Meet The Joey, or, Look What We Made! v. 2.0

Josephine Ruby Lee, 9.24.09, 1:30 p.m., 7 lbs. 7 oz., 19.5 inches

Everyone in the know, i.e., my OB and my friend Michele, who is also an OB, told me that labor the second time around would be nothing like the first. That the monstrous labor I went through with Zeke -- 25 hours of labor to get to 10 centimeters dilated, followed by 4 brutal hours of pushing out a 8 lb. 9 oz. baby with a 14 inch head -- would no way repeat itself.

And I had reason to believe them. We caught the gestational diabetes this time around and I stuck to my diet and took my medication religiously, with the result being that I basically gained no weight the last 12 weeks of the pregnancy and kept the baby's size in check, plus I was being induced a week early. I also was 3 1/2 cm. dilated before I even checked into the hospital this morning -- it took me 15 hours of hard labor, plus pitocin, to get to that point with Zeke.

So any optimism I might have had was not misplaced.

But still. When you have nothing but the experience at one end of the spectrum to compare it to, it's incredibly difficult to imagine an easy, quick, painless delivery of a reasonably-sized baby, no matter how much I was assured that this time around, I would have one of those ridiculously awesome experiences involving super-fast dilation followed by pushing the baby out in 20 minutes.

But they were right. It's still kind of surreal to me how incredible today was, how peaceful and simple and joyous having a baby can be.

We checked into the hospital at 5 in the morning. I was in my Taj Mahal of a room by 5:20.

Taking some time to catch up on blogs and read the news before getting started.

Yes, in my enormous private room I had a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub nicer than the bathrooms in most hotels I've stayed in.

It took awhile to get through the paperwork, filling in questionnaires with medical histories, signing releases, going over security procedures, etc. The nurses, who were unbelievably wonderful, started my pitocin drip at about 8:20 in the morning.

Unbeknownst to me, I had already been having contractions. I just thought the baby was kicking me really hard, but apparently a number of those jabs to the ribs were actually contractions. And they didn't really hurt much at all. So for a long time, I was feeling great, with only minor instances of contractions that, if I had to label them on a pain scale of 1 to 10, were no more than a 1.5. I knew that it would get worse -- as Doris, my main RN said, "no pain, no gain" -- but so far, so good.

Chilling out, dealing with regular but not particularly painful contractions, waiting for the fireworks to begin in earnest. Mom keeps me company and sews for the baby.

At around 11 or so, my doctor came in to check my cervix and break my water. I was still only about 3 1/2 to 4 cm dilated, but she assured me that things would start moving along after my water was broken.

And boy, was she right. Within about 1/2 an hour, the contractions went from, "hey, no big deal" to "SWEET BABY JESUS, THIS HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!" And they were coming in rapid succession, fast and furious. My mom and Jason took turns holding my hand, and Doris and Lupe, the student nurse assisting her, helped me breathe through the contractions. I told Doris, "um, yeah, I'd like that epidural now," and she said, "no problem," and within 15 minutes the anesthesiologist was in the room hooking me up with pain meds. And 20 minutes later, I was free of pain, though still feeling the pressure of the contractions, which were continuing unabated.

The doctors and nurses told me to be sure to tell them if the pressure -- the feeling of needing to push -- started to increase, because that meant that the baby was coming soon. And I started to feel that pressure (but not pain) at around noon, so Doris checked my cervix but couldn't feel it. So an OB resident was called in, and she said, "I don't feel cervix. I feel baby hair. I think you're ready to go."

So my OB was called (her office is about 3 blocks from the hospital), and the nurses prepped me while we waited for the doctor to show up. And all this time, I was feeling fine, and kept saying, "really?? are you sure I'm ready? I'm already at 10 centimeters??"

It just didn't seem possible that it could happen that quickly, and without me being in excruciating pain.

But sure enough, Dr. Ann, my OB, arrived, and they finished prepping me and got my feet in the stirrups. I was told to push. I pushed hard.

It took 9 minutes of pushing, and a total of 5 big pushes altogether, to get the baby out. And it didn't hurt, and nobody was yelling, and it all felt very calm and easy. Dr. Ann had to give me a small episiotomy, but she warned me in advance and was very gentle and quick (unlike my OB with Zeke, who just seemed to hack at me indiscriminately while I was in agony), and then I just needed one more small push and Josephine Ruby Lee came into our lives.* And because I wasn't completely exhausted and strung out and in pain, and was gently breathing as the baby came out, I got to watch my daughter slowly emerge from my body. It was magical.

Seconds after being born, Josie was placed on my chest.

Jason is totally in love with his little girl.

The J-Team: Dr. Ann, Jason, me, Josie, Doris and Lupe

Josie squawked a little after being born and getting cleaned up, so I offered her a bottle. She scarfed down the whole thing, had a nice burp, and promptly fell asleep for 2 1/2 hours.

Jason got a nap in. Apparently, watching me give birth is exhausting.

After her snooze, Josie got a bath from the nurses, discovering the joys of having your head gently scrubbed and washed. She sighed deeply while getting a scalp massage, and was as mellow as could be. After her bath, I fed her and she passed out again.

At around 6, we were moved from the labor and delivery room to a regular mom/baby room. Just in time for Kathleen to pick Zeke up from school and bring him to meet his little sister. I think he likes her.

He kept pointing at her and saying, "baby! BABY!"

Our family unit.

Jason and my mom went home with Zeke. I indulged in some Pad Thai -- fuck you, gestational diabetes! Josie and I hung out for awhile, but now she's in the nursery so that I can have one night of decent sleep before the craziness begins. This song kind of sums it up. Cheesy, perhaps, but it touches me right now.

It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me

And I'm feeling good.

And now I'm going to bed. I'm a little tired.

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*Regarding her name, "Josephine" came from "The Joey" -- it just kind of grew on us. It's a pretty, sweet name, a little old-fashioned without being overly precious, and it's not like "Madison" or "Ashley" or one of those names where it seems like you can't swing a dead cat without hitting 6 of them in your average daycare facility. If it had been a boy, I don't know what we would have done, because while we loved "Josephine," we didn't really like "Joseph" for a boy -- too many shitty Josephs in history (Stalin, Mengele, Kennedy, McCarthy -- you get the idea). "Ruby Lee" is a nod to my maternal grandparents, Ruth and Leo, both of whom died in the last year.

Not today

This week has been rough for me, physically, and in ways that have made me think that labor is imminent. Not the tell-tale signs like water breaking or regularly spaced contractions -- the only sure things, really -- but other signs that mimicked the way I felt in the week leading up to Zeke's birth.

Then yesterday I found out that a number of my coworkers are essentially placing bets on my delivery date, with more than a few of them picking this weekend. One of them in particular, who claims to have a penchant for accurately picking the delivery dates of her friends and relatives, is convinced I will have the baby on Monday, September 14th.

Yesterday afternoon she was leaving the office and made a point of saying good-bye to me.

"I'm not going to see you," she said.

"Why, are you going on vacation?" I asked.

"No, but I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

"Well, then I'll see you Monday," I responded.

"I don't think so. If I see you at all, it will only be for half a day, but at around 11 or so you're going to be heading into the hospital to have your baby."

She was so matter-of-fact and certain about it.

"OK, you need to stop it, because you're seriously freaking me out," I scolded her.

