Ch-ch-ch-changes! 34 weeks, 4 days

I think I’ll remember this week as the week things changed. The week when it dawned on me, all of a sudden, and rather late in the proverbial game, all things considered, that I was going to, like, you know, birth this baby. As in, next month.

Part of it was the symptoms, the godforsaken everloving, unrelenting SYMPTOMS. Not that they haven’t been here before. But there’s been something about this week – a ratcheting up, an intensity, a this-shit-just-got-real ness, never before felt.

• Heartburn: 24/7
• Baby somersaults: all the freakin time[1]
• Baby hiccups: on the regular
• That which shall not be named[2]: happening and also, gross
• Sleep: a fleeting memory, a relic of the past
• Toni Braxtons[3]: in a way that left C panicked last night at the dinner table and furiously scribbling a list of items to pack in my totally-premature-oh-my-goodness-we-have-six-entire-weeks-left hospital bag
• Ability to get out of bed without engaging in a convoluted series of roll-tuck-elbow-hoist maneuvers generally reserved for the very fat and the very old: limited
• Socks: shockingly difficult to put on

Of course, it’s not just physical[4]. My appointments with the OB are now every two weeks, instead of every four. At our most recent appointment, in addition to printing us a (pretty obscure and needless to say, neither wanted nor requested) photograph of our son’s scrotum[5], the nurse checked the head position – downward and, excuse me while I slip into what I believe is medical jargon: ready to roll! We also discussed circumcision (yup), who will be with me in the room (C) and our feelings about the all consuming, often articulated, rarely followed, BIRTH PLAN (more on that soon).

What can I say you guys, this is happening. It’s happening in the way that I feel like my body is distinctly no longer my own – yes, my stomach has been rounder and rounder, my thigh gap[6] less and less existent and my waddle more and more pronounced – but until this week, I still felt, more or less, between moments of throwing-up-while-putting-on-my-shoes, like me. And now? Now I feel like a vessel. A uterus for the greater good. A carrier pigeon with an important delivery (I’ve gone too far).

It’s not something I can entirely articulate. See supra, obviously. But it’s there. It’s different. It’s I-could-actually-have-this-baby-right-now-and-things-might-actually-be-okay (plus/minus NICU).

Which of course, brings us back to where I started this rambling bullet pointed post: Birth. Labor. Basically, UTTER TERROR. A discussion of which will have to wait until next time. Now excuse me while I figure out how to get up off this couch in the absence of some kind of hydraulic lift.

34 weeks and making a cameo as what I will fondly refer to as, "Pregnancy Fitness Barbie."
Minus the cleavage.
(Note to future self: spandex is never as flattering as you might lead yourself to believe).

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[1] Imagine if you put a live and rather energetic chicken in a paper bag, closed the paper bag, and then encouraged the chicken to try to get out. I am pretty sure my son is that chicken. We’re hoping ultrasound can soon confirm. (ProTip: Google searching for YouTube videos of “chicken in a paper bag” is much more likely to turn up hits like “5 Minutes Cooking with Auntie Nora” and “A Recipe for Chicken Waikiki” than the video you might have imagined in your head). Also, this. What on earth?

[2] But in all seriousness, I cannot say this thing out loud. Because, mature adult, etc.

[3] In our household we call Braxton-Hicks contractions “Toni Braxtons.” What can I say, we like to live on the edge.

[4] Immediately upon writing that, this song got stuck in my head for, oh, approximately forever. Oh, Olivia, you slay me!

[5] <Presently contemplating if, when and how to torment him with this, while counterbalancing such considerations against the exorbitant cost of hourly therapy>. Thoughts from the group?

[6] Preach on, sisterfriend!

thirty week surprise, 30 weeks, 5 days

Things were going too smoothly. Apparently, in all my heartburn-low-back-pain-can-hardly-put-on-my-shoes-and-I-will-never-sleep-again glory, I was just a little too comfortable. Smug, even. Enter, stage left: THE UNIVERSE.

On Friday, ladies and gentleman[1], there was blood. Of course, if we put on our remembering caps, we may recall that this pregnancy began with blood – like of the you’re-so-not-pregnant! variety. The kind where you may or may not wind up hunched over the kitchen table, ugly crying[2] into your insert-bowl-of-fattening-comfort-food-here while your partner tries to remain stoic in the face of GREAT UNCERTAINTY AND TERROR. The kind that leaves you doubting even the canned implantation bleeding speech of the fertility clinic nurse[3] and the wisdom of the goons sages on Yahoo! Answers. Because, dammit, it just feels like your period.

Of course, we all now know that I have literally zero insight into my own body because, bam: pregnant with human baby.

And so on Friday, when, at 30 weeks on the dot, there was blood, well, I was thrown. But this time it was not so much for my panic – though there was that – but more for C’s reaction. For C’s UTTER TERROR. For the wavering in his voice and the you-are-going-to-the-doctor-right-now-and-I-am-cancelling-all-my-afternoon-appointments-immediately defiantness. Of course, by then the bleeding had stopped and I had somehow managed to white-knuckle my way through coast through five solid hours of work. But the doctor agreed – I should come in. Just to, you know, make sure.

