Okay, even after going to school for 900 years, delivering a few hundred babies or so and counseling multiple mommies-to-be on what to expect during their pregnancy and labor, I can now safely say that until you've actually gone through it yourself, you have no clue what is really going on. Now that Ollie is here (in case you missed it, he showed up on 8/9/10 at 5:58 pm) and I've been on the other side of the whole ordeal, I'd like to pass on a few pearls that I will definitely be incorporating into my spiel (possibly not in this exact language) to wannabe and actual preggers if I ever go back to work again.
1. Braxton-hicks vs the real thing: Now, I've been shot down by many other women who've had babies when I've discussed my feelings on this topic, but, that's just too bad. Here goes. So I had the 'practice' contractions from about 24 weeks on, but not seriously until about 34 weeks. Right about the time I took a little holiday to Louisiana and StL in the middle of my last trimester ( I know, genius) I got a little dehydrated and overexerted myself and got to feel the tightening in the belly and the firmness that wouldn't let me push my finger into my belly to pursue my only form of exercise and favorite daily activity of annoying my baby by smooshing on him. I even would occasionally feel some pressure in the nether regions and all that jazz.
This was nothing compared to the real thing. For all you chicks out there on the show "I didn't know I was pregnant" and all those high schoolers delivering in a bathroom stall because they weren't sure if they were in labor or not, I'm calling bullshit. I had my first REAL contraction on August the 8th at 3:14 pm. It's like how everyone knows where they were when Kennedy was shot, it was so different and painful and took my breath away that, even now, I can picture exactly where I was standing at the BMX race, under the tent, in the 100 degree heat, unable to move or release my death grip on the chair I was leaning on. They continued on and got SIGNIFICANTLY worse throughout the evening until finally at 10:30pm, when labor officially started. At that point, I was like someone with an acute appendix because every 3 minutes for the three hours I stayed at home and tried to 'sleep it off' (not a move I recommend, fyi, but a doctor can't be running into the birthing unit unless she knows FOR SURE she's in labor or risk the entire nursing staff talking about what a dumbass she is in the event that she is not in labor any of the seven times she makes the journey), it felt like my entire abdomen and pelvis was being squeezed in a vice by someone trying to pull a bowling bowl through my vagina.
It was interesting, though, that in between said attempts on my life, I was perfectly fine. One second, I'm cleaning the bathroom floor, the next I can't breath/talk/stand/sit/move for a minute and then I'm right back at it with the clorox. I think that's why my hubby was somewhat reluctant when finally at 1:00am, I woke him up with the announcement that we should probably go to the hospital right-this-second-now. I was secretly sure that I was like 7cm, but there will be more on that later.
2. When you realize you're really having a baby, you kind of lose it. In my case, my hubby pulled up into the ER garage (when you go in to labor in the middle of the night, this is the only way into the hospital...who knew?), and I got out and started waddling through the ER like everything was fine and hoping no one noticed me as I snuck up to the family birthing unit. Unfortunately for me, this was not a typical Sunday night and there was no one in the ER except all the docs and nurses I get to work with all the time. Everything was fine for about 3 seconds until the first one saw me and asked the horribly intrusive and awful question, "would you like a wheelchair?" This was apparently enough to make me realize, yes, I was indeed here to have a baby...and he was coming out through my vagina...in a very short time. It was at this point that I turned into a blubbering fat puddle of goo and despite my protests that, "no, I'm not in pain, I'm fine, I just need to get upstairs"(which I'm sure didn't sound that coherent as I previously mentioned I was a blubbering fat puddle of goo), EVERYONE in the ER came over to 'help' (read stare at the poor blubbering fat puddle of goo with 'poor crazy her' eyes) so my entrance to the hospital was less than as incognito as I'd hoped.