But then I woke up this morning feeling very off. Sharp pains way down in my abdomen. Feelings of stretching and mild cramping. A couple of other signs that I won't go into because they're gross.

"Fuck," I thought.

Because as uncomfortable as I am, as difficult as it is to get any decent sleep, as hard as it is to chase Zeke around and get him up and dressed and off to school every morning, I really, really did not want to have a baby today. I don't want The Joey's birthday to be September 11.

The memories are still too raw and vivid.

I remember so distinctly everything about that day. I was driving to work in Atlanta, and waiting in the turn lane to go left onto Peachtree Road from Roxboro, when the second plane hit the tower, when it was obvious that this was a terrorist attack, not some weird accident as initially thought (or at least, as was being reported on the radio station I was listening to).

I got to the office and turned on the TV in our conference room. I stood there, sobbing, watching the towers burn and then crumble. Then the news and the rumors started flying. That all air traffic was being grounded. That there had been bomb threats on the State Department. That the Pentagon had been hit. That nobody knew where the President was because Air Force One was flying around avoiding attack.

At the time of the attacks, my mother, who was stationed in the U.S. Embassy in Papua New Guinea, was in the air on a flight from San Francisco to Sydney, travelling back from a visit home. I kept thinking, "what if American diplomats or diplomatic posts are being targeted?" And my dad was supposed to be in a meeting in the State Department in Washington, which as far as I knew, was under attack as well. I couldn't get through to anyone in my family. Then there was a bomb scare in my office building, so they sent everyone home. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, sitting on my couch watching the TV coverage, trying to get in touch with my brothers and my father and eventually my mother. And they were all fine, but until I knew for sure -- particularly about my mom and dad -- I was terrified.

That night I went over to Kathleen's. She and Rich were set to get married in 11 days. Mindy and Chris came over there as well, and we sat there eating pizza and talking and trying to make sense of the world. We were all shocked and horrified and saddened, but I think we all took some comfort in spending some time together.

So I didn't want to have any association between this day in history, and my daughter.

I had an appointment with my OB. Sitting there in the waiting room, there was a woman with a beautiful, tiny 2 1/2 week old baby girl. And I guess in addition to my physical discomfort, my hormones are raging, or maybe I was just nervous and more than a little tired, because I burst into tears at the sight of that baby. And then I was thinking about Zeke and how much I love him and how funny and sweet he is, and I started to cry again. And then I thought about what it would be like when I hold The Joey for the first time, and introduce her to her big brother, and I started to cry more.

But the good news is, I'm not in labor. I'm not having regular contractions, and while my cervix is certainly getting ready to open, it's not dilated to the point that I need to start heading into the hospital. After talking to my doctor, we decided to move the induction date up to September 24, so one way or another, I will be holding my new daughter 2 weeks from today. That's enough time to "respect her lung development" (as my OB put it), but also is an appropriate time to "kick her out" out respect to me and my physical needs (also as my OB put it -- have I mentioned I love her?).

So it might be Monday, as my coworker predicted. It might be next week. It might be on the 24th.

But it won't be today. Thank God.

A post that is sure to disappoint people googling "doggie porn" or "bestiality"

As I've discussed a number of times here, I love my friend Kathleen. There are a million reasons, not the least of which is that she's big-hearted and an incredibly loyal friend and so funny, while having just about the foulest mouth of anyone I've ever met. Her use of the word "motherfucker" is sheer artistry. She is astoundingly creative in her profanity.

Particularly when it involves animals.

Years ago she was lamenting the state of her lawn, and how the grass was reaching epic lengths from not being mowed.

And rather than say, "my grass is getting way too long," she observed, "the grass is so long that I could fuck a goat on the front lawn and no one would notice."

At some point over the years, she and her husband developed a particularly awesome phrase to denote when something is someone else's problem to deal with. When you have a task, particularly an unpleasant one, and it's yours and yours alone to work out, it's your dog to fuck.

I don't remember how the expression evolved, but it requires no explanation anymore.

"The water heater needs to be fixed, but I just don't have time to deal with finding a repairman or setting up an appointment. That's his dog to fuck."

"I've explained to her 27 million times how to set up those files. I'm out of it now. She's fucking that dog as far as I'm concerned."

You get the idea.

This past weekend, we decided to have a last hurrah grown-up's night out before The Joey is born. We got a babysitter for the children and, when we discovered the Rockies were in town, decided to go to the baseball game.

There was some back and forth over whether one of our clients could get discounted tickets for us, but with all the craziness of finishing up our big project and everything else going on, I offered to just find tickets online.

Kathleen started to explain something about a way to get tickets at some website, but then stopped herself and said, "you know what? You're a smart girl. You can fuck that dog."

So I did.

The view from our mezzanine level seats.

A gorgeous Denver evening

And a last hurrah it definitely was. I'm getting to the point where I'm uncomfortable all the time. It hurts to roll over in bed, it hurts to stand up from a sitting position, the pressure on my lower abdomen is brutal, and my stomach and intestines are so squished up somewhere behind my boobs that I constantly have heartburn and nausea.

So another outing involving lots of walking around and climbing stadium stairs and the like is not looking like a possibility anymore. All that's left is to have this baby.

Definitely my dog to fuck as well.

Womb With A View 2.0

Jason and I went in for the 36 week ultrasound today. It's the last one before giving birth, the one that sort of lets you know how big the baby is and to do one last check to make sure all is well. For me, it was a way of ascertaining whether this insanely restricted diet I'm on -- I've basically been living on eggs, veggie sausage patties, veggie burgers, chicken, carrots and sugar snap peas, with the occasional bit of steak or salad thrown in for good measure -- has worked and kept The Joey's size in check.

Once or twice I've cheated. I had some of Rich's outrageously good peach cobbler, and have eaten a bite of canteloupe from time to time while fixing Zeke's lunch, but for the most part I've been really good.*

The good news -- and there was only good news -- is that The Joey is smack-dab in the 50th percentile for size, meaning she's exactly where she should be. She's about 6 1/2 pounds right now, so assuming she holds out on making her appearance until my induction date (September 29), she could still be a solid 8 pounds. But my efforts appear to have paid off and she doesn't have any indicia of being too big as a result of the gestational diabetes.

The ultrasound itself was, as ever, totally trippy. I never get over the miracle of being able to see inside my own body to look at the development of my unborn child.

Usually at this point in the pregnancy, when the baby is firmly head-down and dropping, which she is, it's very difficult to get a face shot because in order to position the ultrasound scanner thingy to see the face, you'd basically have to have it lodged in your vajayjay.

But I guess Joey has her head slightly turned to the side or something, because as the ultrasound tech was doing her thing and measuring various parts and looking at how much amniotic fluid I've got going on, all of a sudden an astoundingly clear shot of The Joey's face popped up. I was so stunned that I blurted out, "HI SWEETIE!!" Then I burst into tears.

She looks just like Zeke, but slightly more girly (or maybe I'm projecting). Pouty lips. Pretty little bone structure. Hands by her chin.

Above and below are the same shot. I've labelled parts of her face below, because I recognize that sometimes it takes a little bit of orientation to figure out what's going on in an ultrasound photo. Also, don't ask me why they have my name on the printout as "Amy Armstrong." I have no idea.

I also found out yesterday that I'm starting to dilate. I know that this can mean anything and nothing. I know so many women who were 1 or 2 centimeters dilated for weeks before going into labor. But I never dilated with Zeke in advance, so maybe it's a sign that she's coming a little early. Who knows. Again, maybe I'm projecting.

