week in review, 20 weeks, 5 days

Week in review. It's like the New York Times but with more fetus. 
Without further adieu, here is the last week[1] in my very own, narcissistic, pregnancy related news[2]:

Thursday, 8/1

As if I haven’t suffered enough pregnancy related indignities[3] – (I barely told you about the DIAPER RASH[4] that enveloped my boobs basically forever) – on this day I had to endure another atrocity: hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Now. I try to be real on this blog. Like, real real[5]. But a long time ago, when I was young and naïve and thought of when I would have kids and never if, after reading a particularly “compelling” and “eye opening” and “utterly disgusting” first person account of pregnancy article in that venerable, hard hitting journalistic masterpiece, SELF magazine, I made a profound and steadfast decision: when I got pregnant, I would do so without getting hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Because, honestly, who needs that? NOT THIS GIRL. Needless to say, I was very disappointed in my body and it’s impaired decision making stick-to-it-tive-ness. Yes, friends, Thursday was a rough day.

But instead of perseverating, I spent the next several hours determined to blow my entire paycheck on all-the-pretty-baby-clothes (like these hipster threads and these, some of which C says are too gender-neutralizing-burlap-sack but which i say are gimme-those-overalls!).

Friday, 8/2

Oh, Friday. You were a good day. We had dinner (smitten kitchen charred corn crepes with grilled veggies, some fish that C caught, fresh guacamole and mango salsa, none of which I took pictures of because HUNGRY) with friends (only one of whom affectionately inquired about the alien growing in my belly). The weather was perfect, the food was fresh and for the first time in a long time, I really just wanted a beer. *rubs beer belly baby belly*

Saturday, 8/3

With C on call at the hospital, I visited a friend and her 3 month old son. While pleasantly mesmerized by his baby fingernails and dissipating male pattern baldness, I was woken from my reverie and spontaneously reminded by my dear friend that – wait for it – baby boys have "huge balls." *Duly noted*. Also, both our sons will probably go into therapy because their mothers had such a conversation.

Moving right along. I spent the afternoon determined to find not-ill-fitting professional maternity pants and to consume frozen yogurt – but not in that order and the latter was really just as a vehicle for unrestrained candy consumption. BECAUSE I CAN.

Sunday, 8/4

C and I venture forth into baby-store-landia where we encounter various breeds of expectant parents. Brutish dads (“SHE (referring to his wife) WILL BE WALKING EVERYWHERE. SHE WILL NEED THIS STROLLER!”), aggressive moms (one friendly mother-to-be literally yanked a stroller out of my hands and shoved me aside, such was her passion for parenthood), the parents weighed down by incomprehensible data they aggregated from consumer reports magazine (seriously, how is that even still a thing that anyone but my father uses?). We didn’t buy anything but we did amuse ourselves by placing stuffed alligators in Ergo carriers and throwing around faux baby sacks from stroller to stroller. Because, you know, MATURE ADULTS TOTALLY READY TO PARENT.

Monday, 8/5

It’s Monday morning and the fetus-child is unhappy to be in court by 8 am. I know because while I wait for my client’s case to be called, he (baby, not client) is pummeling me from the inside. At which point I have this moment like um, hey, can everyone see what’s happening here? Or is that just me? MMMkay.

Late in the day – when I’m looking especially round and glowing with pregnancy bloated-ness – a grizzly middle aged man at a furniture store greeted me with thickly accented eastern European English, "a blessing is coming!" (Mark this as the first time a stranger has pointed out that I am pregnant. So, umm…everybody wins?).

Tuesday, 8/6

Ohhai, Tuesday. What the hell is that? OH RIGHT. NAUSEA. Because, you know, I was getting used to not keeping a Ziploc of cheerios on my bedside table to ward off the early morning queasiness.

Today I think serious thoughts about work life balance and my role as lawyer-mother (which is not to be confused with earth-mother). Being a walking uterus, there’s no downplaying that like, you know, other shit is going on in my life. I have some really deep thoughts that are presently escaping me. Mostly I read this and the take away is something like, this would be more compelling if the author wasn’t a professor at Harvard and also, balance! (Okay, truthfully, I have a lot of feelings on this. But I’ll save them for not-a-week-in-review-shortcut-of-a-post, pleaseandthankyou).

Wednesday, 8/7

Oh Wednesday, I thought you’d never come. Wednesday is when I prove to you guys that I actually do have a bump (see below). And that I put it under a black dress pretty much on the regular.

Also: YOGA! Which was especially super tonight because (1) the woman to my right was “41 week and a few days pregnant”; (2) someone always offers Tums; and (3) my teacher instructed us to “allow the flower to open at the base of your pelvic floor[6]!”

 

(Keeping it classy by replacing my face with my iPhone.)

