Week 15 (17 weeks pregnant): Anticipation, Anticipaa-aa-aation is Keepin’ Me Waiting or There Are Two Colors in My Head

For weeks now, people have asked me if I know if I’m having a boy or a girl, which of course I won’t know until the ultrasound that is done between 18 and 20 weeks. After forgetting numerous times, I finally set the date: next Thursday (April 15th), I’ll find out if it’s a little Greg or a little Mary that’s been swimming around in there. The instructions I was given were hilarious at best: I’m expected to drink 24-36 ounces of water an hour prior and not pee my pants. Considering that I’ll have the urge to pee when my bladder is holding approximately a thimble’s worth of urine, I’m sure this will be a challenge.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I would prefer to have a boy. I have always wanted a boy, and have always envisioned myself as the mother of a boy. Why? I’m not entirely sure, but probably because of the severe lack of testosterone in my family (and Greg’s). My mom is one of four girls (no boys). My maternal grandmother is one of seven children, only one of which was a boy. My grandmother’s twin sister had three girls (and no boys). My maternal grandfather had two sisters and no brothers. One of my mom’s cousins has five girls and no boys (can you tell my family is Catholic?). And so on. In Greg’s family, it’s very similar: he has five nieces and one nephew. His mother was one of four children, only one of which was a boy. One of his cousins has two girls, and two stepdaughters. I have to admit I feel more than a little pressure for my little bundle of joy to have its very own little bundle of joy, merely because of the overwhelming presence of girls in both of our families. At family gatherings with the in-laws, the gap is clear: the smattering of men folk/boys present congregate near the TV to watch whatever game is on, and the massive group of females convenes elsewhere. I usually end up with the guys; not because I just love sports (Cardinals baseball is about the only sport I can even remotely tolerate), but because I’m more comfortable there. This is not to say I hate other women and I especially don’t hate the women in Greg’s family because they’re all very lovely women, but I feel a little out of place and well, crowded. I’m not the girly type. In fact, I’ve spent the vast majority of my life in jeans, t-shirt and sneakers; about the only time you’ll see me in a dress or skirt is when attending weddings or funerals. Other than my recently acquired crocheting and knitting skillz, I’m not into the typical girl things. I had Barbies growing up, but I was just as apt to ride my bike or find some other way to get injured or covered in dirt (usually either by digging around in the dirt or playing with whatever dog we had at the time). When I was a wee lass, I was a total daddy’s girl and we would go on motorcycle rides to see inappropriately-violent-for-my-tender-age Arnold Swarzenegger movies, and I loved every minute of it. I target shot for fun. I often wore camouflage clothes, and was sad when I grew out of my very favorite camo shorts. I loved the hell out of Nintendo games and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I watched He-Man along with She-Ra. I wanted more than anything to take karate lessons, much more than ballet or tumbling. I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself butch in my formative years, but I was definitely not the most delicate of ladies. Once puberty hit, I became less of a daddy’s girl and more of a hormonal holy terror, but that’s neither here nor there. Even as boobs sprouted and the baby factory started up business (a business that wouldn’t prove successful for many more years, of course), my interests lay mainly in music (and not the typical crap that girls liked, I’ll have you know; I have a pretty encyclopedic/Aspergian knowledge on a variety of musical topics and had the aspiration to be a rock star at one point and took guitar lessons, but I grew out of that one, thank goodness) and avoiding being the typical girl, which resulted in my frequently being accused of being a lesbian. I did eventually grow out of all that business of course and entered the typically “girly” profession of nursing, but I’ve retained my sense of sarcasm and my sense of being just a little different from most girls.

That said, the thought of raising a girl is absolutely terrifying to me. The thought of dressing it in anything pink or frilly sends me into panic mode; in fact, I refuse to do so if it is in fact a girl, and will specifically ask for not-pink things on my registry. I’m not going to dress it up in camo and construction boots of course, but I find the clear division between the sexes that starts at a young age just plain ridiculous. Boys get blue; girls get pink. Boys like sports and trucks; girls like playing dress up and being princesses. Of course, these are all socially constructed expected behaviors and likes/dislikes, but it seems to me that girls are pushed harder to be girly than boys are to be boyish. My inner-feminist recoils at the notion of buying a girl baby dolls and a kitchen play set to further enforce the notion that girls are only good for squeezing out pups and making dinner, but I also detest the idea that boys aren’t supposed to like those things; I also don’t want to feel like I’m pushing a girl (or boy, for that matter) to be something she’s (he’s) not. The subject of gender has stirred up a lot of emotions in me that were either long buried or that I didn’t even know existed.

Of course, I do want to make it clear that I already love this baby, boy or girl, and I’m not going to leave it on the side of a mountain if it’s a girl. I can see pros and cons of both. Boys come with challenges of their own; they’re often rowdy, usually more aggressive, and can be just as moody teenagers as girls can. Boys are also expected to fit specific gender roles and stereotypes, which is just as infuriating. Maybe this is just the liberal in me talking, though.