But it's all very exciting. Kathleen and I finished our massive project at work, the one that is going to help us rule the special education world in Colorado. It was a bitch to finish - I joked that The Joey is the second baby I'm giving birth to in September, but it's done and the client is happy. My dad came out this week to help out with Zeke-care, which was so incredible. He took care of pick-up and drop-off for daycare, took Zeke to the park, to the zoo, to the ice cream store, for walks. Zeke was in heaven hanging out with his Papa, and I was able to get my work done and know that things on the home front were taken care of. Jason had a chance to study for his big licensing exam (which he should be finishing up as I type this).

I love my parents. I can't say it enough.

So now I've got 3 weeks to go (at the most). I'm trying to get organized, take care of myself physically, and enjoy these last few weeks of Zeke as an only child. And then everything changes.

So scary, but so wonderful.

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*And I've lost about 7 or 8 pounds, which doesn't suck for purposes of dealing with the baby weight, post-partem.

Ostentatious Spazziosity. But I'll take it.

The belly is obviously impossible to hide. It's out there in a big way.

And the resulting waddle is unavoidable. I can't help having to slightly lean back when I walk, with my toes turned out and my steps wider than normal.

The boobs, never for the faint of heart, are reaching ridiculous proportions. When Elizabeth was visiting a few weeks ago, upon seeing me for the first time she observed, "your ass hasn't gained any weight at all, but your boobs are massive."

Yup.

And there is nothing I can do about any of these things, and they don't impede my ability to be productive at work or to interact relatively normally with the people in my life, so other than feeling a bit bulky, and not being as nimble as my non-pregnant self, I don't feel particularly self-conscious about my physical state.

But while I absolutely love feeling The Joey kick, she does it so relentlessly and so powerfully that it causes me to jump and squirm and gasp in a way that makes me feel like a complete spazz.*

I'll be sitting in a meeting with coworkers and suddenly the baby, who has been relatively still for a minute or two, throws her legs out, catches me in the ribs, and then keeps pushing so that her foot will cause my belly to visibly jump and undulate. And I'll gasp and sort of sit up suddenly, and the people I'm meeting with will get these concerned looks and be all, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OK????"

And I'll explain that it's just the baby kicking and I was a little startled and sorry let's get back to what we were talking about.

It happens A LOT. And it makes me feel really self-conscious and stupid. Like people will be annoyed because I'm drawing attention to myself, even though I try not to as much as possible. It's so silly, because I know nobody cares, but I still feel weird about it.

It's better than the alternative, though.

Last week when I was in my doctor's office for my weekly appointment, I had to wait a really long time. And when the doctor finally came into the exam room, she was unusually subdued. She explained that the patient she had seen before me was also 34 weeks pregnant and came in for a routine exam, but when they went to listen to the baby's heartbeat, there wasn't one. The baby was dead. And this poor woman would have to be induced to go into labor, so she could deliver a dead fucking baby.

As the doctor was telling me this, I started to cry. The doctor said, "I don't want to alarm you by telling you this."

And I said, "no, I'm not upset for myself. Believe me, if this baby doesn't have a heartbeat, there is something really strange going on, because she never stops moving. I'm not worried."

So I guess feeling like a goober at work for the next few weeks isn't such a big deal after all.

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*And yes, I know that word is politically incorrect and inappropriate. Don't email me.

Reaching rock bottom, but hey, at least we have a date certain!

I read somewhere about a recent study concluding that the myth of pregnancy brain, i.e., that pregnancy makes you stupid, is just that -- a myth.  That there is no evidence that the phenomenon actually exists.

Au contraire, bitches.

Because I know I'm a smart girl.  Not a genius, maybe, but certainly smarter than your average bear.  My major accomplishments in life have largely been based on brain-power.*  

But I am certifiably stupid these days, and the only thing I can surmise is that The Joey is just sucking all of the brain cells right out of my head.  I get things in my hand and then lose them immediately.  I can't remember basic words.  I'll go to work having only remembered to put one earring on, or with socks that don't match.

This morning I reached into the fridge to get some cream for my coffee, and even though I could clearly see that the lid on the little carton wasn't on (God knows what I did with it), I grabbed it and tilted it waaaay over to the side so that it would fit over whatever was in front of it on the shelf .... and proceeded to spill cream all over the inside of the fridge and the floor.   Later when I went to take a sip of the coffee, I forgot that I had only gently placed the lid on the cup, but hadn't firmly affixed it onto the cup, so I spilled coffee all over myself.  

Then I couldn't find my glucose monitoring kit, which was really frustrating because I always put it in the exact same place in my briefcase.  I found it 10 minutes later stuck in a cupboard in the kitchen.  I have no recollection of putting it there.

Jason could only gape at me in astonishment.

The other day I was driving home from the grocery store.  I missed one turn that I was supposed to make, and didn't realize it for at least 3/4 of a mile.  So I wound my way back through the neighborhood (much winding is required because there are many one-way streets, so I couldn't just turn around), and then missed another turn-off.  And I wasn't talking on the phone or even listening to the radio or anything.  I was just completely spaced out.

I have at least three or four incidents like this a day.

At least it provides a good excuse.  I was talking to a guy at our health insurance company about getting replacement cards set out, because even though they just send new ones out to us, of course I immediately lost them and have no idea where they are.

"I know we just got them, but you have to understand, I'm 7 1/2 months pregnant and my brain doesn't work right now."

He laughed and said, "I completely understand.  I'll send new ones out today, don't worry about it."

Standards seem to be slipping in other areas as well.  

I went to wash my face this morning and couldn't find my headband that I use to keep my hair from getting wet.  So I used a pair of thong underwear from the back of my undies drawer -- hell, they're not getting any other use these days.

My sex life consists of having hot dreams about my husband and then telling him about them when I wake up, because God knows I couldn't be bothered to muster up the energy to actually have sex with him.  Poor bastard.

I'm constantly a mess, with crumbs and stains on my clothes, things stuck in my hair, stray pen marks on my skin.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  

Technically, my due date was October 2.  But because of the gestational diabetes and my difficulty delivering Zeke, my OB has talked about inducing after I hit 39 weeks, just to make sure the baby doesn't get too big (though I delivered Zeke at 39 weeks and 3 days, so I might be in for a rough ride nonetheless).  

At my appointment yesterday, we were talking about scheduling, and I said, "my last day of work is September 25, which is a Friday.  Why don't I take the weekend to get organized and we can induce that following Monday or Tuesday."

"That Monday is Yom Kippur," she remarked after looking at the calendar.

"Hmm," I said.  "I don't know why, but it feels weird to plan to induce labor on Yom Kippur.  Let's do it Tuesday."

So, assuming I haven't already gone into labor by then, The Joey will make her appearance on September 29, 2009.  Only 5 1/2 more weeks of The Stupid.

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*OK, the tits haven't hurt, but they didn't write the briefs that won me cases at the court of appeals.  Not all of them, anyway. 

The Pregnancy Skinny

Who knew that it would take getting pregnant to hit on the surest, fastest weight-loss regimen I've ever used?  Not that the whole low-carb/high protein diet is a mystery to anyone, but even when I've done it in the past (with some success), I've never had an incentive quite as powerful as "no, you can't eat that or YOU'LL HURT THE BABY, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE HAG!!!"