So there you have it. What about you guys, how was your week? 

(Has anyone else noticed that I waffled violently between using the past and present tense throughout this post? I know, my grammar is appalling. As is my decision-making ability, apparently.)

<End rant>.

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[1] I know what you’re thinking. But its just Wednesday. Just go with it, okay?

[2] By which I mean that I swear my entire life isn’t consumed by baby. For example, this exciting tour through my uterus does not include such storied events as the many episodes of Orange is the New Black which I have consumed in the last week or the totally-working! record player that our neighbors threw away and we now have on display in our living room and many other REALLY EXCITING PURSUITS.

[3] And by that I mean basically the same ones all pregnant ladies suffer – heartburn, having to pee all the time, hormones!, nausea, having to pee all the time, erratic sleeping habits, mostly related to having to pee all the time, etc. – except that mine included shingles so I win. (Also, on a related note, I actually really don’t mind all this <motions to aforementioned symptoms but mostly to the peeing, oh the everloving peeing!>. Being pregnant feels… good, even?)

[4] Because that is the official diagnosis. And the cure? More cow bell! Wear cotton bras, or better yet no bras (because, you know, nothing screams working, professional like that…), apply anti-fungal cream, rinse and repeat. I could not make this stuff up. Clearly the universe is PREPARING ME. It’s all so meta.

[5] Seriously, someone please filter me. I cannot help myself.

[6] I did not do this as instructed because I was pretty sure that I would just pee myself. Also, I don’t listen to direction very well.

pants-less wonder, 17 weeks, 2 days

Sometimes it’s the moments you least expect that let you know that yes, you really are, pregnant.

It’s not that I wake up at least 2-3 times a night to pee; it’s not that I now lean forward while peeing, with my torso roughly parallel to the tile floor, tilting my uterus to extract every last drop and per the musical medical wizardry of my doctor husband, sing the alphabet before I get up off the toilet JUST TO MAKE SURE THERE’S NO MORE PEE[1]; it’s not that my gums bled for a week and a half every time I lightly brushed my ever-loving-extra-sensitive-so-much-blood-rushing-to-every-vessel! teeth; it’s not that I could eat pad thai noodles or vegetarian sushi all day every day and, still, have only a mild and fleeting interest in chocolate; it’s not that my boobs are suddenly like ohhai!-we’re-no-longer-just-on-the-cusp-of-a-measly-b-cup-please-and-thank-you; it’s not that I’m in full on, beyond cliché, nauseatingly domestic nesting mode, transparently ogling the strollers of the neighborhood moms and practically giddy over a mint condition “arm’s reach co-sleeper” we scored for forty bucks at a yard sale; it’s not that I cried snotty, messy, sobs over my granola just one minute in to the latest StoryCorps and scrambled to turn off the radio while C, alternately flabbergasted and amused, looked on, mouth agape; it’s not that I returned to pre-natal yoga[2], where a series of wall-sits were compared to “each minute of a contraction!” or that during these wall sits our instructor, who clutches her vagina when demonstrating something involving the pelvic floor, allowed us to scream out in pain, as though in labor, and the woman two down from me took her word for it and belted out, in between some kind of part orgasm/part shriek, kinky mother fucker son of a bitch!; it’s not that I got pregnancy-shingles[3] and have now been blessed with a new mystery what’s-the-word-I’m-looking-for?-oh-right-SEXY rash that seems to be consuming my left boob[4]; it’s not that I heard the beating heart, with my own two ears, or saw a giant fetus head, with my own two eyes; and it's certainly not that I'm complaining about any of this because, hello-this-was-the-goal.

No. It’s not any of these things.

There is just one thing that strikes me as the real moment when I felt like, aww shucks, I really am pregnant. It was earlier this week, when it suddenly came over me that I am carrying a human fetus truly, deeply, sincerely and genuinely: COMPLETELY UNINTERESTED IN WEARING PANTS.

Oh sure, they all still kinda, sorta fit (ish). The bump is definitely, happening, emerging, present. But also intermittently concealable depending on the time of day and the amount of pad thai I’ve consumed in the last 24 hours. And sure, there’s one pair of stretchy black umm-could-these-possibly-pass-as-everyday-pants-in-a-professional-environment? J.Crew pajama pants that I could live in. But otherwise, I am just, well, 100% not interested. In fact, it’s more than disinterest – it’s an all consuming revulsion. And I’d like to say that it’s no big deal. That it’s summer. That I’ll just wear adorable, well fitting, pregnancy chic sundresses for the next five months. But we need to be honest with ourselves. We all know what’s coming: MUUMUU![5]

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[1] There’s always more. THERE IS ALWAYS MORE EFFING URINE.

[2] Which I secretly kind of love.

[3] Yeah. That’s definitely hyphenated.