3. Better living through medicine: I've had the talk with my patients literally thousands of times about pain medicine in labor. Do they want anything, what are the options, what would I do, yada, yada, yada. Well guess what? I just re-wrote that whole convo because there's not a chance in hell that I could have gone through with that whole labor charade without the magic of the epidural. So, I get into the triage room and it was like my uterus said "okay, it's go time" and the contractions instantly picked up the pace and the intensity to the point where I was autistic-like rocking on the bed trying to breathe through them...to no avail. The nurse checked me (remember I was sure I was 7cm and he was falling out at this point) only to inform me that I'd sat at home for hours through all this pain to change from the 2 cm I'd been in clinic to a whopping 3 whole centimeters dilated. STFU, is what I was thinking as I said, 'well, I guess we can go home if I'm not in labor (silently cursing myself at this point and simlutaneously wondering where I could find a drug dealer this time of night to take care of this pain if she did indeed agree with my horrible suggestion).' She assured me, I was indeed in labor from the frequency of my contractions and the little change I'd made and got the okay from my doc to give me a little taste of nubain while I was waiting to transfer to a delivery room and get my epidural. FYI, it's a little known fact that nubain has another name and is better known as 'sugar water.' That's right, after not taking a single pain pill or having a drink in the 9 months of pregnancy, I was sure that a narcotic would drop me to the floor. This was soooo not the case and the nubain or 'nothing' as I like to also call it, did just that for my pain. It did however curb the waves of nausea, a pleasant little side note, in an unexpected flash of serendipity. More on that later.
Anywho, I got to the delivery room and my best anesthesia buddy in the world tossed in that epidural as quick as he could have whipped up a salami and cheese sammy and I was off in dense, deluded happy drug land from then on out. That is, until I was 7 cm and because of all of the flipping back in forth in bed to keep my epidural even on both sides, the catheter came unscrewed. READ I went from complete numbness from the waist down to completely aware of every pain receptor from the waist down in about 8 minutes flat. In the 13 minutes it took us to realize what had happened, call the nurse who called the anesthesia angel, him to come hook me back up and give me a hit... I mean bolus of narcotic, I was fairly certain that I would die. I'm not joking. Apparently, those contractions I'd been having when I couldn't feel a thing had done a number on my body as they were VERY strong. Having been contracting every 1-3 minutes for 15 hours by this point was a pretty good workout, I suppose since when the epidural wore off, I was clutching the rail in a death grip, hyperventilating, tears streaming and sure I was screaming. My man tells me later that the only reason they knew I was in a lot of pain was because I was not talking through this period of time. Who knew I should have been playing poker all this time? Anywho, they hooked that bad boy back up and I was good to go within 20 minutes, like nothing had ever happened. Take home message: who cares if the epidural may or may not prolong labor (juries still out). As long as the epidural goes well (and doesn't fall out mid-showtime), I couldn't have cared how long labor was taking as long as I was comfortable. 15 hours or 20 hours doesn't make a huge difference at that point.
More to follow, but this mug is getting to be pretty long. Trust me 20 hours of labor brings about many more pearls, daniel-son.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Sleep and National Geographic vs Lord of the Rings
First Trimester
My dear friend sleep,
How do I love thee, let me count the ways. We've always had such a mutually beneficial and respectful relationship through my youth and this, I am very grateful for. Those 12-18 hour sleep marathons in high school, college and med school are what dreams are made of...literally. I can't sing your praises loudly enough as I appreciate the renewal and sense of peace and fulfillment you bring me. Due to my increase in fatigue during this period of my life, I'd like to say thanks for hanging in there and reviving the good ole' marathon schedule. Who knew growing a person would require so much shut eye and energy.
Forever yours, Me
Second Trimester
Dearest sleep,
What an interesting time we've had of late! I can't imagine where you are coming up with all those wicked dreams, but they sure make the exorbitant amount of time I'm spending in bed pass much more quickly. Thank goodness the fatigue has passed and now I'm able just to enjoy my sleep and feel refreshed as this little monster nudges and flips and kicks away in there. Not to be picky or tell you how to do your job, but do you think we could work in some 'good' dreams or at least if they're going to be x-rated in content, I actually know the players? Thanks again.
Your friend, Ko
33 weeks
Dear sleep,
First, I'd like to thank you for the opportunity to get at least 2-3 hours of quality time with you before having to get up and visit the washroom...2-3 times each night. I know all this waking isn't YOUR fault, so much as that of that mean-spirited bladder of mine. I'm trying to work things out with him so that our relationship is no longer affected. Please have patience as I'm doing everything I can to assure our time together remains special and pleasing for us both. Thanks for at least making an effort to change the crazy dreams, as I'm sure you did at the request of your old friend, and I'm sure that with time I'll be able to 'deal' and 'get over it' as you suggested.