So in the past week, since seeing the doctor and going on medication, I've been super, super vigilant (except for the ice cream cone I ate when Elizabeth and her family were in town, and we went with Kathleen and Rich and their monkeys up to Boulder to hang out for the day -- and believe me, I was shamed straight by my sky-rocketing glucose levels afterwards).  My breakfasts have consisted of either EggBeaters omelettes or protein shakes (made with water rather than milk).  I've snacked on protein bars and diabetes-friendly shakes.  My lunches and dinners are meat or fish with veggies.  I eat alot of Cobb salads.  I haven't had a piece of fruit or bread in what feels like dog years.

In the process, I've lost 4 pounds in a week.  And while it's not great to lose weight while you're pregnant, apparently it's not unusual for women monitoring their glucose intake to have some incidental weight loss in the process.  I'm still in the normal range as far as weight gain, so my doctor wasn't too worried.

And hell, it's nice to know what works, for purposes of losing baby weight.  I figure at that point I'll be so used the regimen that it won't be too difficult to continue it, assuming I can resist the urge to have Philly cheesesteak subs and strawberry rhubarb pies delivered to my hospital room the minute The Joey is out of my body.

In any event, I got my reward (or at least, some of it -- the true reward will be a reasonably-sized baby that I can deliver with 1 or 2 pushes).  I went in for an ultrasound this morning to check The Joey's growth, and she is perfect.  Like, exactly the size she should be, to the day.  And her brain is forming properly and her spine looks beautiful and all four chambers of her heart are doing what they should be doing and her little bones are the right size.  Her girl parts are still girl parts.*  Just like her older brother, she likes to hang out with her hands up by her face.  She's already head down and the placenta is up at the top of my uterus (and thus not blocking the cervix).   Perfect perfect perfect.

When you're pregnant, and particularly when you're pregnant and you've practiced special education law for 10 years, you become hyper-aware of all the things that can go wrong. Genetic abormalities.  Down Syndrome.  Malformed limbs.  Spina bifida.  The list goes on and on.  And even though the odds of everything going just fine are overwhelmingly high, it seems miraculous to me when the wonders of modern medicine allow me to go into a doctor's office and have the nice ultrasound technician show me my perfectly formed, perfectly developing little girl.  

_____________________________

*Apparently, when they determine the sex at 16 weeks, they make no guarantees, though with The Joey it was unlikely that the "it's a girl" verdict was going to turn out wrong.

Must. Purchase. Pink. Crib. Bumper.

So far during this pregnancy, I've been pretty sane about the shopping thing. And I mean specifically, shopping for The Joey.

Some of it is superstition. In Judaism, it's considered bad luck to buy things for the baby before it's born. Even thinking about such things would have caused my ancestors back in the old country to spit "ptoo! ptoo! ptoo!" and throw salt over their shoulder, in an effort to ward off the evil eye or whatever. So it's cool to buy things for the mom, but it's tempting fate to load the baby up with too much stuff before it's born.

Because this isn't entirely practical -- I wasn't going to wait to shop for a crib until I was on my way home from the hospital with Zeke -- I try to appease the superstitious side of me by limiting purchases to the barest of necessities before the baby is born. (Unless the opportunity presents itself to load up on tons of baby gear for an insanely low price, of course. My mother gets around the problem by just buying the stuff but not giving it to the baby until after it's born.)

And plus, this time around, I already have tons of shit. Even after culling out the stuff that has spit-up stains or that was overtly boys' stuff -- onesies covered with "Daddy's Little Quarterback" or similar -- I have mountains and mountains of clothes, blankets, crib sheets and towels. Not to mention a crib, a little infant bathtub, rattles, teething rings, etc. etc.

My mother, who loves shopping for baby stuff, kept insisting that The Joey needed new stuff that was just for her.

"All babies like having new things!"

But I maintained that babies don't care. They just want to be held and to be warm and fed. They don't give a shit if the PJs they're sleeping in are 5-year-old hand-me-downs purchased from the the "irregulars" bin at the Carter's outlet.

I wasn't trying to be churlish or to kill anyone's buzz. I said, "if you want to buy her new things, I think that's lovely. Get her anything you'd like to see her in. But she doesn't really need anything new."

But with less than 8 weeks to go,* the hormones are taking over. All of a sudden I have overwhelming urges to buy cutesy, girly stuff.

This past weekend, my friend Elizabeth was visiting with her husband and her 5-month-old baby, Elliot. Kathleen and I went to Target before their arrival because I wanted to get some new pillows to put on the guest bed.

As I walked past the baby supply section, I grabbed a really cute little bouncy seat. It was beyond my control.

"It's for Elliot," I thought. "They're probably not traveling with one, and it will be useful if they want to put him down someplace other than the floor."

Riiiiiight.

The fact that a bouncy seat is the one piece of gear I don't have had nothing to do with it.

And then I thought, "Zeke's crib sheets are getting a little tired. I'll get a new one for Elliot to sleep on."

What color did I pick out?

Pink, of course.

Today I started fixating on other bedding. Now mind you, the crib stuff I have that Zeke used is in perfectly good condition. It's not particularly masculine. It would look just fine in a baby girl's bed.

But I've got the sickness.

I e-mailed my mother. "I want to buy some crib bedding for [The Joey], but I don't want to duplicate your efforts, so I wanted to make sure you haven't gotten her any bedding."

She called within 5.7 seconds. "Let's look at some websites."

So we went online and found some really cute stuff that isn't even particularly girly. It's just new. It's all quilt-y and soft and covered with elephants and lions and sweet-looking jungle animals. When I think about having a new little peanut and putting her in her crib with her soft new pink sheets and her new little soft blankie, I just about melt.

Oh, I've drunk the Kool-Aid, I have.

____________________

*Technically, it's almost 9 weeks, but with the gestational diabetes diagnosis, my doctor is likely to induce me if I haven't given birth by 39 weeks.

It's a good thing I'm not much of a foodie. Also, I love my mommy and daddy.

Well, shame on me for being all glib and smug about my blood sugar and how all I needed was a meal plan or a list of what I could and couldn't eat to get everything under control.  

Because it turns out that, for whatever reason (possibly my age), this pregnancy has brought on an unbelievable level of insulin resistance in my body, meaning that the slightest thing -- half an english muffin, a single graham cracker square, or even a cup of milk (and I mean 1 cup as measured by a measuring cup) -- sends my glucose numbers through the roof.  

Which is bad.

I went to my class last week and was provided with a meal plan and a book detailing all different kinds of foods and what constitutes a serving, for purposes of the meal plan.  I had my trusty blood glucose monitor, as well as extra lancets and testing strips.  I had even already read the directions and practiced using the monitor a few times, in order to truly cement my status as the class nerd.  And the dietician/nurse taught us all about what gestational diabetes is and what causes it and what kinds of pregnancy complications it can bring on and how to measure portions and how to space out your meals and snacks and blah blee bloo.  

The meal plan is very precise, and looked something like this:

Breakfast:  3 carb servings (15 g of carbs = a serving), including a cup of milk, but no fruit; 1 protein serving; 1 fat serving (like a pat of butter or olive oil for cooking)

Morning snack:  1 carb servings, but no fruit

Lunch: 3 carbs (including 1 cup of milk); 3 proteins; 1 fat; and additional servings of non-starchy vegetables*

Afternoon snack:  1 carb, 1 protein

Dinner:  3 carbs (including milk); 3 proteins; 1 fat; non-starchy veggies

Late night snack:  1 carb, 1 protein

I'm to test my blood sugar levels 4 times a day:  a fasting level first thing in the morning, and then 1 hour after breakfast, lunch and dinner.