Next week I’ll hopefully have an update on what gender it is, as long as it keeps its legs wide open for all to see. Of course, the most important thing is that it is healthy and growing normally and all that jazz, and I’m looking forward to seeing the critter once more.

Week 14 (16 weeks pregnant): I Know All There Is to Know About the Crying Game

On Tuesday of this week, I had my monthly visit with my babydoctor, Dr. Gingrich (the one I previously mentioned looks a bit like Ann Coulter, but who does not have the unpleasant demeanor to match; she’s very sweet and kind, in my opinion). As with all the other doctor’s appointments, I made Greg come with me. After showing up about two minutes late, we waited in the waiting room for over half an hour for a very brief and uneventful checkup. Weight and blood pressure were taken, Dr. Gingrich reviewed all the myriad blood tests I had done the last time I visited and doppler’d my belly, more blood was drawn, and we were back out into the waiting room after probably 10 minutes or so. Granted, a lot was covered in those 10 minutes. I asked the nurse who weighed me how my weight was progressing since the scale at home said I’d gained about a couple of pounds, and she informed me that I’d actually dropped a pound somewhere along the way and never gained it back. As with everything else pregnancy related, I was a little worried and thinking it was abnormal, but Dr. Gingrich informed that it was just fine that my weight was pretty much the same since I’m already overweight, and that a weight gain of 10-15 pounds was optimal for someone my size (which is how much I should have gained by now if I was “normal” size instead of fun size). She went over all the blood test results with me, and relieved me of my fears that I had AIDS, Hepatitis, anemia, or any of the other various maladies that I’d been tested for. My hemoglobin was a rather robust 13 and some change, which is good considering that I was quite anemic all through high school. I knew all that stomach-irritating, constipation-inducing iron in my prenatal vitamins had to be good for something. I went to pay for my co-pay, only to be informed that I no longer had a co-pay at my visits, which is sweet. After years of paying into health insurance that I’ve scarcely used (never enough to even meet my deductible), I’m finally reaping the rewards of forking over so much cash every paycheck for seemingly nothing in return.

In other news, I found myself becoming Weepy McWeeperson over stupid stuff that normally wouldn’t register on the sob-o-meter. One morning driving home from work, I merely thought of the song “Do You Realize?” by the Flaming Lips (again, I was not actually listening to it), and tears started welling up in my eyes. We also got the movie “Up” from Netflix that week. I’d heard it was sad in parts, and I’m usually kind of a sucker for sappy movies, so I don’t know why I was so surprised that I cried approximately every two minutes through the entire movie. There were the obvious parts, like when Carl and Ellie find out they can’t have babies (oh help me please, I’m crying now just thinking of it, dammit), and when Ellie dies (okay, I just need to keep a box of tissues near at all times lest I think of that movie ever again), but I also cried when Carl and Ellie’s house was the last left on their street. And when someone knocked over the mailbox. And any time that Dug was being made fun of by the other dogs (I’m completely serious). And when Carl showed up at the boy’s Wilderness Scouts ceremony. And so on, and so forth. I made the mistake of having a plate of food in my lap when I was trying to watch it, and every time I tried to take a bite, something would happen that would make me sob (not just tear up; literally sob) and nearly choke on my food. I finally gave up on eating anything about halfway through the movie, because I really didn’t want to have to give myself the Heimlich maneuver.

Later that week, we got “Where the Wild Things Are” in the mail, which I was just marginally interested in seeing. I quit watching after I started sobbing uncontrollably when Max’s snow fort was destroyed. I saw one tear roll down his cheek, and it was all over. Greg looked at me like I had lost my ever-loving mind. All I could choke out between sobs was “they destroyed his snow fort!”. I turned my attention instead to the computer, which I was pretty sure was not going to play on my tumultuous emotions. New rule: no more watching movies that have even the remotest chance of making me cry.

One fact that all the pregnancy books tell you, along with just how gorgeous your skin is going to be, is that your hair will have never looked better and it will grow faster than usual. I must attest to the truthiness (ha! spell check didn’t correct that!) of this statement, because I have noticed that I’ve been having a lot more good hair days than bad lately. My hair is definitely thicker and shinier (well, greasier too, but that’s what shampoo is for, ya dirty hippies), and has more body than usual, which is just peachy keen. What they all neglect to tell you (beside The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy; thanks for the heads-up, Vicki) is that all of your other hair also grows at the same accelerated rate, and that hair starts popping up in places you never knew it could (and I won’t go into the pubic zone here, you perverts). Suddenly I noticed that my belly was covered in a scant carpet of baby-fine blonde hair, and that my leg and arm hair have started growing at an exponential rate. The peach fuzz that already existed to some extent on my face has become peachier and fuzzier. I’ve always had what seems like an excessive amount of arm hair, but it’s getting thicker by the minute. Luckily I’ve inherited my grandmother’s German genes and blonde hair; had I taken after the Italian/Sicilian side of my family, I’d probably be resembling one of the Great Apes by now and dragging along on my knuckles, wearing a diaper (and possibly tearing off some innocent person’s face). So now I’m shinier and hairier. Maybe I am turning into an ape: a rare blonde, albino ape. I’ll try to climb the trees in the backyard, just to be sure.

