(Almost) 39 weeks: Are we there yet…?

On Sunday, I hit the wall.

Yep, that wall.

Our bags are packed, the car seat is (properly) installed, the nursery and all other “baby stations” around the house look great. The only problem is, Kid A doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to join us.

I’m glad that he’s taken the time he has to grow and develop, and is now a robust 8.25-ish pounds with all systems functioning as they should. We’ve even been given a 3D shot of his adorable face (complete with Daddy’s nose, if I’m not mistaken), and every exam so far has been “perfect”. Now, though, I would just love to see those fingers and toes and that face and his (apparently large) head and tummy in the light of the real world.

It’s not that this isn’t possibly the most thrilling experience of my life. I’m growing a person in here, and I’m far from being the first or the last woman on earth to do it but it’s incredibly empowering nonetheless. I’m so excited for this little boy to come in and change our lives completely that I would probably burst if emotions took physical form. I guarantee that his arrival is more important to me than to absolutely anybody else on this whole damn planet, except for maybe Brian (and I still think I have a slight edge there).

I just don’t want to be the poster child for glowing pregnancy. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m on display for the world’s commentary.

Here’s something to consider, especially if you’re unfamiliar with or far enough removed from the physical process of pregnancy to look back on it through the haze of nostalgia (and to be more than a little confused about how “things are done today”): not every waking second of this journey is fun or pleasant or happy, and I won’t pretend that it is. I won’t act like I want to continue this way indefinitely – his due date is in 8 days and I certainly won’t argue if he comes early. (Today’s a good day, sweetheart…) It doesn’t make me less excited or less of a mother-to-be, and it is not a cry for pity or concern. It’s normal.

Also, if you are some random person on the street (or a tenant in my office building who I hide out in restroom stalls to avoid*) then my pregnancy is NOT your business and it is NOT my responsibility to entertain your curiosity. I’m not a sideshow, and as well-meaning as strangers may be it seems that pregnancy brain affects them through proximity as well and renders them incapable of making any but the most offensive or prying of comments.

Oh, you’re getting so big! Really? I thought my husband replaced all of our mirrors with fun-house mirrors for a laugh. (And I’ve gained 17 pounds total. Shut up.)

That baby’s coming any time now… Thank you, Captain Obvious. The twice-weekly doctor visits, uterine cramps and constant bathroom visits throughout the day/night weren’t enough of a clue for me.

Are you sure it’s just one? Yep, there were two but then Gigantor the Destroyer** in there ate the twin.

Am I touchier than normal? You bet.

Is it a function of hormones? In part.

Am I still a human being worthy of basic dignity and respect and PRIVACY? Hell yes.

Most of all, I’m just ready to be done with this step. Are we there yet? 

*True story. I ducked into the first restroom stall, and I’ll be damned if even that didn’t stop her from making comment #2 above. Yesterday, I skipped the restroom entirely when I saw her walk in there first.

**My sister-in-law christened Kid A with this sobriquet when I sent her his 3D picture. I think I like it. And no, he was never a twin. 

32 weeks!

I think somebody has been spiking my meals with Miracle-Gro. I’ve tripled my initial pregnancy weight gain in just the last two months (bringing us to a grand total of 9 pounds gained…at least until next week’s appointment), and there is certainly no mistaking my bump for anything other than a healthy growing baby. I didn’t realize just how spoiled I was at my minimal weight gain until it started to pile on, or until our second childbirth class last week when the instructor started talking about losing that “20-25 pounds you took 9 months to gain”.

Otherwise, we appear to be progressing quite normally. One big change is that I’m sleeping (mostly) through the night again, except for periodic tossing and turning to take the pressure off of my legs. Our bed is going to become one large pillow nest before this pregnancy is over, but try as I might there just isn’t enough cushion for my damn knees. I feel like an 80-year-old woman with the joint pain…and the rest stops I take halfway up the stairs…and the fact that I need a nap to recover from my napping.

