Week 30: It Really is Beautiful

Nine more weeks and we'll call it quits on nine long months. I may schedule surgery as soon as this Thursday. My baby shower will happen in about three weeks and my best friend of the last fifteen years, the fantastic Miss Teague, will fly in for the occasion. VERY excited about this. Appropriate since I wouldn’t be pregnant right now if weren’t for her. She introduced me to my husband.

But a little over four weeks ago I woke up and didn’t want to be pregnant anymore. Neither did I want be to married anymore. And I sure as hell didn’t want to live in Arizona anymore. A minor panic attack, which slid downward into something of a depression. And my, did I feel guilty about being depressed. I have NOTHING to be sad about! But I was.

I searched “depression during pregnancy” on-line and found very little help or comfort. One article read “For most women this is the happiest time of their lives…………but for YOU…..” But for you……the aberration. That’s how I read it. Because that’s how I felt.

Every time a friend told me “Oh I just looooove being pregnant” or “Aw….I wish I were having a baby!” or “You look sooooo cute, you and your baby tummy!” I just truly thought one of us had to be insane, and I didn’t think it was me. I felt guilty, so guilty, for not being in looooooove with my pregnancy.

I passed a few weeks like this, went to Disney Land and got over it. So I guess it really is the happiest place on earth.

I still feel as though this whole experience is slipping by without any discernible significance. That I’m taking it for granted somehow. That I’m not enjoying this, my last pregnancy. It’s rushing by and I’m merely along for the ride, shifted into zombie gear.

But then.....

Last weekend while preparing for a bath I stood sideways in front of the mirror, naked, to really take in the new temporarily extended outline of me. The changes in my face, my arms, my new "HELLO D-CUP" breasts, my hips, my tush. While I was at this examining my husband walked in, smiled at me, stood behind me, wrapped his arms around me, resting his hands on my swollen stomach, leaned his cheek atop my head, met my gaze in the mirror and said “It really is beautiful”.

I could have cried. I closed my eyes and soaked up the moment instead.

It really is beautiful.

Rosemary's Baby

Did I say the next two months?
10 more weeks to be exact.
Wowza.

Last night, while lying in bed, the baby moved in such a way that you could see her turning in my abdomen. If you’ve ever seen the ground rolling wave-like during an earthquake it looks similar to that. I tapped B.D. on the shoulder, got his attention and pointed toward the action. Upon watching the skin of my tummy slowly undulate up and down his eyes, already big and brown, grew wider and wider as he slowly slid backward and hid behind a pillow…..one crazy cartoon eye peeking over it.

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of bed.
I suspect my darling hubby is starting to panic…..quietly of course.

He plays it cool for the most part but whenever we see a tiny baby at the market, at a restaurant, in a friend’s arms I can see the fear in him. “They’re so LITTLE” He says, “So helpless…..for so long”. He’s never been around babies really. My daughter was three years old when he came into her life. She was potty-trained, well mannered, disciplined and durable. And though he is most definitely an experienced dad by now (and deserves a hundred million accolades for being such a fantastic one) he has no skills with the wee babies….. this totally freaks him out.

Me? How am I absorbing it? I’m a little rusty with babies, myself. It’s been almost 7 years. But I know how it just comes to you. I remember I didn’t want to leave the hospital. I wanted a nursing staff on-call, at my finger tips, just in case I f*cked up somehow. I remember being so scared to diaper her, so scared of her first bath, so utterly “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING HERE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” But it passed. I know that the act of caring for this baby won’t be so scary this time.

What frightens me are any and all gruesome possibilities. I worry about everything else. All the many ways it can go horribly wrong. All the awful stories you hear, they haunt me day and night. I’m even too suspicious to elaborate……I just pray.

And my six year old Doo Doo Monkey? How is she dealing?
She’s just excited.
Purely and simply.

She is the only worry-free, panic-free, hang-up free entity in this house.

I mean, we’re ALL excited in our way. It’s only that B.D. and I have the “enormous responsibility” part of the equation. Doo Doo Monkey just gets to hang out and watch sister grow. I haven’t had to address any signs of jealousy from her yet and if or when I do I have a feeling it will be minimal. She’s so mature for her age, so kind-hearted, so considerate of others, such a sweetie ……….not like an only child at ALL. Trust me, I know.

And precisely because my Doo Doo is so good, and always has been, is why I joke with every one that my next child will surely be Rosemary’s Baby. That I’m working with an unknown set of genetics here and anything can happen. There’s just no way I’ll luck out twice, right? And that’s okay. As long as Baby Lily is healthy and relatively happy I’ll care not if she’s a little turd.