Yours, Ko
35 weeks,
Hi Sleep,
Just wanted to drop a line to apologize for my 'little' freak out when I saw you hanging out with my bladder. I just had never imagined that you were friends as I couldn't think of anything you'd have in common...other than preventing me from resting as I grow a human in my belly. Haha! Just kidding, as I'm sure that's not the case...right? I'm sure the 'deep connection' you two have is squarely outside the realm of torturing me, your longtime allie. I appreciate you trying to talk sense into him as his new trick is to now have me wake every 1-2 hours and then to be wide awake as I wonder where you've gone. I know that I said I heard you two snickering as I lay wide awake for 2 hours the other night, but you're right. I did not hear two 'distinct' snickers so that was rude of me to assume of you.
Thanks for being understanding, Ko
37 weeks
Sleep,
Um, yeah. I guess I'm a little out of sorts right now as I never imagined us having this conversation. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt when it came to you being 'just friends' with my bladder, but now that I've caught you red handed, I'm more than a little dismayed. Between you and your little buddy, I'm now waking every 30-90 mins, not falling back into bliss and getting a total of 4-5 hours of broken rejuvenation each 9-11 hour night, if that. Seeing you two pointing and laughing at me while I worry about the lack of sleep affecting my baby and my mental health, was not only hurtful, but unforgivable. Did you forget that I also have a 7 year old that has more energy than a hamster on Red Bull to deal with each day following these restless nights? Or do you just not care? Did I really hear that you two have moved in together? Does our history mean nothing to you? That Bladder will betray you, just like he did me, and he'll leave you high and dry in 3 weeks or so and I won't be there to pick up the pieces.
Kourtney
38 weeks
Ha,
I told you that I didn't need you. Between my new friends, swimming and caffeine, I barely have a second each day to even think of you. I wouldn't take you back if my life depended on it. Swimming has really stepped up to the plate to help my whole body relax, not just my mind like you used to, and really has been great to Will too. You know, Will, my 7 year old who you never gave the time of day? Yeah, him, jerk. Oh and you would LOVE caffeine. Cappucino, soda, chocolate, you name it. He's always around to perk me up, make me laugh, and in general make me feel like a million bucks. And if he starts to dissipate, guess what? There's always more! He's NEVER not available and is always thinking of what he can do for me. Oh, and tell Bladder hi. Hope all the caffeine I've been running through there isn't a problem and the withholding of liquids after 3pm probably doesn't bother him either. You two deserve eachother!
Koko
39 weeks
I don't know how you got caffeine to turn on me but the crashes are more frequent and worse than when he wasn't around. And thanks again for not even letting me rest mid-crash when my head is pounding, my eyes bloodshot and my hands shaking like I just stepped off the electric chair. Oh, and you're welcome for swimming, too. Like I was supposed to know that with no rest or caffeine, I wouldn't even have the energy to float, let alone swim. You are a selfish friend stealer and you can all go suck it. I'm done. Ass.
Birth
Ahhhhhh. Sweet, sweet sleep. Maybe if you had let me in on the plan that you were tiring me out on purpose so that when my little bundle of joy arrived, I would be able to sleep when he slept and be awake when he was, I'd have been a little more patient and accepting of your discretions. At this point, I still want nothing to do with you as the joy and high of motherhood continues to keep me going despite your near absence. I have noticed your effort to help me drop into a sound slumber at the drop of a hat and this will be noted as you try to worm your way back into my life. How does it feel to be on the other side of the fence, not needed or wanted and lacking in purpose? Keep at it and I'm sure my forgiving soul will let you back with time...and lots of RPattz dreams (the good kind).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, to be in the last month of pregnancy and experience all the further changes to your temple...well it used to be a temple. Now, your body is an unrecognizable salvage yard for all the fugly, mismatched body parts leftover after a frankenstein family reunion got ugly. At my checkup last week, I actually informed my doctor that between the brown spotty melasma taking over my face and the 'breastfeeding ready' nipples that have elongated to that point that they will pretty soon necessitate buying them a bra of their own, that it's turning in to National Geographic up in here. So people, don't be surprised if you see me on the cover of the mag and no, I didn't join some remote west African tribe.