I feel good. I’m excited to meet Arthur, and I dare say we’re almost ready. The baby shower is in just under two weeks, at which point we’ll have (or know) what we need to finish off the nursery and every other room in the house. The next two weeks will be shuffling furniture between the spare bedrooms so they’re set up for an influx of pre-shower company (I hope the downstairs shower is working!), and generally getting things into a semblance of order that I can handle. I’m definitely ready for the nesting phase to kick in.

I’ve also been incredibly frustrated over the last two weeks – disappointed that, once again, I seem to have misplaced my trust in other people. I’m caught between wanting to have it out and simply not having the energy to sustain the confrontation, not to mention a sinking suspicion that any confrontation won’t really change anything. I can only change myself. My mom, meanwhile, went from echoing my anger to counseling restraint. As she says, these pregnancy emotions have already led me to (rightly) end one relationship, and she doesn’t want to see me end one that has “always kind of been this way”. As I said, I don’t have the energy to have it out as it is; for now, I’m going to just let things ride and concentrate on the people in my life who need and deserve all of me – first and foremost, kicking Kid A.

(Fun change in the “kicking”: since Arthur is now head-down, there’s significantly more movement toward the bottom of the bump – some of it rather painful. His kicking and twisting, meanwhile, has taken on the feel of one of those massage pads that you might buy at Brookstone for the couch. It’s like he’s placed one of those pads across the front of my uterus and turned it on, making the massage ball just press and roll across the surface. It’s a curious comparison but it seems to fit.)

There’s nothing earth-shattering to report, which is for the best. Hopefully the next few weeks continue to go smoothly, and then we’ll be on baby watch!

 

Third Trimester!!

Oh my God, we’re finally here – the home stretch!! (Not too much stretching, don’t want to distress Arthur!)

It’s incredibly hard to believe that the time is going so quickly. One by one, my bump buddies are counting down and each welcoming their little girl or boy into the world. We had one go this week, and three more to go in the next two months before I’m staring down my due date.

The only difference this week, really, is that I’m nursing a maybe-mild chest cold. I’ve had some breathing issues, which could be nothing more than Arthur expanding against my diaphragm, but some slight congestion drove me to a short round of OTC meds. (Brian is so cute – he picked up Robitussin from CVS and checked with the pharmacist before he left to make sure it was the safe kind!) Little by little it’s going back to “only” some deep breathing difficulty. So we’re fine; I just can’t belt along with Spotify when I’m cooking dinner.

More and more discussions are leaning toward the early days of parenthood – what we can expect of ourselves and those around us when we first come home from the hospital. I’ve been reading a LOT, and I’ve had some great examples to follow in the last couple of months. My biggest concern is having the space and freedom to really bond with Arthur in our home, to establish our routine and learn his, and then to welcome family and friends when we’re slightly more settled. I’ve had mini-daymares about being completely overwhelmed with unannounced drop-ins, too many cooks in the kitchen (metaphorically speaking – in reality, food is more likely to get you in the door), and so much advice from so many directions that our own instincts and research will be drowned out by the noise. I guess, when I get to the major point, my fear is that bringing him home will be the catalyst for finally losing all semblance of control in my life.

I don’t like feeling out of control, and that has been my only real problem with pregnancy in general.  I can handle physical symptoms, even the least pleasant among them, but I’ve mentioned before what an emotional wreck I’ve become – and it really isn’t cute. My rational mind is struggling to push my emotions out of the way and say “Hey, I’m still here, let’s do some straight thinking!” but I feel like so much of my life is determined by outside forces (and people) at this point that I’m so looking forward to Arthur’s birth in part so I can look triumphantly around me and go “I am back in control.”

(Now is not the time to remind me that my dream is just a pipe dream…)

All I can do in the next 13 weeks is communicate my thoughts and our expectations as effectively as possible, and then hope that everything turns out alright.

Moving right along…

(Oh – and my glucose test was fine.)