The short version of the story is that following my first speculum exam in FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN[4], I was pronounced completely fine. We even played a fun game where the nurse and C squeezed the baby’s foot and we watched his heart rate soar[5] and the nurse complimented me on the non-swollen appearance of my ankles[6].

Back at home, both relieved, I wanted to know why C was so worried – what was the thing he thought was happening. And then, just like that, out it came: BEDREST. That’s it. That’s what rendered him panicked and shaky. Sure, there was also, earlylaborplacentapreviacatastrophecatastrophecatastrophe. But really, it was just one thing, one thing that he knew, after 11 years of being together, would really screw with me: BEDREST.

Because here’s the thing, dear interwebs. If I’m not active, If I’m sitting too long, if I don’t exercise, if can’t get outside, if I’m stuck in one place for more than seven minutes: I slowly begin to, how do I say this? Lose my ever-loving shit[7]. And C, dear, sweet C, he knows that about me.

(Okay, let’s face it. C knew that his life would be a WAKING NIGHTMARE if I were suddenly confined to the couch for the next ten weeks. He was looking out for his own wellbeing. And, you know, mine and the baby’s. Maybe.)

This is me. On bedrest. 

Because this is what turns up when you Google Image search “going crazy on bedrest”. In stark contrast, Google Image searching “going crazy on bed rest” reveals a picture of Hulk Hogan with an orange boa. Because, OBVIOUSLY. I could not make this stuff up if I tried, you guys.

P.S. Yesterday I bent over to put on my shoes and <wait for it> I threw up. Sure, it was early in the morning, a time when I usually have a touch of the nausea. And yes, there is less and less room for my vital organs, food and GIANT BABY with each passing minute. But if I’m not mistaken, I bent over and, exactly one second later, the pressure on my stomach was such that there was, actually, quite literally, no more room. How is this a thing? This was totally not mentioned in any of the pregnancy books, you guys.

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[1] I’m assuming there’s only one of you, tops.

[2] Thank you Huffington Post for this Kim-Kardashian-ugly-crying-montage profound piece of hard-hitting journalism.

[3] Lesson learned: never, ever doubt her.

[4] Deep insight: I prefer to keep my pants on.

[5] It’s amazing what passes for “fun” by week 30. I’m guessing my standards will only be lowered further for the next 18 years. Noted.

[6] I’m blushing. Now if only I could still see my ankles.

[7] See also when Phil Dunphy explains that Claire is “like a border collie” and needs to get out for a run every day. Yes. That. (And no, this is not some kind of backdoor brag – more an indication that I am probably in need of heavy sedation/years of therapy.)

euphoria tempered by utter terror: a retrospective

I wrote this on Wednesday evening. I was living in a state of euphoria tempered by utter terror. Because of the overwhelming feeling that was the latter, I couldn’t post in real time. But, after the fact, when things are different, here you are. I wrote something this morning, too. That’s up next. Then we’ll be back to real time.

Well hello big, bad interwebs. There’s something I’ve been keeping from you. The last week has been, in a word: surreal. 

On Friday evening, anxious and being the reckless dolt that I am poorly attuned to timing and, um, math, I took a pregnancy test. It came back negative. C and I went out for sushi and frozen yogurt to commiserate.

I promised myself that I would wait until my blood test on Wednesday and not act rashly – that I would not go out to the store and buy another three pack of pregnancy tests so that I could take one each and every day until then. Of course, this being reality, I could not keep such promises. After all, I already had one extra pregnancy test stashed in a bathroom cabinet and I began deviously plotting when I would take it – secretly, under cover of night, etc.

As it turns out… at (approximately) 4:22 am on Tuesday morning, I awoke with a start.  (I didn’t tell the doctor this next part because it makes me sound unhinged sounds made up. But since the interweb audience is primed for my candor…) Where was I. I awoke with a start and sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. I had just had the most vivid pregnancy dream. In the dream, I took a pregnancy test and it came back positive (forget the part where I was 19 and living at my parents’ house – that’s obviously irrelevant). I stayed in bed until 4:35 when I decided I just had to do it already. Calmly and quietly, I got out of bed and I peed on that stick. <Anticipation builds to a virtual crescendo. >

You guys: I got a faint positive. A positive so faint I googled so many iterations of “faint positive and clear blue pregnancy test” that by the end, I was sure I was giving birth to twin leopards, breech (thanks Yahoo Answers!). Oh, also – of course I woke up C. I had to. Only his (incredibly sleepy, bewildered and confused) doctor eyes could confirm whether this was, in fact, a faint positive or merely a middle of the night, dream induced aberration of my pregnancy-hungry eyes. He confirmed the former, though not without pausing meaningfully to consider the latter. Even the dog came to take a look – at which point C patted the dog on the head and said dreamily, and I quote “Oh Luna, you’re gonna be a papa.” (Luna is a girl dog and we’re pretty sure C is the father. It was early.).