As a classic oldest child/numbers-and-data geek who thrives on a regimen and can't stand disappointing anyone (including a dietician I've never met), I arranged my papers with the meal plan and charts for writing down all of my meals, meal times, and blood sugar numbers in a handy-dandy folder.  I went to the grocery store and stocked up on the recommended foods and started working out my meals for the week.  And I was kind of psyched, because carb servings, according to my book, can include small servings of pasta or rice or a few graham crackers or goldfish or fruit (in the afternoon).  So it didn't seem like I would be that limited in what I'd be allowed to eat.  I'd just have to watch portion sizes and be sensible.  

I followed the meal plan to the letter.  I tried not to deviate from the portion sizes by even a measly gram.  I wrote everything down.  I tested my blood an hour after eating, timing the testing to the minute.  I was a good girl.

And still, my numbers were way too high.

So after a few days, I called the dietician, and we tweaked the meal plan so that I would eat fewer carb servings and more protein servings at a giving meal.  For example, instead of having 3 carbs and 1 protein at breakfast, I'd have 2 carbs (including the milk) and 2 proteins at breakfast.  So instead of an english muffin (both slices), a cup of milk, and an egg, I'd have one english muffin slice, a cup of milk, and 2 eggs.  Instead of having 1 carb as a morning snack (say, 4 graham cracker squares), I'd have the graham crackers plus a protein serving (a piece of string cheese).  

Once again, I followed the instructions religiously.  I wrote everything down.  I tested my blood.  I was a good girl.

And still, my numbers weren't where they should be, particularly the fasting number (taken first thing in the morning), which is the number over which I have the least amount of control.  I tried changing the timing of my late night snack, I tried cutting out the carbs altogether and just having a small cup of cottage cheese with some almonds sprinkled on top, and nothing worked.

So I kept on tweaking and tweaking the menu to the point where I am now eating no fruit and no starches or flour-based carbs at all (i.e., no pasta, rice, bread, potatoes, or sugar of any kind).  I'm using supplemental shakes and protein bars that you find in the diabetics' aisle at the drug store.  I'm still drinking milk, because it's good for the baby and keeps my teeth from being leeched of all calcium by the little parasite living in my belly, but I drink it a little while after a meal, because if I drink it with a meal, it sends my numbers up too high.

And only now are my post-prandial blood sugar numbers in an acceptable range.  But my fasting number is still too high.

The entire ordeal has completely stressed me out.  I had a period of about 36 hours from Sunday through last night in which I spent much of my waking hours crying or on the verge of tears.  Because all of this diabetes shit is on top of my generally constant level of exhaustion, worrying about how I'm going to pay my bills while on maternity leave (I have no maternity leave benefits this time around), how I'm going to pay for a second round of daycare when I took a huge pay-cut to work for a non-profit, how I'm going to take care of two kids by myself during the week while Jason is in Vail, and on and on.

But today I went to see my OB, and she put me on some glucose lowering medication that should bring my fasting levels down, and bring the other numbers down with it.  It's a low dose, I only have to take it once a day, and it should help.  I still am on heightened monitoring over the next 9 weeks to look at the baby's growth and development, but it seems like all should be well.

And yesterday I talked to my parents, and they are so sweet and supportive, and assured me that I didn't need to worry about money, they would help me with anything Jason and I needed. 

My dad said, "listen, you and Jason left Hawaii for legitimate reasons, and you managed to move to a new city and you both found decent jobs in the worst economy this country has seen in 80 years.  You're wonderful parents, you work hard, you don't live extravagantly.  Whatever you need, we're happy to help you out."

"But I don't want to take your money.  I should be able to deal with this on my own."

"Honey, that's what parents are for.  Everyone goes through tough financial times, and you'll come out of this because you're smart and talented.  My dad helped me what I needed it, and I will help you.  It's how it should be.  So I can't do anything about your blood glucose numbers, but I don't want you worrying about money, because your mom and I won't let anything happen to you."

"Thanks, Dad.  I really appreciate it.  You and mom have been so great."

"Well, we love you.  You are a wonderful daughter, and you've always made us proud, and we're happy to be in a position to be able to help you.  And we love Jason.  He's a great father and a great husband."

"We love you too."

"We'll just take Zeke as collateral."

Seems fair.

________________________

*Veggies have carbs, but don't cause big spikes in blood glucose numbers because it takes the body longer to break them down.  So while you could eat a portion of pasta or a portion of veggies and they might have similar grams of carbs, the pasta will cause blood sugar spikes whereas the veggies won't.

Enough

I'm so tired of being pregnant.  And I'm so tired of bitching about how tired of being pregnant I am.  But I just feel like it's one thing after another.

Last week at my OB appointment I did a glucose screening, in which they look at your blood sugar levels to see if there are indicators of gestational diabetes.  Gestational diabetes can cause, among other things, the baby to grow too large, thus making delivery difficult, or jaundice in the baby.

I didn't think anything of the glucose screening.  I've never had issues with blood sugar or blood pressure or anything.  Never had a problem with my first pregnancy, didn't occur to me that anything would be different with my second.  I don't eat a lot of sweets, I'm not overweight, etc. etc.

Wrong.

My numbers came back pretty high, so the next step was to go in for a 3-hour glucose test.  This involves fasting for a night, going to the doctor's office in the morning, having them take a baseline blood sample, and then drinking two bottles of this sicky-sweet glucose solution, and then having blood drawn every hour for 3 hours.  For those of you keeping track, that's 4 blood drawings in 3 hours.  Oh, and they decided to give me another shot that I need to get before giving birth, since I was there and all.

It's a good thing I don't have needle issues.

I still wasn't too worried, because my friend who is an OB told me that 80% of women who have to do the 3-hour glucose test end up passing it.  I figured my odds were decent.

Wrong again.  

I failed the test, and now I have to go take a class at the hospital on how to monitor my blood sugar levels and how to maintain a diet appropriate for diabetics.  Which is fine, whatever, but it's a two-hour class, and these days, I don't really have two hours to spare.  I don't understand why they can't just give me a blood glucose monitor with an instructional video on how to use it, and a list of what I can and can't eat.*  I'm a smart girl.  I'll figure it out.  But I get the sense that they have these classes because people get all panicky and are too stupid to just follow basic instructions.  So I have to go waste two hours of my time because most people are dumb.

And I know that everything will be fine, but it's still one more thing to deal with.  I'm just so ready for this pregnancy to be over.  

_________________

*My understanding of the recommended diet is that it's basically South Beach -- limited simple carbs, limited fruit, lots of whole grains and veggies and protein.  Boring, but certainly doable.  

Why it's worth it

I feel like I've spent excessive time and interweb space writing about what a pain in the ass it is to be pregnant. And it is. I wish I could be one of those jolly pregnant ladies who relishes every minute of the experience, but I'm not. Particularly now that I'm in the third trimester, which is the most difficult and uncomfortable part of it.

But...

but but but but but.

Let's give the other side of the argument a fair shot. I am a lawyer, after all.

And I don't mean the side of the argument that says that being pregnant is so great. It either is or it isn't for each individual woman, and no amount of rhetoric is going to sway her from her particular position.