 

The best (unexpected) weight loss plan ever!

Yesterday was our 20-week checkup. Everything is stellar, including Arthur’s heartbeat and my blood pressure…and my weight!

*Ahem*…what I mean is, I haven’t gained a pound since getting pregnant. As a matter of fact, I am still relishing a net loss of 1.5-2 pounds since my annual checkup in February 2012. Everybody’s primary response has been “Um…is that bad?” but I assure you, all is well in babyland.

The thing is, and I’ve mentioned it before, I started this pregnancy with a little extra junk in my trunk (and no, I am not talking about the crap in my car – which I also have). I wasn’t all that surprised at my 12-week visit, when the nurse told me I dropped four pounds in four weeks. The emesis annoyum had kicked in full-force and absolutely no food looked appealing. I ate just enough to satisfy my loved ones that I wasn’t going on a hunger strike. Since then, though, each monthly trip to the scale has been a progression of “Okay, I had to gain weight this month…*step on*…nope (or, a teeny bit)!” I’m not complaining and neither is my doctor, who gave me a target calorie count and some best practices to follow rather than a diktat to only gain X pounds. As far as we’re all concerned, Arthur’s growth and progression are normal and I’m not passing out from malnutrition, so if I get to substitute some of my own weight for his in the next few months it can only be a good thing.

Pregnancy really has turned into the best unexpected weight loss plan ever. I can only hope that breastfeeding lives up to its hype…

Emesis annoyum

We’re still hearing in the news about the Duchess of Cambridge’s hospitalization for and ongoing recovery from hyperemesis gravidarum in the first few weeks of her pregnancy. It’s a great and horrifically obnoxious problem to have (ha, just typed “heave” first, pun totally intended apparently), depending on whether you’re asking me (I hate vomiting) or my OB (lots of hormones! Baby should be growing well!)

Poor Kate.

As for me…I have emesis annoyum. The morning sickness finally started to taper off around week 14.5, only to return with a vengeance on a few select occasions. (Last Thursday, it was so bad that I almost called off work.) It’s been more than a week now since my last episode, and I was just thinking about how lucky I was to be rid of it this morning when the familiar rumbles started. Here we go again…

It’s always when I’m trying to brush my teeth. I know the joke about toothbrushes and gag reflexes, but really?

Here’s hoping that today was the absolute last battle between the heaves and me…and expecting that we still have a way to go before that happy day.

 

Sometimes, I hate being pregnant.

We’re almost at the 12-week mark. Next week I go for a nuchal translucency screening and our next OB appointment, and I’m still nervous but now more cautiously optimistic that everything is still going well. I feel safe enough in this pregnancy to add The Bump to my daily reading, and even to put some things in a baby registry on Amazon.

Still, sometimes I hate being pregnant.

I don’t hate carrying our child. I don’t ever wish for a moment that this wouldn’t have happened. In fact, after the issues my mom had trying to get pregnant with my brother and me, I consider myself to be immeasurably fortunate that we conceived without any issues at all – really, without even “trying”.

Still, sometimes I really hate being pregnant.

I hate that I’m so tired I can barely drag myself out of bed…that I yawn through my entire day at work…that once home again I usually lack the strength to even make dinner or tidy up before I’m yearning for my bed. I hate that by 7:30 or 8:00 pm I’m down for the count.

I hate morning sickness, and the general all-day unpredictability of nausea and if/when it will hit. Some days it’s little more than a nagging feeling, while others (like this morning) I’m worshiping at the porcelain throne before I’ve had a chance to even grab my glasses off the nightstand. Foods that seem okay will make me sick after three bites, while others I miss dearly are completely off limits. (I get sick just thinking of – or typing the word – “bacon” [gag].)

I hate (okay, more “dislike”) crying at every. little. thing. Have you seen the Carter’s commercial with the little girl getting ready to start school, where she narrates the last five years of her life with her mom? Yep, gets me every time. The song “You Will Be In My Heart” by Phil Collins? I’m a weeping mess in my car. Don’t get me started on puppies and kittens. The strong, stoic woman I used to be is no more; instead, meet the walking bundle of hormones that wears my clothes and signs my name at the store.