Holes

They stuck me full of holes this week. They tell me this is the last time, until surgery that is.

My doctor insisted I be injected with a dead virus. I normally shy away from the flu shot and usually manage not to contract it, but I trust my doc so……*shudder*.

They took a few more vials of blood. One antibodies test related to the above, one glucose test (again) and….something else? I don’t remember. And I don’t have to. There’s an entire chapter in every pregnancy book on absent mindedness. So for the next two remaining months I have an excuse for how I regularly am.

Then there’s this, I’m Rh Negative. As are 15% of all women. I could go into a lengthy explanation but…..ugh, that’s too hard (everything is hard now, if you hadn't guessed). Very basically my negative blood factor would respond to the baby’s positive blood factor (and baby daddy is a positive blood type) as a foreign entity and my immune system would react by attacking it. Nice, huh? So for this there's a little somethin'-somethin' called RhoGAM.

I got a shot in the ass and called it a day.

Week 28: "It's the Fiiiiiinaaaaal Countdown...."

My body now resembles that of a gummy bear.
And I don't know that I care anymore.





-"Sunning in Oceanside, CA - Sept. 2008"-

A Not-So-Secret Secret

It’s a girl.

Uh oh. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

And I was able to keep this secret from Baby Daddy (who wanted to be surprised at the birth) for exactly two whole days.

We were falling asleep around 2 AM and the baby was especially active. She often kicks the snot out of me in the wee hours, very strong little bun in my not so little oven. So as I was drifting off to sleep I said “This baby is going to be a night owl like her parents.”

Prompting Baby Daddy to snap awake, “Did you just say HER?”

We’re already calling her Lily, short for Lilian, but we were considering Bianca…….the reactions I’ve collected on those two names (via a myspace blog) are high-larious. One friend actually wrote “my husband says Bianca sounds like a black girl’s name”, meanwhile my black cousin, named Bianca, commented not at all.

The feelings are many and mixed about another little girl. For a moment there my husband wanted me to forgo the tube tying I’m having done at delivery and instead “keep our options open”. As gently as I could I let him know that he could keep HIS options open all he wanted, but my uterus is retiring after this. OUT OF BABY-MAKING BUSINESS. I can’t keep trying until we get a boy, that’s insanity.…we’ll just end up with eight girls.

Two kids are plenty.
Two girls is God's way of punishing me.
Two college tuitions are out of control expensive.
Seven years between siblings is enough of an age gap.
Thirty One years of maternal age is nearing the end of the healthy reproductive line and eventually heading into mandatory amnio, high-risk territory.

Whatever happens, this is my last baby.

Fried Niki (With a Side of Baby)

In the famed and favored pregnancy book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” there is no chapter, paragraph or smallest mention of what to expect when you are electrocuted. Just so you know.

Via the index I found “Electric Blanket”, “Electrolysis”, “Electropuncture”……no "Electrocution".

I’m fine though. I was in a monsoon storm. Lighting struck near me just as I touched the metal automatic door of a van. I saw blue and white flash in my right peripheral vision. My right arm was zapped. It ached slightly for about an hour.

But I’m fine.

My baby will now become a super hero.

I Can Grow People

A Wal Mart employee asked me what this shirt meant. Apparently it means I’m at that stage where people aren’t sure if I’m pregnant or just extra chunky with nuts. However, I thought the shirt would sorta clear that up for everyone.

But what else should I expect from Wal Mart…………I’ll tell you what, I expected to find bright yellow curtains for the baby’s room but it seems that color is not very trendy at the moment. Seven thousand other shades of hideous, but no bright yellow.

Oh, and let’s scratch anything I ever said about having a boundless supply of energy.
Let’s instead pretend that everything I say will mean the exact opposite happens tomorrow. Just for fun.

Antsy Pants

That man I share a bed with tells me I laugh a lot in my sleep now. I believe he said it sounds like I’m laughing AT something rather than WITH something.

I’ve sent the Doo Doo Monkey off to her first day of first grade and now…..I don’t know what to do with myself. I miss working. I wasn’t cut out to be a homebody. And I would make a terrible soccer mom.

I have all this energy now (so long as I stay out of the 100 degree heat) and no outlet with which to expend it. Oh….except to blog, obviously. Because that’s always a good way to spend my time.

I feel antsy in the pantsy.

Someone actually suggested I start knitting.

Oh brother.

Helloooooo Gorgeous!

Baby profile -



Baby face -



Wittle baby footsie -




In love.

Maddening

The military hospital gave me a picture, four in fact. So, as usual, that’s what I get for talking smack.