Lastly, I finally got some much-needed maternity scrubs. When I took them home and tried them on, the shirts were a little large and the pants were loose but seemed to fit okay, even though the pants were predictably too long (I realized a long time ago that women’s clothes are in fact modeled after Amazon women). Feeling a little restricted by my other scrubs (which do still fit, even if a little snugger than I like), I decided to wear the maternity scrubs to work one night. I spent the entire night trying to avoid being the subject of “Pants on the Ground”, since I had to pull my pants up every five seconds to prevent myself from tripping on my own pants and breaking my legs. I’ll just have to hang in there until I get large enough to outgrow the regular scrubs and graduate to my big girl pants.

And, that’s a wrap! Tune in for the next riveting installment of Itty Bitty Blog!

Week 13 (15 weeks pregnant): Can’t You Smell That Smell? and Constant Craving

This week started off with a bang. Heretofore, I had prided myself on being relatively in control of my emotions (other than turning into a mega bitch at the drop of a hat when provoked), but that illusion was shattered most exquisitely when I was assigned a difficult patient last Friday. I was already feeling terrible when I arrived, thanks to an unannounced visit from the Nausea Fairy. I had eaten earlier in the day before taking my customary long nap before work, and my stomach was revolting against me as I lay down to sleep. I awoke feeling just as bad, but decided that maybe a bowl of Frosted Flakes would calm the waters. Obviously that was the wrong thing to do, because I ended up puking for what seemed like eternity when I was attempting to brush my teeth. It was too late to call in for my shift, so I dragged myself rather unwillingly into work in my weakened state, my stomach now completely empty. I got report, and myself and one of the nurses that gave me report went to round on a patient who she assured me was not combative, but was just a little confused at times. Of course, her assessment was not entirely accurate, because the patient immediately started flipping out when we went into the room, and started cussing at the other nurse when she merely tried to flush her IV. I thought maybe if I left her alone for a little bit she would calm down and forget her anger, but as soon as we walked out of the room, she immediately started trying to climb out of the bed. I gently pivoted her legs back into the bed, and that only further agitated her. She repeatedly attempted getting up, and I kept moving her legs back into the bed, until she finally snapped and started punching and kicking at me, while also cussing me out and yelling at me (luckily her aim was not true and I have quick reflexes, because she didn’t actually get to me). Immediately I yelled for someone else to help get her back into the bed, and then I burst into tears. I demanded that someone else take care of this patient, because damn it, I’m pregnant and I shouldn’t have to worry about getting beaten up at work! I kept crying, and crying, and crying, because I was already feeling bad, and then I was nearly assaulted by a crazy old lady. Normally I wouldn’t get so worked up about nearly being beaten by some old woman off of her rocker, but the momma bear instinct kicked in somewhere, and I was just enraged that someone would dare to try to hit or kick me in my delicate state, or put my baby in danger. Someone else ended up taking the patient, but I ended up leaving after four hours that night, because I felt so physically ill (and emotionally drained) that there was no way I could continue. I felt bad about having to leave work, but I was not feeling well enough to do my job. I drove back to town, grabbed a large Orange Freeze from Steak ‘n’ Shake on the way home (the only thing I managed to keep down that day, I might add), and then passed out on the couch. Luckily the nausea didn’t return, but I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by my own body, which should know better than to do this to me by now.

One thing that I’ve noticed since getting pregnant is that when greeting people who know that I’m expecting, they will inevitably look at my stomach before making eye contact with me. It’s almost like those guys who stare at your rack the entire time they’re talking to you. I understand people’s curiosity (is she getting any bigger?), but it’s amusing just the same. Sometimes I like to pretend like they have x-ray vision and can see into my womb, because I often wonder just what the hell is going on in there (“what are you doing in there?!” comes to mind, which I’m sure will enter my mind again once the child hits adolescence and barricades him/herself into his/her room). This leads me to another amusing thing I’ve noticed: people often ask me how the baby is doing, and I always tell them “I don’t know” or I tell them that it’s made itself at home, while gesturing to my ever-swollen gut. I wish I knew how it was doing in there. I want to know what it’s doing at all times, but the best I get is the occasional poke/kick/somersault that lets me know it’s still alive (and kicking). If it were at all possible, I’d love to set up a surveillance system in there and spend most of my time watching it on closed-circuit TV, but then I’d probably never leave the house. The best I can tell people is that it’s the size of a softball this week, it’s capable of swallowing (and getting the hiccups), and that it occasionally jabs me to say hello. Unfortunately my never-ending thirst for knowledge will never be quenched in regards to just what my fetus is doing at any given time. It could be knitting a sweater and curing AIDS while riding a unicycle, and I’d be none the wiser. Still, it is kind of fun to imagine what’s going on in there.

