Everyone has heard about how the surging hormones of a pregnant woman cause her moods to swing faster than a married couple at a key party. Happy one minute, crying on the kitchen floor the next; cuddling with the hubby on the couch, then suddenly wondering what it would feel like to smash his head in with a hammer.
While I do expect to have my ups and downs, I’m not really an emotional person. In fact, I pride myself on being able to rationally assess almost any situation. I might shed a tear or two over some particularly poignant movie moment or an especially sad story in the paper, but I don’t expect to find myself sobbing in the grocery store because they’re all out of Simply Orange (please, it is the only orange juice).
The first time I had an inkling that I might be pregnant I was playing with our beloved dog, Astro. I looked at that handsome puppy face of his and said, “How are you cuter than normal?” Then I turned to Snowman and said, “He is cuter than normal, isn’t he? How is that possible? He is like 33% cuter than yesterday.”
Was this my maternal instinct kicking in? Possibly. And since that day, I have to say, Astro is consistently cuter than normal.
Today while writing an email to a colleague about how frustrated I am at work I might have cried a little bit. At my desk. Even though no one saw, I’m still embarrassed as I generally do not believe crying at work will ever result in anything good. The worst part is that I can’t even blame it on the baby because I haven’t told anyone at work yet that I’m pregnant. Looking forward to my reputation as the unhinged lady in cube 3.
Still if that’s the worst my hormones can do, I can’t really complain, can I? (NB: Do not tell a pregnant woman she cannot complain or she will rip your heart out.)
The day after I found out I was pregnant, I went straight to Barnes & Noble and bought What to Expect When You're Expecting* and the current issue of Fit Pregnancy**. So here is Kate Dillon on the cover. Apparently she is a well-known plus-size model, but I'd never heard of her before. Still, doesn't she look gorgeous? Her hair is full and shiny; her face is luminous; her body is full and lush; her clothes are comfy and chic. If I looked half that good on my best day of pregnancy, I'd be thrilled.
Have you seen...
What in the hell...??? Look at that swollen nightmare of an appendage! Where of the curved arch? Where of the tapered ankle? This looks like a mound of yeasty dough ready for the oven.
It's nice to know air-brushing can't fix everything.
*Despite loving to read, I have a fairly strict policy of not buying books. I borrow from friends and the library and am occasionally gifted a book or two at my birthday. W2EWYE is a great "borrow" book...except when you're not telling anyone until the 2nd tri and you don't have your first prenatal appointment for three weeks...basically you gotta go buy the damn thing yourself. Well played, W2E. Well played.
**How is a subscription to a magazine that publishes 6 times a year $17? A subscription to any magazine should be $1/issue 12 times per annum. I'm willing to pay more for a real magazine like National Geographic, but Fit Pregnancy, despite your propensity for boobies, are no National Geographic.
Weight's back in normal range, which is not surprising. Notwithstanding last week's pork-a-thon, once I found out I was pregnant I promised myself I would eat better and I have. Lots more vegetables, more milk, less chips and crackers, no soda. Doesn't being pregnant sound fun?
Groupon (Living Social? I can't keep them straight) just sent out an email about 1/2-off ATV rentals out in the desert. Believe it or not, I have never ridden an ATV and I really, really want to!
While pregnant? Not so much.
Also apparently not a good time to start P90X.
But the really upsetting bit of news I've learned is that I can't sleep on my back after the first trimester due to something about crushing your vena cava...passing out...fatal...I was so mad I stopped reading. No one knows this other than my husband, but I only sleep on my back and stomach.
I am going to start a diary called Ways I Have Suffered for My Son. It will undoubtedly be a great companion piece to his Ways My Parents Have Messed Me Up for Life.
One of the goals of this blog is to write about all the things that happen when you become a parent that “no one tells you about.” I feel like new parents say that all the time: “No one told me it would be this hard;” “No one told me I would love this much;” “No one told me my body would look this way.” Mostly when my new-parent friends say this I think to myself, “Really? I feel like people say that all the time. Are you just not listening?” Of course, I understand: when someone says, “You will never be not tired again,” you think, “Okay I get it.” But until you are rocking a colicky baby at 4am for the seventh night in a row when you have to go to work in three hours you don’t really get it.
I would like to tell you what it’s like to rock a colicky baby to sleep at 4 am—well, I wouldn’t because who would want to have a colicky baby? But if it happens, I will tell you. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Here, really, is the first thing I’ve discovered about being pregnant that no one told me: the doctor will not see you now.
I assumed that as soon as you got that positive blue line, plus sign, red dot—whatever the indicator—your OB/GYN would want to see you right away. Tell you how you’re doing; tell you what you should be doing. Turns out, not so much. They don’t care to see you until you’re 8-10 weeks along, in fact.
So when Snowman and I decided we wouldn’t tell anyone until we had seen the doctor for confirmation that the pregnancy was legit, I assumed we’d be waiting a few days—not a few weeks. Once we realized how long we’d have to wait—3 weeks at this point—we decided we couldn’t wait and told our family.
So I really hope I’m pregnant.
From the doctor’s point of view, I understand why they wait. If you miscarry this early, there is nothing a doctor can do to prevent it. Also, at this stage the baby doesn’t have any vitals so the doctor can’t really do anything other than administer a blood test to confirm the bun is cooking in your 98.6° oven.
Which could be useful, because it’d be mighty embarrassing to find out I’m not really pregnant at all. I mean I am eating a lot of vegetables right now when I’d rather be eating Frito pie.
Now from the mother’s perspective. Are you seriously going let me float along on my own for three more weeks without any sort of medical guidance at all? Did you not see my previous post? I’m just popping pills, washing them down with Jack, eating soft cheese until I stink, and I may even eat tilefish tomorrow! I do not know what the fuck I’m doing.
He's (yes, he...we'll get to that later) only about three weeks old and already I've cobbled together a mental list of the things I've done which will no doubt cause him to be born with three noses and seven arms. You'd think seven arms might be, well, handy, but he doesn't have hands at the ends of those arms. He has feet. Maybe they're seven legs...
Cold medicine before I knew I was pregnant (BIK).
One hot toddy BIK.
A French macaroon yesterday, made, I'm sure, from unpasteurized egg whites which were not fully cooked.
One Super Bowl drink BIK. This kid is sure gonna love his bourbon.
Goat cheese at lunch.
Prescription meds which are not pregnancy-safe BIK.
At this point why don't I just take a page from the Mackenzie Phillips prenatal care playbook and shoot some heroin between my toes, then pass out on the toilet?