Oh, and the clothes. Even though I’m not really showing yet, I’m growing EVERYWHERE. Mostly the bust, and I was a busty lady before this all started. I’m working my way through my baggier clothes, and by this time next month I wouldn’t be surprised if my entire wardrobe is from the maternity section.

I do love a few things, though.

I love that in less than seven months we will get to meet our beautiful little girl or boy, and this will all have been worth it.

I love that I have a caring and considerate husband, a partner who not only steps in to care for both of us when I just can’t manage but who also lets me know in other ways that he loves and appreciates me when I don’t feel like I deserve it. (Just this morning as I was brushing my teeth he thanked me for “suffering through this so we can have a family.” Kind words really do make a difference.)

I love that there are communities like The Bump where they address these things so expectant mothers like me know we’re not alone. The article Pregnant & Miserable provides a sympathetic look at the not-joy many pregnant women feel, and presents excellent advice not only to get through the worst moments but also to determine when a woman’s feelings are normal and when to ask for professional help.

But there’s one more thing I hate. I hate that in the comments section of such an understanding article, where Bumpies should feel safe sharing their less-than-glowing pregnancy thoughts, other women jump in to tear them down and try to shame them for having COMPLETELY NORMAL EMOTIONS. I get it – if you’ve had a hard time conceiving, gone through IVF, etc., then you may consider every icky feeling to be minimal compared to the sheer elation of finally having that baby you’ve wanted for so long. Where one expectant mother may long for her first post-pregnancy glass (bottle?) of wine, another may be perfectly content to steer clear forever just to see their child’s face. Your feelings are legitimate…for you. My feelings (and those of others who feel as I do) are legitimate for us. Get off your soapbox, stop sipping the haterade, and go back to enjoying your back pains and nausea.

In the meantime, I’m going to sit here and yawn…after I get back from the loo.

Closing out Week 6

This time last year, I was planning my wedding. We were six months into a 14-month engagement, and the time was just flying. I remember breathing easier that we had booked our vendors as early as we did, because friends of mine who were just digging in were starting to worry that they only had eight months to go and dates were closing out fast.

Five days ago, I was five weeks into this pregnancy…and time has pretty much stopped. We only have eight months to go, and if the nine days since I took the first test are any indication then we are in for a long, slow season.

Then there’s the rest of it. I love reading stories of women whose only indication of pregnancy was a positive test, because when I sleep I like to dream that I am one of them. I’m not so lucky when I’m awake – that test was the my body’s diktat to commence hostilities. My mom giggles and says that maybe I’m farther along than we thought (not likely); one friend’s immediate thought was, “Maybe you’re having twins!” (Oh. Dear.) Before I start to sound all whiny and ungrateful, though, just know that I am grateful for every moment of nausea, every yawn, every trip to the restroom accompanied by the thought that I just did this about 10 minutes ago.

Because I’m still scared. It doesn’t matter how careful we are, how calm I force myself to remain, how exciting this time is – anything can happen. So I cherish the symptoms that tell me that our little sweet pea is going to stick around, and that everything is going to be fine.

At the same time…we are both so excited. I may or may not serenade my as-yet deaf little one with Disney classics on my way to work. We may or may not have had a couple of teary moments last night at a Kraft commercial. (Okay, one of us did. It wasn’t me.) One of us is already sending pictures of cute things we found for the baby:

Perfect for your tiny turbo’s needs.

And slowly but surely, the circle of friends who are in the know is expanding – a whisper, phone call, or message at a time. It’s hard to decide which of these reveal-and-reaction conversations is my favorite, but here’s a top contender:

Happy hour is from 4-6!

The weeks may be creeping, but there’s so much light and love surrounding us that it’s impossible not to be caught up in the magic.