If that picture wasn't good enough to help you skip your mid-morning snack, then let me enlighten you to the other fun happenings of this week. I've changed my name to Frodo as my hands and, especially feet, have swollen to hobbit-like proportions. You know it's a problem when you can neither grasp a pen to write out a grocery list or fit into your extra large flip flops (got forbid any shoe with a form) without leaving deep marks on your feet that threaten their long term circulation and thus, life. Whenever I think of Lord of the Rings, I always imagine the slimy, dirty bogs and places they travel around in which reminds me of slime...or shall we say mucous. I won't go into detail here, because it turns my stomach as it is, but a mucous plug that comes out whole is disgusting enough. Imagine if it decided to break up and come out in a few fun pieces every day...for a week or longer. You may find yourself constantly on 'plug patrol', doing more laundry and changing undergarments multiple times a day and don't even think your husband is getting anything other than the Heisman if he even LOOKS like he's thinking about getting within 3 feet of you. You may be prompted to flee the room yelling 'NO VACANCY!' to which he later asks if you've started taking any new meds or something. I'm just saying. We're 37.5 weeks and planning to get things started this weekend in the labor arena so stay posted!
My dear friend sleep,
How do I love thee, let me count the ways. We've always had such a mutually beneficial and respectful relationship through my youth and this, I am very grateful for. Those 12-18 hour sleep marathons in high school, college and med school are what dreams are made of...literally. I can't sing your praises loudly enough as I appreciate the renewal and sense of peace and fulfillment you bring me. Due to my increase in fatigue during this period of my life, I'd like to say thanks for hanging in there and reviving the good ole' marathon schedule. Who knew growing a person would require so much shut eye and energy.
Forever yours, Me
Second Trimester
Dearest sleep,
What an interesting time we've had of late! I can't imagine where you are coming up with all those wicked dreams, but they sure make the exorbitant amount of time I'm spending in bed pass much more quickly. Thank goodness the fatigue has passed and now I'm able just to enjoy my sleep and feel refreshed as this little monster nudges and flips and kicks away in there. Not to be picky or tell you how to do your job, but do you think we could work in some 'good' dreams or at least if they're going to be x-rated in content, I actually know the players? Thanks again.
Your friend, Ko
33 weeks
Dear sleep,
First, I'd like to thank you for the opportunity to get at least 2-3 hours of quality time with you before having to get up and visit the washroom...2-3 times each night. I know all this waking isn't YOUR fault, so much as that of that mean-spirited bladder of mine. I'm trying to work things out with him so that our relationship is no longer affected. Please have patience as I'm doing everything I can to assure our time together remains special and pleasing for us both. Thanks for at least making an effort to change the crazy dreams, as I'm sure you did at the request of your old friend, and I'm sure that with time I'll be able to 'deal' and 'get over it' as you suggested.
Yours, Ko
35 weeks,
Hi Sleep,
Just wanted to drop a line to apologize for my 'little' freak out when I saw you hanging out with my bladder. I just had never imagined that you were friends as I couldn't think of anything you'd have in common...other than preventing me from resting as I grow a human in my belly. Haha! Just kidding, as I'm sure that's not the case...right? I'm sure the 'deep connection' you two have is squarely outside the realm of torturing me, your longtime allie. I appreciate you trying to talk sense into him as his new trick is to now have me wake every 1-2 hours and then to be wide awake as I wonder where you've gone. I know that I said I heard you two snickering as I lay wide awake for 2 hours the other night, but you're right. I did not hear two 'distinct' snickers so that was rude of me to assume of you.