[4] I know, I know, you’re on the edge of your seats. More soon.

[5] Vast Waistband Salesman: “Many of our clients find pants confining, so we offer a range of alternatives for the ample gentleman: ponchos, muumuus, capes, jumpsuits, unisheets, muslin body rolls, academic and judicial robes.” 


Homer Simpson: “I don’t want to look like a weirdo.  I’ll just go with a muumuu.”

rhymes with shingles

What’s that? Despite the nauseating feeling you experience upon breathing you’re interested in swallowing a pill the size of a deck of cards five times a day for seven days? Accompanied by a strange rash and general feeling of total body malaise? WELL HOLD THE EVERLOVING PHONE. Shingles it is!

I would be remiss if I did not tell you – I have shingles. That’s right. All you discerning readers who thought that my casual mention of “shingles” in my last post was just another one of my whimsical, hyperbolic, and melodramatic cries for attention? Well, you were right. But on Friday I confirmed what I feared all along! since approximately 48 hours ago. The red, vesicular rash on the right side of my abdomen that alternately feels itchy and ultra-sensitive has been with us – all of us! we are the world[1]! etc. – since Monday. But it wasn’t until rapid-fire consultation with five different physicians[2] that I had the pleasure of a confirmed diagnosis and VERY AGGRESSIVE treatment plan – pills, deck of cards, take by mouth basically every 15 minutes, etc. – to follow.

So here I am, REALLY, REALLY needing to get back to like, being a competent and together lawyer, because I can only be excused for so many doctors appointments in one 72 hour period unsure whether the intermittent waves of nausea and sudden predilection for bland carbohydrates – and distaste for, no, ABSOLUTE DISGUST FOR, chocolate and sweets[3] – have more to do with the toxic horse pills or the gaggle of cells hopefully-developing-normally in my uterus[4]. Also, let’s be honest – the absurdity of having shingles during my first trimester, after trying desperately to get and stay pregnant for 14 months is really, truly HILARIOUS[5]. <end scene>

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[1] The best kind of vintage MTV. Also, Bethenny Frankel has totally been rocking an MJ look lately. (Yeah, that’s right, I just referenced Bethenny Frankel. What of it?)

[2] Doctor #1 (primary care doctor): <takes one look> It looks like zoster[2]. I’m giving you a prescription for Acyclovir, one pill, five times a day, for seven days. The OBs say it won’t affect the pregnancy.

Doctor #2 (OB who primary care doctor has consulted regarding treatment because, hellopregnantohmygodFETUS! and who has kindly run up five flights of stairs to inspect me herself): <panting – you know, from running – takes one look> I agree with [Doctor #1]. It looks like zoster. Cue: many reassuring words about how zoster has no effect on a developing fetus despite what you may have read on webmd/the treatment is completely safe in pregnancy.

[Intermission, i.e. Thursday evening, in which C, on call at the hospital, where I have just been for two hours, is basically having an aneurysm and freaking the fuck out. Unsatisfied with merely two opinions, he pulls strings so that I can see an infectious disease doctor first thing Friday morning.]

Doctor #3 (infectious disease fellow): <takes one, slightly longer look> It looks like zoster to me. But I want to bring in the attending to see what she thinks.

Doctor #4 (infectious disease attending): <deep in concentration, even breaks out a little flashlight for some serious inspection, which naturally makes me feel like I’m in a spy thriller because obviously> Hmmmmm. I’m not sure it’s zoster. I would stop taking the medication. If it is zoster, it’s mild and it should resolve on its own. There’s no evidence that Acyclovir harms a pregnancy but you’re so early on and there just isn’t a lot of evidence on the effect of Acyclovir in pregnancy. Call your OB and see what she thinks.

<Sarah, *face palm*, panicked, having already taken 3 doses of what now appears to be fetus poison, etc.>

Doctor #5 (my “high risk[2]” obstetrician who I haven’t actually been properly referred to yet because I haven’t actually had my first ultrasound with the fertility clinic but whose nurse suffers through my calls regardless): YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST FINISH THE ENTIRE CYCLE OF MEDICATION. THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

[3] The horror! But seriously, folks. Let us take a moment to mourn the loss of this very important food interest. And please check back for my absolutely captivating forthcoming post detailing the CATASTOPHIC changes in my quibbling, disgusting, only-eats-starch diet which I continue to resist (unsuccessfully). You know, between the waves of nausea and fear of scurvy. 

[4] I know, I know. Nausea plus strong food aversions plus boobs-so-sore-no-touching! is, potentially, good news. But like my dear friend Tina Fey says, “My ability to turn good news into anxiety is rivaled only by my ability to turn anxiety into chin acne.” <it’s like she knows me!>

[5] I am nearly certain that this baby is ripping up my medical bills. Good baby.