control and makes me feel…well…naked. And the thought of myself as a naked, pregnant lady, disturbs me…)

 

On an entirely different note, I have learned that, while the mere thought of maternity clothes sent shivers up my spine just a few short weeks ago, they are delightful. I can’t speak to the tops yet, as I have no need for them at this point but I would like to share with you that I have purchased 5 pairs of maternity pants on eBay and I am having trouble with the idea that, after I have this baby, I will have to go back to wearing regular pants. Seriously. Do I have to? It seems to me that I should get to be comfortable and not feel like an overstuffed sausage, like, all the time. Not just when I am knocked up. I think ALL women should be wearing maternity clothes! Down with non-elastic waists!

 

That’s really all I got.

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.