Thanks for being understanding, Ko
37 weeks
Sleep,
Um, yeah. I guess I'm a little out of sorts right now as I never imagined us having this conversation. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt when it came to you being 'just friends' with my bladder, but now that I've caught you red handed, I'm more than a little dismayed. Between you and your little buddy, I'm now waking every 30-90 mins, not falling back into bliss and getting a total of 4-5 hours of broken rejuvenation each 9-11 hour night, if that. Seeing you two pointing and laughing at me while I worry about the lack of sleep affecting my baby and my mental health, was not only hurtful, but unforgivable. Did you forget that I also have a 7 year old that has more energy than a hamster on Red Bull to deal with each day following these restless nights? Or do you just not care? Did I really hear that you two have moved in together? Does our history mean nothing to you? That Bladder will betray you, just like he did me, and he'll leave you high and dry in 3 weeks or so and I won't be there to pick up the pieces.
Kourtney
38 weeks
Ha,
I told you that I didn't need you. Between my new friends, swimming and caffeine, I barely have a second each day to even think of you. I wouldn't take you back if my life depended on it. Swimming has really stepped up to the plate to help my whole body relax, not just my mind like you used to, and really has been great to Will too. You know, Will, my 7 year old who you never gave the time of day? Yeah, him, jerk. Oh and you would LOVE caffeine. Cappucino, soda, chocolate, you name it. He's always around to perk me up, make me laugh, and in general make me feel like a million bucks. And if he starts to dissipate, guess what? There's always more! He's NEVER not available and is always thinking of what he can do for me. Oh, and tell Bladder hi. Hope all the caffeine I've been running through there isn't a problem and the withholding of liquids after 3pm probably doesn't bother him either. You two deserve eachother!
Koko
39 weeks
I don't know how you got caffeine to turn on me but the crashes are more frequent and worse than when he wasn't around. And thanks again for not even letting me rest mid-crash when my head is pounding, my eyes bloodshot and my hands shaking like I just stepped off the electric chair. Oh, and you're welcome for swimming, too. Like I was supposed to know that with no rest or caffeine, I wouldn't even have the energy to float, let alone swim. You are a selfish friend stealer and you can all go suck it. I'm done. Ass.
Birth
Ahhhhhh. Sweet, sweet sleep. Maybe if you had let me in on the plan that you were tiring me out on purpose so that when my little bundle of joy arrived, I would be able to sleep when he slept and be awake when he was, I'd have been a little more patient and accepting of your discretions. At this point, I still want nothing to do with you as the joy and high of motherhood continues to keep me going despite your near absence. I have noticed your effort to help me drop into a sound slumber at the drop of a hat and this will be noted as you try to worm your way back into my life. How does it feel to be on the other side of the fence, not needed or wanted and lacking in purpose? Keep at it and I'm sure my forgiving soul will let you back with time...and lots of RPattz dreams (the good kind).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, to be in the last month of pregnancy and experience all the further changes to your temple...well it used to be a temple. Now, your body is an unrecognizable salvage yard for all the fugly, mismatched body parts leftover after a frankenstein family reunion got ugly. At my checkup last week, I actually informed my doctor that between the brown spotty melasma taking over my face and the 'breastfeeding ready' nipples that have elongated to that point that they will pretty soon necessitate buying them a bra of their own, that it's turning in to National Geographic up in here. So people, don't be surprised if you see me on the cover of the mag and no, I didn't join some remote west African tribe.
If that picture wasn't good enough to help you skip your mid-morning snack, then let me enlighten you to the other fun happenings of this week. I've changed my name to Frodo as my hands and, especially feet, have swollen to hobbit-like proportions. You know it's a problem when you can neither grasp a pen to write out a grocery list or fit into your extra large flip flops (got forbid any shoe with a form) without leaving deep marks on your feet that threaten their long term circulation and thus, life. Whenever I think of Lord of the Rings, I always imagine the slimy, dirty bogs and places they travel around in which reminds me of slime...or shall we say mucous. I won't go into detail here, because it turns my stomach as it is, but a mucous plug that comes out whole is disgusting enough. Imagine if it decided to break up and come out in a few fun pieces every day...for a week or longer. You may find yourself constantly on 'plug patrol', doing more laundry and changing undergarments multiple times a day and don't even think your husband is getting anything other than the Heisman if he even LOOKS like he's thinking about getting within 3 feet of you. You may be prompted to flee the room yelling 'NO VACANCY!' to which he later asks if you've started taking any new meds or something. I'm just saying. We're 37.5 weeks and planning to get things started this weekend in the labor arena so stay posted!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Being pregnant is so awesome, it kinda sucks
Let me catch you up on all the news from the 35th week. An ultrasound showed that the little man has plenty of fluid and room in his current accomodations and also is coming out head first. I would be more excited about this fact, except that the three doctors in the room during the ultrasound all caught their breath, commented on the larger size of his noggin, and one actually said, 'You know that has to come out of your vagina, Kourtney.' Yes, I'm aware...a little more every day when I contract away and his XL head smooshes down just that much further into my pelvis and against my bladder, helping me to emit the new eau de preggo. Not a big deal when you smell like pee all the time, you just find yourself hanging out by old people and babies so that way you can pass the odor off as theirs.