As is typical for anyone woman in the family way, my sense of smell has become super sharp, and as time goes on, it becomes ever sharper. It’s almost like having a hearing aid for my nose; my sense of smell has become so exaggerated that I can smell things that no one else can detect. I’m seriously considering going truffle hunting, because I’m sure I could beat Porky at it any day. My sense of smell seems to be most acute in the mornings when I’m at work and the day shift is trickling in, smelling so fresh and so clean clean. Maybe being around stinky people all night long exaggerates it a bit (oh yes, all body odors, including my own, have become especially pungent), but I’m in serious ecstasy when someone walks in that has good-smelling cologne on. I’ve actually managed to identify the exact cologne in a couple cases, and sniff out the separate components of others (my nurse friend Lauren had a rather delicious cologne with intoxicating notes of vanilla and sandlewood this morning, and I mean that in a totally non-sexual way, of course). Of course, I’ve always had a very keen sense of smell, and smells can even trigger long-lost memories to replay in my mind, so my newfound super-sniffer sometimes brings on flashbacks like you wouldn’t believe. It’s so strange, but it’s yet another superpower of the pregnant woman.

Along with super smell, my cravings have become stronger in the last week or so as well. At the very beginning of my pregnancy, I always wanted bland foodstuffs to eat; not because I craved it, but because it was all I could tolerate. There was a month-long period where I survived on nothing more than vanilla milkshakes and those cracker and cheese sandwiches. Once the constant nausea (I refuse to call it “morning sickness”) passed, I was just content to eat solid food again for a while, but then the cravings began. One morning this week as I was half-snoozing on the couch, the words “chunks of real salmon and shrimp” drifted into my ears from the TV. I immediately woke up, mouth watering and stomach growling, wondering what this delicious dish was that was being advertised on TV, only to find that I had heard a Fancy Feast commercial, which was extolling the virtues of their very fine ingredients. I’ve heard of pica, but this is ridiculous. Never in my life would I have imagined that a cat food commercial would incite such ravenous hunger, but it became my mission from that point forward to find some salmon, and fast. I imagined myself as a mighty grizzly bear: huge paws clawing in the rapidly moving stream for fresh salmon, pulling the head off with my razor-sharp teeth, and then consuming the rest raw and wriggling, as it were (which reminds me, I’ve also been craving sushi, which I’m not supposed to have). Besides salmon, I’ve been eating grapes like they’re going out of style, along with other fruit. I can at least partially attribute the face that I’ve only gained 2-3 pounds so far to the fact that I’ve been craving mostly healthy foods, and also to eating healthier than I had prior to becoming pregnant. I have to admit that I’m really terrified of getting much heavier than I already am. I’m not so much worried about how I look (though I’ll admit that’s a small part of it) as I am about becoming a gestational diabetic or putting the fetus in harm’s way somehow because of my weight. Of course, I come from a long line of professional worriers, so I’m sure I’d worry no matter what. My doctor has made no comment on my weight (or lack of weight gain) thus far, so I trust that she knows best. According to different things I’ve read, women of my size shouldn’t gain as much as their svelte counterparts, which is typically between 25 and 35 pounds, and most women gain 10 pounds or more by this time in pregnancy. I’ve got another doctor’s appointment on Tuesday, so I’ll see what she says and go from there.

There are many choices to be made as far as babies are concerned, but I must say that a lovely coworker has at least helped me make up my mind on the disposable vs. cloth diaper debate. She’s very much the crunchy-granola mom type, which is awesome, and we were talking about different baby-related things the other night at work; I must mention here that she has an absolutely adorable baby girl. She brought up cloth diapering, and I admitted that I was really intimidated by the thought of doing it, but that I was definitely interested and would like to learn more. I’ve read things about it on the internet, but it all seemed so complicated to me that I wasn’t sure I would be able to completely grasp the concepts involved. I’m usually very much a self-learner, but when it comes to learning new tasks, I do well with a hands-on approach. She brought in some of her cloth diapering paraphernalia last night for me to look at, and she demonstrated different folding methods and informed me of all the things I’d need to get started. She also pointed me towards Cotton Babies, which is a cloth diapering store located south of 270 in St. Louis, and they offer free classes on cloth diapering, which is beyond awesome (thanks so much, Melissa!). I never realized how simple it could be! I’m totally sold on the idea, and I’m thinking of registering for cloth diapering stuff somewhere. It’s so much cheaper for one thing, and better for the environment; not to mention, you’re not putting artificial plastics and chemicals right next to baby’s tender skin. Of course, this is a choice that must be made with the needs of the parents in mind, so I by no means judge anyone who wants to use disposables. They’re definitely easier, so I can see their usefulness. We’ll probably use disposables if we go out in public or travel a long distance, but I hope we’ll be able to stick to our (well, my) guns and save some money on diapering costs. I’ve still got to convince Greg, but I think he’s coming around. Poop is poop if you ask me, so what’s the difference if it goes in the trash or goes into the toilet? It’s all gross.