They also tried to show me the gender, being prohibited from actually saying it. I would have fared better at charades. I can’t possibly make out those ultra sound images! She pointed to a leg, another leg and in between the legs……and I saw nothing.

Which means it’s a girl, right?

I went to Bisbee last Sunday to see the witch (and by witch I don’t mean a wicked woman but rather the wonderful 66 year old Wiccan) that married us and SHE said she was pretty sure it’s a boy. She told me she’s never been wrong.

But I did not see a wee little penis today.

This is driving me crazy.

Meanwhile, somewhere across town, my husband is playing proud papa showing off the ultrasound pictures to his co-workers without a care in the world as to whether he’s presenting a son or a daughter.

BUT I HAVE TO KNOW.
(pictures to follow)

Week 20: I just wanted a stinking picture….

I’m not sure if I mentioned that my husband doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby. Which is perfectly fine (after much eye rolling from me and “do you have to be SO different from everyone else ALL the time?”) but I have to know. I would gladly ride the mystery baby train with him towards it’s surprise finish but…..I HAVE to know.

I have to.

And for this it seems the universe is punishing me.
Or at least most certainly giving me the finger.

First off, said hubby o’mine is an active duty military career guy and so my healthcare is as such. The healthcare provided by my former employer didn’t cover maternity related costs. You might say the upper management hissed at children. It wasn’t exactly a family friendly gig. Anyhow, I have almost nothing to do with the military hospital throughout my pregnancy, but I do have to have my ultrasound done there. And the folks there will not reveal the sex of my unborn child due to some lawsuit for a once faulty prediction. But what’s more, they will not provide me with a picture.

Not even one lousy picture. Is the paper really expensive, do you think? From what I recall they print those pictures on what feels like the consistency of receipt paper. I will BRING THE GODDAMNED PAPER! The lawsuit thing I could understand. Just another case of one dumbass ruining it for everyone else. But no picture? That is just asinine. I decided to take matters into my own hands.

While in Washington for the last month I attempted to schedule a 2D sonogram with a reputable business recommended by a friend. I would not only get my baby’s picture I would also get a DVD, a gender confirmation on my little munchkin as well as having the added pleasure of cramming all my friends and family in the room to take part in the experience. All for around $115.00 out of pocket. I was not far enough along to have the super cool 3D imaging done.

All I needed was my doctor’s approval.
But noooooooooo…….

My doctor wouldn’t approve because he was not familiar with this business and blah, blah, blah, medical jargon, blah, blah. I was almost in tears on the phone with him explaining my situation with the military hospital and expressing that if I couldn’t know the sex I could live with that, I guess, but why can’t I have a picture? One of the very simple joys of every woman’s pregnancy, throughout the last few decades at least, is showing off that little black and white blob that doesn’t even remotely look like a baby.

In order to placate me the doctor assured that they would do a “social ultrasound”, with their in-office machine, at my next visit. Thus providing me with a gender check and a picture. Well, I had that doc. appt. today, mentioned this “social ultrasound” and apparently they’ll do it upon my next visit……. in late August. When I’m 6 months along already. When most women, as pregnant as I, are busily buying their pink or their blue because THEY have idiocy-free healthcare and THEY know the sex of their child by now.

I am beyond irritated by this whole ordeal.

But am otherwise feeling fantastic! My four week sabbatical was perfect. I had my first sober experience in a night club and stayed out with a large group of friends until 1 AM. I have energy again, I’m leaving my house again and I’m enjoying good food again.

I have a big round belly.

And the baby is kicking!

He or she (grrrrr) is quite active, and I’m finally, finally, finally feeling excited about all of it.

9 VIALS OF BLOOD

Back in ‘01…..back in the day….. I think it was 6 or 7 vials of blood they drew from you at the end of your first trimester. But they’ve since added a few tests, such as one for cystic fibrosis, so nine vials of blood it was. Plus an early test for gestational diabetes. I get to have that test twice this pregnancy, while most women have it done just once around 27 weeks or so. I get to be so lucky because my first child was so large. She still is. She’s not chubby, just ridiculously tall for her age. She will easily be a 6 ft tall woman. My husband happens to hail from the land of the giants as well (6"5), weighing in 10 lbs at birth. His mother told me she was absolutely terrified to have more children due to the pain involved in delivering him vaginally.

Did I mention that I am like a-o-freaking-kay with having another c-section?

In any case, when you’re having 9 vials of blood extracted from you and you’ve been instructed to eat very little that day, while having had to wait an hour after having drank a 6 oz. solution of glucose, and when the world starts to go black at about vial 5 let’s hope to god you have a nurse with a modicum of sensible bedside manner.