No, I mean the side of the argument about why it's worth going through the discomfort of gaining weight and suffering from heartburn and hemorrhoids and swollen ankles and of course the process of actually getting the baby out of your body. Because I get the sense that with all of the talk about pregnancy poo and hurting vajayjays, I'm sending a message that it's an experience that others should actively avoid.

And I don't want to send that message, because it's not how I feel at all. Pregnancy is totally worth it. I wouldn't do it otherwise.

The "it's worth it"-ness is something that is reinforced all the time, every day of my life, and just not in a heavily emotional, I'm-a-grownup-now-so-it's-time-to-get-serious-and-be-responsible-and-isn't-parenting-an-awesome-and-miraculous-thing kind of way.

Because I don't feel at all that I've given up the "fun" of my youth to have children. I don't spend my weekends out clubbing or getting shitty drunk in bars, but one of the things I've discovered that I love about having a child, and what makes going through another pregnancy so worth it for me, is that being with my kid is a blast.

He's at an age where he's learning new words and new skills all the time, and it's so cool to talk to him and marvel at how he sees the world and take him to experience things that are thrilling to him, and which in turn become thrilling to me. The way we'll stand in front of the lion's habitat at the zoo, and Zeke will see the animals and yell "rwoawr!" So I'll roar, too, and we'll stand there giggling and roaring at the lions and it's wonderful.

Or we'll go get and ice cream, and it's so delicious that with every bite, he'll say "YUM!" so enthusiastically. I'll think to myself, "damn right, this ice cream is tasty!"

Making a mess while eating is fun!

Or there will be a tractor parked by the side of the road when we're on our way to the park, and Zeke's eyes will get big and he'll say "WOW! Tractor!" We'll spend a few minutes looking at the tractor, and I'll realize that it's been awhile since I looked closely at a tractor, and it's kind of an amazing machine. Then we'll be on our way again, but not before Zeke says "bye, tractor!" Which of course makes me laugh with the cuteness.

This kind of enthusiasm is infectious.

Or we'll be walking and looking at flowers and ladybugs, and suddenly he starts pointing to individual flowers and saying, "mun....tooo....freee....faw..." and it takes me a second but when I realize he's counting I feel like my head is going to explode with amazement.

Or I'll be in the kitchen doing the dishes and listening to some music on the iPod, and he'll come in and start bobbing his head and jumping around and clapping to the music. So I'll turn off the water and put down the sponge, and we'll have a little impromptu dance party in the kitchen that turns into both of us spinning around in circles and then falling down dizzily in a fit of giggles.

I defy anyone to cast their eyes on Zeke wearing a fireman's hat but no pants, and not dissolve into laughter.

Or he'll be in his jammies, all clean and sweet-smelling after a bath, and we'll be watching a few minutes of Elmo's World before bedtime. Maybe we're nice and tired because we've been splashing around in the pool or climbing on the jungle gym at the park. I'll settle him into the crook of my arm and rub him on his belly, and he'll snuggle up against me on the couch, leaning his head on my chest while absent-mindedly patting me on the leg with his hand. And sometimes he'll look up at me and smile and say, "mama!" in a voice filled with love. At that moment, there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be and nothing I'd rather be doing.

So notwithstanding the fact that I'm tired and huge and uncomfortable, none of that discomfort ever outweighs the joy I experience every day in being with my son, or the excitement I feel thinking about how it's going to be with my daughter. Being pregnant is just an unpleasant pre-requisite to the incredible fun and wonder of spending time with these hilarious little people that I helped create and who I have the enormous privilege of guiding through the world, at least until they can do it on their own.

So don't be discouraged. Pregnancy sucks, but if you decide not to have a baby because you don't want to be pregnant, you're totally cutting off your nose to spite your face, in my humble opinion, and will be missing out on one of the greatest experiences life has to offer.

TMI Thursday: You might want to skip this one if you've never had a baby but plan on having one someday...

The lovely, talented and hilarious LiLu does a weekly segment called TMI Thursdays involving (over)shares of embarrassing, humiliating stories about her life (and if you're thinking of clicking over there, just know that it's not for the faint of heart).  Readers and fellow bloggers are invited to join in. I admire her and her readers' willingness to just put it all out there.  

I've never participated, not because I don't have ridiculous and embarrassing stories to share, but because my mother reads this blog. And my brothers. And some of my cousins. And many of my friends. And the friends I generally don't worry about so much, but there are some things that my mommy just doesn't need to read about on the internets about her precious baby.

But today I'm going to jump into the fray (and I actually already did earlier today -- on Lisa's blog, she and I had a lovely discussion about the consistency of pregnancy poo and the relative merits of Metamucil).   My mother won't mind this one. My brothers might, but whatevs. They'll deal. My friends will likely think to themselves, "Jesus, TMI!"  (Though Elizabeth, dearest, you might want to skip this one.)  But that's kind of the point. In any event, if you're squeamish and don't feel like you can handle the nitty-gritty of what actually goes on during childbirth, you might want to come back and visit another day. 

Seriously. You've been warned.

I was sitting in the break room at work today having something to eat, when one of my coworkers walked in.  We said "hello," and she asked me how I was feeling.

"Are you doing OK in this heat?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.  The heat doesn't really bother me.  I did my first pregnancy in Hawaii, so I'm pretty well used to it."

No, the problem isn't the heat.

The problem is that I think this baby is breaking my vagina.

I don't mean just the part from which babies actually emerge -- Zeke already broke that part. I have vivid recollections of the last 20 minutes or so of labor (in other words, 3 hours and 40 minutes into the actual pushing part -- yeah, that's not a typo, I pushed for 4 fucking hours), when Zeke was way down in the birth canal but stuck behind my pelvic bone because even though the ultrasound tech told me he was only about 7 pounds, he was actually almost 9 pounds and was basically too big for my body. And through the pain of feeling like my nether regions were going to split in two, I could hear the sound of scissors, because the doctor was cutting my vajajay open to make way for Zeke's ginormous head. The good news was, I was already in so much pain that I couldn't actually distinguish the pain of having someone cutting me open in that manner from the other pain I was feeling, so in that sense, it didn't really hurt. And he stitched me back up and it healed and whatever. But still, I'm not exactly intact down there.

Anyway, back to the Joey.

Conventional wisdom has it that with boys, you gain less weight and you carry the baby low and out in front, like a basketball. Supposedly, with girls, you carry more weight all over your midsection, and the baby sits higher up on your torso.

I call bullshit. 

Because while I've definitely gained a little bit more weight with the Joey than I did with Zeke (and starting 10 pounds heavier this time around didn't help), I feel like she is sitting -- no, make that pushing -- on the absolute lowest part of my pelvic floor, as if she's trying to crack the bone right in two.  It's different from the typical lower abdominal muscle stretching that goes on as the baby grows.  This is lower down, and feels like the stretching of the muscles and the weight of the baby are putting too much pressure on the bone itself.

So in addition to the standard pregnant-lady waddle, I've got kind of a gimpy thing going on.  I sometimes want to just put my hands down there and walk around holding my cooter together.  I don't  -- well, not most of the time, anyway.  Sometimes when I'm home alone I'll walk around looking like a 5-year-old who's trying to find a bathroom.  But out in public, I haven't lost all sense of decorum (not yet, anyway).