I think that about wraps up what’s been going on the itty bitty universe this week. Be sure to tune in next week for another exciting adventure in pregnancy and impending motherhood (or don’t).

Week 12 (14 weeks pregnant): Send In the Clowns or, Life’s a Gas

Finally the maternity clothes that I ordered from Old Navy arrived. I felt like a kid on Christmas bounding down the stairs toward a bounty of shiny presents under the tree. I’m not much of a clothes hound, but believe me, when you’re wearing clothes that have gone from tight to tighter, all you want is something roomy and stretchy to slip on over your swollen gut.

I ripped open the UPS package with gusto, admiring my treasures one by one. I knew the shirts were all probably going to be a little big at this point, which is fine, because I wanted some shirts with a little room to grow (turns out these have a lot of room to grow, but I’ve got a long way to go). The booty shorts I plan on wearing only around the house were perfect. Just a little too big, but they’ve got a drawstring, so I can adjust them to my liking. The granny panties fit well now, but also have enough stretch to them that I know they will fit months down the road. I opened the capris last, hoping that the XXL size I ordered would be large enough. As I unfolded them, I realized that they sure were big enough, but they also had drawstrings to adjust them. No wait, those are just a couple of ties on the front that look like drawstrings. I pulled them on, and immediately circus music began to play in my mind. I peered back into the package from whence they came, expecting to find a pair of matching clown shoes, a rainbow wig and a clown nose. They’ve not only got “room to grow”, they’re hugemongous. I could probably be pregnant with quads and they’d be too big. The pants are meant to either be worn under the belly, or in the middle of the belly once you’ve gotten large enough to have your own gravitational pull, but I’m unsure if even at my largest that they will fit properly; not to mention, I’d probably bear more of a resemblance to Urkel than to a pregnant goddess if I hitched them up as high as they can go (come to think of it, suspenders would probably go nicely with them). Disappointed once again, I looked up Old Navy’s return policy. You can ship them back to Old Navy for a refund, but then they take $6 for a shipping fee off of what they owe you. Since I had a $20 coupon and these pants were originally $29.50, they opted to take the $20 off of this particular item, reducing them to $9.50. That would give me a grand total of a $3.50 refund, which I could probably buy a couple of sodas at work with. It hardly seems worth the hassle, so I’m just going to hold onto them for now and hope that sometime in the next few months, clown chic becomes the in thing for pregnant women (or I come to know a pregnant rhinoceros that needs some sensible but comfortable gray linen-blend maternity capris). I did order the same capris in a smaller size, along with some Bermuda denim shorts, so I’ll keep watching for the UPS truck next week, and I’ll keep a lookout for matching clown shoes and rainbow wigs to go with the larger pair.

After that fiasco, I opted to give the Fairview Heights Target another chance. I managed to find a pair of maternity jeans (largest size they had, but beggars can’t be choosers) that fit nicely. They’re good and stretchy with a little room for baby and baby booty to grow, and they have that nice stretchy panel in front that supports the belly as it goes from huge to huger. I’m still holding onto the one pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that still fit until I can’t wear them anymore, but the maternity jeans were a welcome addition to my maternity arsenal.

After the victory of finally finding a pair of maternity jeans that fit my apparently oddly-shaped lower body correctly, I stopped by Barnes and Noble to take a look at their pregnancy journals; as you may recall, I got a free one from my last doctor’s visit, but it was also full of Similac ads, so I wanted something that was a little more classy to start noting things in. I found one that I liked, and being the book addict I am, I also found a copy of The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy by Vicki Iovine to give a loving home to as well (which is now the 4th pregnancy or baby-related book that I’ve added to my collection, excluding the journal).

As soon as I got home with the journal, I started writing things in it and looking at it a little more closely than I got a chance to in the store (shopping with Greg is almost like shopping with a toddler; if I start looking at something for too long, he gets fussy). The first thing I found that amused me was a page devoted to budgeting, which of course includes what you were paying for before you done got yourself knocked up. Gorsh, I never had a budget before! This is fancy! The next page is dedicated to childcare, with a bunch of questions (and blanks for answers) like “Do I want to return to work after my baby’s born?” (not particularly, but I kind of have to), and “Does my partner want to keep working?”, which I guess is a nod to the increasing number of stay-at-home dads. Actually, I’d love it if I made enough money that Greg could stay at home, but that’s not the case. Then, there are no less than 8 pages you can fill with prenatal questions and their corresponding answers. I’m sure my OB would love me if I asked her enough questions to fill up 8 pages of this journal (because she doesn’t have any other patients or anything else to do besides answer stupid questions). Then it’s divided into the three trimesters with handy -- you guessed it -- dividers. If you know anything at all about pregnancy, you know that the beginning of pregnancy is counted from the first day of your last menstrual period, even though it’s nigh impossible to get pregnant when you are shedding your uterine lining. Noting that, I was annoyed to find pages for weeks one: when you’re most likely spending your time bloated, pissed off, and consuming every piece of chocolate you can get your swollen little hands on, and two: preparing to undertake the romantic task of trying to figure out the best days for you and your partner to do the humpty dance. I’m half-tempted to note these things on these pages, but then I’d forever have to keep it out of the hands of my future child (or children) or any squeamish relatives or friends. An example of what would go on these pages follows:

Week One: Oh Jesus, it’s that time of the month again. My uterus feels like it’s going to explode any moment now, and may the gods help you if you piss me off. Just hand me a Blizzard and no one gets hurt. Oh dammit, why must I break out into these disgusting pimples every month? Son of a bitch! I hate men. Why do only women have to go through this? I hope Greg doesn’t want any sex, because I might just destroy him for even asking. Maybe I should look into getting a hysterectomy.

Week Two (this also applies to week three, since that would have actually been the time I would have conceived): Finally, I’ve stopped bleeding like I’ve been stabbed in the crotch and I feel more like myself again. All right, who wants to party (this was around the time of my infamous Christmas Sweater Party, which turned out to be my last hurrah)!!! Well, maybe I don’t hate Greg so much after all. He can’t help that he’s only a man, and that women are given the noble task of childbearing (and that an unfortunate side effect of that is surfing the crimson tide monthly). I am woman, hear me roar. Hmm, I’m feeling a little frisky. Do you feel like wearing a condom? Nah, me neither. I’m getting tired of them, quite frankly. *checks ovulation calendar online after* Hmm, well, good thing we were planning on trying next year, because this is my fertile time dear. Welp, may as well just plan on “trying” from here on out. No more raincoats! Yay! Wait, where are you going?

So, while this was no “accident” or “surprise”, we had actually planned on shooting (no pun intended) for a holiday baby (to get that sweet tax break sooner after birth and plus I’d get some holidays off while on maternity leave), but we decided to go ahead and start trying a little earlier, just in case it took a while (it didn’t). The miracle of life!

Yet another pleasant side effect of pregnancy is gas. I’ve been suffering from Spontaneous Belching Syndrome for the duration, but as far as farting went, I had heretofore been spared the embarrassment of uncontrollable gas. No more. Along with feeling stronger movements down under, I was also starting to feel the rumblings of gas. Prior to this point, I could definitely tell the difference between Junior doing the Samba and oncoming flatulence, but not anymore. I’ve now become an unwilling contestant in the “is it the baby or is it gas” game. I’d think I felt something, and would then be disappointed when that something turned out to be a rancorous explosion of gas from the back door instead of Junior giving my uterus knucks. There have been plenty of movements that weren’t accompanied by the kind of gas that could peel paint from the walls, but I’ve now reserved my excitement at feeling something rippling in there for a minute or two after I figured out I wasn’t just needing to fart. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: pregnancy is so beautiful! There really needs to be a Hallmark commercial for moments such as this: the first time you think you feel your baby move, only to clear the room with noxious gas. It brings a tear to my eye, if only because it smells funny in here.

One myth of pregnancy that is absolutely infuriating is the myth that you have a pregnancy glow and that your acne magically clears up the moment sperm and egg collide. Uh, wrong. I am still getting lovely pimples on a regular basis, and I’m not “glowing”. I just can’t wipe the oil off of my face fast enough to keep it from being as shiny as a newly waxed linoleum floor. I’ve got two pimples right now that rival the ones I got during my monthly, and boy, am I pissed about it. I may have to switch to some grease-fighting face wash, since apparently the stuff meant for combination skin is not working so well. New wardrobe, new skin care regimen. We’ll see what surprises the next week brings, but hopefully no clown pants arrive in the mail this time.

Week 11 (13 weeks pregnant): Round and Round (er)

It was during this week that I realized it was high time to start shopping for maternity clothes. I had bought a few t-shirts and some stretchy capris to wear around the house, but as I was just starting to get a little too big for most my britches (except for one pair of jeans that still amazingly fit very comfortably), I decided it was time to start investing in bigger pants (and underwear). After a disappointing trip to Old Navy in South County two weeks prior (the nearest Old Navy with maternity clothes in its store, which had a very lackluster selection), I dragged Greg to the Shiloh Target, Motherhood Maternity, and Sears. Target was a total bust. I already had enough t-shirts to get me by for a while, so what I really needed were pants, capris, and perhaps some Bermuda-length shorts. There wasn’t much selection in the way of pants, but I went ahead and tried on some capris that looked like they might fit; I also found a bunch of maternity booty shorts, but I felt it best to leave them right where I found them. Unfortunately, even the largest size of capris were a little too snug for my liking (they weren’t tight, but I know my ass is only going to get bigger), and I left disappointed. Time to head to the mall.