Because I didn’t have that nurse. I had two hopelessly retarded nurses who stared at me while I began to faint, with one of them commenting “Oh she’s not looking too good, Ha ha!”

They laughed.

And then the laughter died when they realized I wasn’t joining in. They asked if I was okay. I couldn’t even speak. If I could've I might have said "Of course I'm not f*cking okay! I don't have any BLOOD to be okay WITH!" My eyes were closed. I shook my head no. Then one said “Oh….did she drink the glucose stuff?” At which point they reclined my chair, placed an ice pack on the back of my neck and gave me a minute to come around.

I did come around, proceeded to grab my purse and leave without a word to either of them. Is it not very “grown-up” of me to have seriously wanted to punch these women in the face? Because I don’t know that I care.

Ultimately I don’t have gestational diabetes or any other pregnancy related ailment to speak of……other than the fact that my boobs do not seem to be keeping up with the growth rate of my ass.

You Can't Go Home Again

My hubby held my hair while I threw up a taco at 8 PM tonight.

Yes, that is indeed love.

The migraines come to call, large and small, daily. So much for being out of the woods. I’m due for a doctor’s appointment before I skip town and I plan to ask “how normal is this?” to which I will hear “every pregnancy is different”, and then they will offer me drugs.

It baffles me that aspirin and ibuprofen are huge no-no’s for pregnant women, but popping a Vicodin or a little Codeine is perfectly okay. No joke! Sadly I’m not in enough pain to allow them to get me and the baby high just yet. I would do almost anything for a goddamned aspirin though.

As for skipping town in a week or so, I get to go home to Seattle for one whole month. As with my trip before, I’m conflicted about it. I’m so lonesome down here, yet I worry I’ll fly up there and be……even lonelier? Never mind how some friends fall away after time, that’s just life. But I’m not a barrel of laughs right now, you know, with the fatigue and the puking and the apparent brain tumors. At best I hope to make it out of my mother’s house once or twice to meet a friend for dinner……. and maybe even enjoy it.

This is my second trimester…. this was supposed to be the EASY part.

Migraines, Dreams & Shamu

It's week 14 and I think.....I think I just might be over the nausea. I'm leery to even acknowledge that aloud for fear I will jinx it. I came home from Seattle in May (wedding was lovely, I delivered my speech flawlessly, all was fab) with a six day migraine that had me vomiting in the evenings.

Every time I explain how ill I've been people start throwing around the "twins" word. As though it weren't a DIRTY word! They like to remind me that I have twins in my family and so does my husband. Whenever this comes up I promptly shut down the conversation. I am NOT, no way in hell, having twins. No. End of discussion.

With all the sleep I'm getting I've been a dreaming machine. Dreams about people I don't know, dreams about people that made no significant impact on my life, dreams about making nice, making love, making cookies and angry dreams. I sleep more than cats do now so I suppose it's my brain's way of staying active while my body further mutates.

But I'm feeling better. I've gained 8 pounds so far. My doctor says this is fine, that I could have gained two more by now. I don't think it looks fine though. While in the OBGYN's office I saw these adorable little pregnant girls (and granted, they may have been in their late teens) with nothing bulbous about them save for their cute round little bellies.

I said to my husband "I want to be cute and pregnant, with just a belly, but that won't be me. I'm gonna be Shamu"

And my husband replied: "If Shamu was a crazy white lady"

All According to Plan

I heard the baby’s heartbeat today and I actually shed tears…….. tears of joy, of course. I didn't do that with bambino number one, 7 long years ago. I think the difference here is that I KNOW everything that’s coming with that heartbeat now.

Due to the previous cesarean section they won’t even let me attempt to deliver the old fashioned way……..how tragic.

I’d had a scheduled c-section with the first because she was breech. And she was breech because I honestly think she got too fat to turn around, she was nearly 9 lbs at delivery. So they scheduled me for surgery on Christmas Eve and I was actually disappointed that all my delivery and labor classes, and my gorgeous hospital birthing room, would be all for naught. I would miss out on labor. I would miss out on the “birthing experience” and I was sad about that.

Because I was a 24 year old IDIOT!

This time I’ll be having another scheduled c-section. No fuss, no muss, no hours of screaming agony, no episiotomy, no accidental labor pooping, no cord strangulation, no oblong shaped baby head, no after birth and a recovery period that involves lots of Vicodin.

And while they have me open on an operating table I’ve chosen to have a tubule litigation preformed, otherwise known as having your “tubes tied”. All children hereafter will come in furry dog or cat form.

Thus I proudly present to you MY MASTER PLAN to make it through life, having had two children, without ever knowing the pain of labor or obliterating my vagina.

Ha! Take that nature.