So if you see me and stop to chat, and I get this sort of distracted, vacant look in my eyes, it's not that I'm bored or blowing you off.  It's just that my vagina hurts.

Bump pictures -- week 23

I put up all three pictures so you could see the progression.

I'm starting to feel really huge and cumbersome. I say "oof" alot when I'm getting up or sitting down. I frequently find myself short of breath because I think my internal organs are squishing up against my diaphragm. Zeke gets a little frustrated when he wants to sit on my lap to read a book, and I don't have much of a lap left.

But, the Joey has started really kicking up a storm in the past week and a half. Not just the little flutters that I was feeling, but lots of "thump thump thump"-ing against the wall of my abdomen. I love it. Except for when she keeps popping me in the bladder.

A womb with a view (I know, I KNOW, it's been done to death, but I still think it's funny)

Better living through chemistry

I've written in the past about my family's penchant for pharmaceutical solutions to whatever ails you.  On a recent trip to Israel, my mother was delighted by this exchange with a pharmacist (delighted both with the attitude of the pharmacist, which was so quintessentially Israeli, and also with the substance of the discussion):

Mom:  I'm interested in getting some Ambien, some Retin-A, and a few other things.  Do I need a prescription?

Pharmacist:  Yes.

Mom:  What if I don't have one?

Pharmacist:  We'll give it to you anyway.

I tell this little story to provide some context vis-a-vis where I'm coming from, even as a pregnant person.  I have no compunctions about taking medications, even while pregnant, if it will make me more comfortable and the doctor says it's OK for the baby.

I get the sense that pregnant women these days tend to be a little nutso about every little thing they ingest, be it soft cheeses or caffeine or sushi or whatever.  They're all jacked up about natural childbirth and eating super-foods and blah blah blah.  

I think most of this is bullshit.  My philosophy is everything in moderation, and you'll be fine.  I don't smoke or do drugs, but I'll have a sip of Jason's beer or Kathleen's margarita, I'll have a bite of brie, I'll eat sushi if it's from a reputable place, and I'll definitely have my two cups of coffee in the morning.  I have no problem with getting an epidural (obviously) or doing whatever needs to be done to get the baby out safely, whether its by C-section or with suction or whatever.  Just get it done.

My feeling is that my OB is not used to this.  Because every time she suggests something that could be construed as even remotely aggressive or off the natural childbirth path, she tiptoes around the subject as if she's afraid of offending me.

Like early on, when I first started seeing her, she noted that I had a really long and difficult labor with Zeke, mostly because he was so big, and wanted to suggest monitoring the Joey's size late in the pregnancy and possibly inducing if it looked like she was getting too big.  But instead of just saying that, she hemmed and hawed and said, "well, there are things we can do, if you wouldn't be opposed to taking steps to...you know... move the process along...if that's not a problem for you?"

I said, "what, you mean like inducing early?"

"Um...yes."

And I was all, "yeah, no problem.  Whatever."

She sighed, visibly relieved.  "OK, good.  Because that way we can make sure you're more comfortable and that you don't have such a difficult experience like last time."

"Right,"  I said.  "Plus, if we induce early, the baby will definitely make the October 1 school registration cut-off.  It would suck to have to pay for an extra year of daycare."

She just laughed.  But I was very deliberate in trying to explain that I am the opposite of a natural-childbirth Nazi.  I flat-out told her, "whatever you think is best is fine with me.  I have no problems with drugs, epidurals, a C-section if it's required, whatever.  I trust you.  I just want a healthy baby.  I don't care how I get it out of me."

But I guess it's been a couple of months since we had that conversation, because yesterday, I was in her office for my regular check-up, and mentioned that I had been having a terrible time sleeping.  And that in all likelihood, in addition to the normal discomfort and difficulty sleeping that many women have during pregnancy, my problems were compounded by my history of depression.  I've been feeling fine and off the medication for over a year, but the one symptom I've never truly been able to shake is insomnia.

And the OB said, "now, I don't want you to think I'm trying to be a drug pusher, but would you be opposed to maybe going back on some antidepressants?"  She sort of backed up, as if she was afraid of a negative reaction.

I chuckled at her caution and said, "not at all.  What do you suggest?"

And so we talked about it and decided that I would try Zoloft.

"Do you want something to help you sleep as well?" she asked.

"Sure.  I would love a short-term Ambien prescription, just to get me back on track.  But I thought Ambien wasn't good to take during pregnancy."

"Oh, no, it's fine.  I'll write you a scrip for it.  It's only for 20, but if you want more I'm happy to refill it."

"Sweet."

So last night, for the first time in I don't remember how long, I went to sleep and stayed asleep and woke up feeling refreshed.  I don't feel groggy or drugged out, like Tylenol PM or over the counter stuff makes me feel.  I just feel rested.  It's an amazing feeling.

Pregnancy hormones strike again

I'm driving to work this morning, minding my own business, listening to Morning Edition on NPR.  They have this feature called "StoryCorp," in which people record stories about themselves or their lives, and the recordings are then archived at the Library of Congress.  This morning's StoryCorp feature was about a guy whose son died in Iraq.  After his son's death, he went to Washington on Memorial Day for a special service at the Vietnam Memorial.  In an unbelievable stroke of coincidence, while he was at the Wall, he met the Army trauma nurse who was part of the team that treated his son when he died.  

And as I'm listening to this story, I burst into tears.  

In the meantime, sitting on the passenger seat is a little picture of Zeke that the teachers at his school made for Mother's Day.  It's on a string, like it's supposed to be an ornament or something, and I didn't really know what to do with it so I figured I'd bring it to work and hang it on my wall.  

It's not even a very good picture of him.  But I keep listening to this poor father talk about his dead son, and I keep looking at this picture of my beautiful little son, whom I had last seen as he waved goodbye to me and blew me kisses out of the back window of Jason's car (J takes him to school in the mornings, and I pick him up in the afternoons), and I just cry and cry.  I have to sit in the car in the parking lot at work for a couple of minutes, so I can compose myself.  

I think the story would have floored me under the best of circumstances.  But today, with my belly getting bigger, and the kicks of my unborn daughter pushing against the wall of my abdomen, and pregnancy hormones surging through my body, I never had a fucking chance.

The benefits of living with a happy toddler

It's been a weird couple of days.  I've had some heavy shit on my mind, and I've been busy at work, and I'm sleeping like crap (nothing new there), and the physical aspects of pregnancy are starting to take their toll.

Like, my boobs have gone completely insane and I can't fit into any of my bras any more.  Well, there's one, a sports bra, and its stretchy.  So I can jam the girls in there in a pinch.  But being a sports bra, it tends to give me a uniboob, which is not a look that I go for, fashion-wise.  So the other day, I went to Target to try to find some big girl bras to tide me over until I give birth and lose weight.  

I tried on every single bra for heavy girls, large-breasted girls, what-have-you, in the entire store.  And I am absolutely not making this up when I tell you that there was not a single bra in the entire Glendale Target -- a SuperTarget, mind you, which happens to be the busiest and highest grossing Target in the entire U.S. of A. -- that could contain my breasts.   

And I'm just feeling gross and massive generally.  Jason is so sweet, and he tells me that I look great and that I'm glowing and that I'm not fat, I'm pregnant.  And intellectually, I know this. But then I look in the mirror or at recent pictures taken of myself, and I just feel like I look like a heifer.  My face looks fat, my arms look pudgy, and I feel like it'll be an impossible task to get back to my fighting weight once the Joey is born.  