I went to Motherhood Maternity first and snagged a few pairs of jeans and pants off of the rack, and barricaded myself in the dressing room with the armful of stuff I had selected. As with the capris I tried on at Target, everything was just a smidge too snug for my liking. The assumption that only your abdomen is going to get larger when you get pregnant is just insulting. Thus far, I’ve been able to avoid pregnancy ass (that month of constant nausea was good for something, at least), but I’m sure it’s around the bend, so I want to get pants that will give that booty room to grow. I know that once the spreading of my hips begins, I may as well forget about wearing things that just barely fit now, because they won’t fit in the future. I told the cashier that nothing really fit well, and she pointed me in the direction of Sears, which she insisted had a decent selection of maternity clothes for BBW’s such as myself. Thusly, I dragged myself (and Greg) to Sears.

It took me forever to even find the maternity section at Sears, and when I finally found it, I was again disappointed. Had they any clothes to bridge the gap between normal size and man-that-sucker’s-huge size, I may have bought something there, but I felt I’d have better luck buying some sheets from Wal-Mart and fashioning some sort of maternity toga out of them. The pants were all way too ginormous (and ugly to boot; heaven knows that larger women shouldn’t be able to wear anything that is remotely attractive), and the tops bore a closer resemblance to a circus tent than to anything I’d ever want to wear. Frustrated as ever, I headed home empty-handed and broken-hearted.

I decided my best bet was to hit up Old Navy’s website for pants (and a few bigger shirts for when I reach gargantuan proportions). I also had a $20 off a $100 online order coupon, so I knew I’d get a good deal, since I knew I could easily spend $100 on clothes. I ordered some capris, some comfy booty shorts to be worn in the comfort of my own home, some obligatory maternity granny panties (my regular undies are starting to get too tight), and an assortment of t-shirts and tank tops.

I had to call into work once more after I had a near-fainting spell in the shower as I was attempting to get ready for work. I’m not sure what brought it on, but I was sleep-deprived and kind of hungry, so I suspect fatigue and blood sugar may have played a role. Once that feeling hit me, I turned the temperature of the water way down, rinsed off as fast as I could, grabbed my towel, and then sat on the floor of the bathroom for a few minutes. It scared the ever-loving shit out of me, and once I was able to calm myself down, I called into work, dried myself off, got dressed, and curled up in the bed for a few hours until I began to feel better. I was just glad that I got out of the shower before I actually passed out and hit my head.

Along with the fainting spell, another symptom I've begun suffering from is terrible insomnia. I only suffer from it when I'm trying to sleep during the day to be rested up for work. It doesn't matter what time I lay down; my eyes pop open at 2:30 in the afternoon without fail. I always try to fall back asleep, but I just toss and turn for a few hours before my alarm goes off at 5. Of course, this makes working nights almost impossible, seeing as how I was getting around 5 hours of sleep before going in. After spending many nights at work struggling to stay awake and feeling like my limbs weighed a ton, a friend suggested that Unisom was safe for pregnancy and works like a charm. I gave it a try, and it did indeed help immensely, though I still feel very lethargic at work. I suspect that my circadian rhythms have been completely disrupted by my pregnancy, because before, I could easily switch from a night schedule when working and a day schedule when off of work with no problems adjusting. Yet another unpleasant side effect of pregnancy to contend with.

Last but not least, I’ve also started feeling what I think might be fetal movement. It started low on the right side of my abdomen one night at work (early morning, actually) as I was sitting in a chair and charting. It could only be described as similar to twitching or a muscle spasm, but it happened in such a concentrated area that it gave me pause. I couldn’t feel it from the outside of course, but I still found it both exciting and strange. Just what was it doing in there? I imagined it flipping itself around over and over, making itself dizzy, but for now, it remains a mystery as to what exactly Junior is doing in there.

Week 10 (12 weeks pregnant): Hello, Is There Anybody In There?

After weeks of waiting, it was finally time to get our first ultrasound. This was of course the optional ultrasound to measure nuchal translucency (measuring the neck fold) to check for Down’s Syndrome, but I really wasn’t concerned that we’d be having a Down’s baby. I just wanted to see it! There was also a blood test I had to have taken, but that seemed a small price to pay to get to see the little bugger a little sooner (otherwise, I’d be waiting for the anatomy ultrasound, which is usually done between 18-20 weeks). Both Greg and I were nervous, excited, scared, and anxious about having it done. I was also sure I’d probably do the typical thing that most mothers do when they first see their baby and cry my eyes out, so I had stuffed a few tissues into my pockets in preparation.

Once in the room, I climbed up on the exam table, dropped trou, and the ultrasound tech squirted a bunch of the (thankfully pre-warmed) ultrasound gel on my stomach. She slid the transducer around on my belly for a moment, and then, there it was on the screen: our little dude or dudette, heart beating away at a good clip, just chilling there motionlessly with its arm up near its head in my uterus. There were no tears, but I couldn’t help but squeal a little and smile. “It’s really in there”, I thought. Up to this point, even knowing I was pregnant, none of it felt really real to me until that moment when I saw it. Greg was also grinning like the proud papa he is. Since the little critter was apparently sleeping, the ultrasound tech had to gouge my gut with the transducer to try and get the sleeping babe to move into the proper position to look at the back of its neck. At first, it didn’t want to move, only twitching slightly after being molested from outside the womb. We couldn’t help but giggle at how lazy he/she seemed to be. She continued to harass my fetus with the transducer until it finally moved, but had to keep nudging it because it wasn’t in a good position for her to get a good look at it; it didn’t help that it kept settling into its little cozy spot that it seems to prefer. Finally, she was able to get the pictures she needed, after probably about 20 minutes of jabbing my gut, which was very sore in the following days. I jokingly asked her if she could take a look between the legs to see if she could see anything, and she obliged. Fetal genitals are still a little ambiguous at 12 weeks, so she couldn’t say for sure what it was (though I have my own suspicions, I’m not sharing until we know for certain). She printed off a picture, told me everything looked good, and then we were on our way.

The next day, we had a doctor’s appointment, and this time I got to meet Dr. Gingrich, who is my babydoctor, as opposed to Tammy, who I saw the first time and is a Clinical Nurse Midwife. I had to fill out a form outlining mine and Greg’s previous medical history, and the medical history of both of our families. I filled it out as completely and truthfully as possible, and made lots of comments in the comment boxes (for example, I put down that I had previously had issues with anxiety, but they had since resolved). There was also a survey I had to fill out that asked how you felt when you found out, and how the father felt when he found out. Also on the survey was a question asking if I was related to the baby’s father, which kind of took me aback. I guess they have to ask these things, but I wonder how often people mark “yes” on that question?

I was finally called into the back, where I was weighed (thanks to my morning sickness, I hadn’t gained any weight yet, which is good, considering my previous weight), gave a urine sample to check for protein and for urinary tract infection, and then led to the exam room, where the nurse took my blood pressure. When she first took it, it was marginally elevated (135/80-something), and she asked me if I’d had high blood pressure before (I haven’t). She let me relax for a moment after I told her I was just probably having a little “white coat syndrome” and then rechecked it, and it was 128/80-something, which is fine. Finally, I got to meet Dr. Gingrich for the first time, who is a slender, attractive blonde woman who looks to be in her 40’s, and also has more than a passing resemblance to Ann Coulter. Thankfully she’s a lot kinder and gentler than Ann Coulter, and she immediately set my mind at ease. We discussed my medical history and that of my family at length (which is chock full of Type 2 Diabetes and Breast Cancer; she urged me to get a BRCA DNA analysis, which I’m still considering), she listened to the heartbeat with the Doppler (which we got to hear also), and we were on our way out the door. I got a goody bag full of various things, including formula samples and a pregnancy journal. I like free stuff. Awesome.

That night, we traveled back to the old country to eat dinner with my family and to show them all my ultrasound picture. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at showing them a picture of the little life that’s growing inside of me, and feel like I have finally joined the mother’s club, even though it will be a while before we meet Junior.

Week 9 (11 weeks pregnant): I Have to Admit It’s Getting Better

After feeling so sickly for the last entire month, I felt gutted and miserable. Was this really what pregnancy is like? This is what I’ve been dreaming of for years? What the hell is wrong with me? I felt very, very down, and felt like I would never get better or feel like myself again. Luckily, my 11th week of pregnancy marked the beginning of a Renaissance of sorts in that my energy levels were finally starting to rise a little, and the constant nausea that had made the last month of my life living hell had finally gone. Just like that, it was just gone one day. I woke up expecting to feel like puke once again, but was so overjoyed to find that I felt relatively normal that I felt like clicking my heels and whistling a happy little tune.

By this time, I had told more people the news. Around 9 weeks, I had called into work so much that I thought people would start becoming suspicious, so I posted a brief note on Facebook announcing my pregnancy (and of course told the rest of my family before doing so). As gossipy as people are at work sometimes (I do work with mostly women), I figured that it would only be a matter of days before everyone knew about it. Apparently I was mistaken, because I ended up just having to tell people over and over, which was kind of awkward. I’m not normally the type of person who likes to draw attention to herself (not that I’m shy, but I just feel weird about it), so it was kind of hard for me to find a way to work it into conversation. Still, it was kind of a relief not having to keep it a big secret anymore, and people at work were a little more understanding about my frequent absences. Now I was just ready to get my first ultrasound to make sure its little heart was beating away and it wasn’t missing any of its head or anything (I have an irrational fear of having an anencephaly baby). Next week couldn’t come soon enough.