And again, intellectually, I know it's not true.  I'm pretty disciplined when it comes to sticking with an exercise program.  I know I can do it.  But I was always in pretty good shape and never really worried about how I looked, and now I just feel yucky.  

Some of it may be a function of pregnancy hormones.  I don't have big mood swings, but every once in a while, like when I'm even more tired than normal, I'll just lose my shit and cry for awhile.  Last night I didn't cry, but I just felt mean.  Really mean.  Everything annoyed me.  Jason had done nothing wrong, but I wanted to claw his eyes out.  The dog had done nothing wrong, and I wanted to kick him.*  

And to add insult to injury, I had to watch the Nuggets blow a big lead and lose in the last seconds of the basketball game to the fucking Lakers. I hate the Lakers. I hate Kobe Bryant. Grrrr. 

When I woke up this morning, I was feeling somewhat less hateful.  Getting some sleep (even if it's just a little) does make things a little better.  I lay there in my bed, watching Zeke sleep. He had woken up crying at 4:30 in the morning, so I let him come into bed with us.  He was lying there, with his head on my pillow, butt up in the air.  He's so gorgeous, with his little rosebud mouth and his little chubby cheeks and his long eyelashes.  

And all of a sudden, he laughed, in his sleep.  And the laugh woke him up, and he opened his eyes and smiled at me.

"Mama!"  Big smile, more giggles.

"Hi, monkey.  Did you have a funny dream?"

"Mama!"  And he leaned over and put his mouth on my cheek and said, "mwah," and gave me a kiss.  Then he buried his face in my neck.  "Mama," he sighed.

He jumped up and started running around the bed, giving Jason kisses, giving me kisses, and generally smiling and giggling and having a ball.

And just like that, I felt better.

_______________________

 * Zeke was asleep, so he was spared my wrath.  And for the record, I neither clawed Jason's eyes out nor kicked the dog.  I just sat on the couch and glowered.

No longer enchanted by the novelty, just settling in for the long haul

About 10 years ago I ran a marathon. I remember the different phases of the race very distinctly. And when I woke up this morning and thought, "gee, I'm 20 weeks pregnant today," my reaction to that thought reminded me of what it was like to go through the different stages of a marathon.

PHASE 1/FIRST TRIMESTER -- THE BLOOM IS ON THE ROSE

When the marathon started, I was excited. I was about to do something huge and difficult and exciting, and I was pumped full of adrenalin. That feeling carried me for about 10 miles. I felt great, like I could run forever.

This is similar to the first trimester of pregnancy.

You pee on the stick, and the second line turns blue (or in my case, the digital readout announces "PREGNANT" with a smiley face next to it). You feel a bit of shock, but also a flush of happiness (assuming the pregnancy was planned or not otherwise unwelcome). You tell your babydaddy, and the two of you share a moment that's a mixture of "whee!" "wow!" and "wha??" Plus a lot of "awwww!" and "woohoo!" You go for that first OB appointment, and cry a little bit when the ultrasound reveals that your tiny 7 week blob of an embryo has a nice strong little heartbeat. You get all focused on making sure you're taking your prenatal vitamins, eating the right foods, conspicuously announcing that you can't have that glass of wine you're offered, stocking up on maternity clothes, and lamenting how tight your pants are when secretly you're psyched to be developing a bit of a belly bump. You tell your friends and relatives when the time feels right, and go through the "whee" "wow" "wha" "aww" "woohoo" all over again, only this time with your peeps.

So really, there's too much newness and emotion during the first trimester to focus very much on the fact that it's going to take you 10 months* to grow a person inside you, and that 10 months is a long time. You're just all "happy to be here, hope I can help the ballclub" at this point.

PHASE 2/SECOND TRIMESTER - THE ROSE IS STARTING TO WILT A LITTLE BIT

I remember miles 10 through 20 as another distinctive section of the marathon. The excitement and adrenalin of the beginning was gone, and then it was just a slog. It was boring. It was tedious. I had already run a long way, but still had a long, long way left to go, and it felt like the race was never going to end. I was still feeling OK physically, noticing a bit of tiredness but cognizant of the need to maintain my form and preserve energy and continue to pace myself. Nothing to do but settle in for the long haul.

The middle part wasn't all bad. As I said, I still felt pretty good physically. Plus, things took a huge turn for the better at around mile 18. Much of the middle of the race was run through woodsy, rocky trails in the hills behind Anchorage, Alaska, and at mile 18 we descended out of the hills and back into the city. So in addition to being back on pavement and thus not having to constantly watch the ground to avoid turning my ankles on rocks and logs, I got a nice downhill stretch to make me feel lighter and faster and more energetic. Also, back in town, there were people by the side of the race route cheering us on again. Someone handed me an orange popsicle that I sucked on while I ran. It was heavenly.

This parallels the second trimester, in which I am currently firmly ensconced. I feel fine physically. I notice myself getting tired a bit more easily, but nothing terrible. My belly has definitely popped, but it's not too uncomfortable yet. The ultrasounds are so cool, revealing a creature that looks like an actual baby, rather than the mere yolk sac or amorphous blob that you see in the earlier stages. I finally look pregnant rather than fat, so that's nice.

And I'm feeling kicks and flutters, which is awesome. Truly the most magical part of pregnancy. My friend Lisa likens the baby's kicks to always feeling like you have company. And it's true. When I feel a little thump, I'll think, "hi, honey!" and give my belly a pat. My little girl and I are forming a connection.

But at the same time, I've still got a long way to go. I feel bulky and have to sit a certain way or my breathing feels restricted. It's harder to chase Zeke around. I want my body back, but with another 4 1/2 months ahead of me, there's nothing to do but hunker down and get ready for ...

PHASE 3/THIRD TRIMESTER -- YOU WANT TO TAKE THE ROSE, STOMP ON IT WITH POINTY-HEELED SHOES, PULVERIZE IT IN A BLENDER, AND SHOVE THE REMAINS UP SOMEONE'S ASS

The final stretch of the marathon was brutal. My legs felt like leaden stumps. I was tired and sore. The only way I got through it was to focus on the music coming through my headphones, and to tell myself to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Adding insult to injury were the people lining the race route for the last mile or so. They were so sweet and encouraging, cheering and clapping and saying things like, "you're almost there! Just a little ways further!"

What they don't realize is that at that point in a marathon, you don't want to hear it. Amazingly, every single person I ran with felt the same way. Rather than feeling buoyed by the cheering crowds, the universal reaction seemed to be thoughts along the line of, "ach, fuck off already. Don't tell me how close I am. If you had any idea how long this last half a mile feels, you wouldn't tell me I'm almost done. You'd just shut your freakin' pie hole and let me get on with it."

Same with pregnancy, if memory serves. You're exhausted, huge, cumbersome, uncomfortable, dealing with heartburn and hemorrhoids, and feeling like the last 6 weeks take 6 months. Everyone wants to call and talk about it and be all excited with you, which is lovely, but really, you just want to be left alone to deal with it on your own, because talking about it makes you grumpy.**

So, Yay! 20 weeks!

And Ugh! 20 more weeks.

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*Yeah, yeah, I know pregnancy is supposed to be 9 months. But actually, it's 40 weeks, which is closer to 10 months.

**I wrote this blog post 4 days before going into labor with Zeke.