Another fun and suuuuuper exciting event from this week was seeing the doctor. I was halfway through the week and had been contracting quite a bit so we decided to have a 'look see' and check my cervix to see what was going on down there. Now, having performed this exam on hundreds of women at various points in their last month of pregnancy, I didn't think much of it. As I now know, I did not have an appropriate fear or hatred of this exam and I now will hold off on putting patients through this joy until absolutely necessary. The innocent little check took like 5 minutes (or 30 seconds) and left me with one foot on the table, the other on the wall, one hand in a deathgrip on the head of the bed and the other bracing the opposing wall from the one my foot was on. During this contortionist trick, I also had a ridiculously strong vagal response, also known as coming within inches of embarassingly passing out without your pants on. My doc, who happens to be a pal, was actually amused by the colors changing on my face from ghostly white, to so-green-I'm-pretty-sure-you're-going-to-ralph-on-me, to bright red and flushed...and then I started to breathe again, or rather hyperventilate on the order of a woman who actually did just push a grapefruit out her kiwi. My giggle happy doc then says, 'you are going to be so fun in labor, I just know it.' To which I responded that she should check out my previous post centered on the idea of 'suck it.' Laugh all you want now, chica, because you're stuck there with me and my crazy behavior and elbows deep in the business end of things, so ha.
At least one good thing was discovered during this harrowing event...the fact, that this party is getting started early. Based on the changes that were already going on down South, we've surmised that he's my captive for only 2-3 more weeks if we keep up the current rate of contracting.
I thought that this news of early arrival would make me joyous and that I'd be out exercising, cleaning, having sex and doing anything possible to continue the contraction party. In fact, the exact opposite happened. I find myself sad that all his little kicks, punches, head butts, squirmy disco moves and general state of unrest are something that will soon be over. One of the best things about being pregnant is carrying around this little 'mouse in my pocket' who I can talk to and dance with and moves all about when he hears my voice or we're rocking out in the tank. Whenever we're out with Will or John and have to make a decision, we automatically have a majority as I pretend he, of course, would vote along party lines with me. I doubt Will will believe me that Ollie does want to go to Target instead of the splash pad when he sees that he actually doesn't speak and his main concern is pooping and drooling. Will is going to be somewhat shocked, I have a feeling, when he realizes that Ollie is not the talkative, little opinionated mofo that I play him out to be. Also, at least for right now, he's hand free. He eats, sleeps, plays and chills out all without me carrying him, having sore nipples, changing a diaper or wondering why he's crying. He's about to become a whole bunch more high maintenance than mama in a couple of weeks.
I don't know if it's me subconciously trying to prolong his descent or if this is just what happens the second the clock hits 35 weeks, but I've become almost inert. I sleep in 30 minute to 2 hour intervals, waking every 1.5-2 hours to pee or change position as one of my legs is asleep or my hips are screaming out in pain, getting a total of 4-6 hours per night on average, prompting me to re-discover the deliciousness that is known as the daytime nap. 9-10 am and 4-5pm are my fave times when I could pretty much sleep through any natural disaster. Looking past the sleep deprivation, my energy level in general pretty much just bites the big one. Swimming one lap in the pool winds me. Going up one flight of stairs is exhausting. Folding laundry, driving to Target, sitting down to pee...all of these things require a superhuman amount of energy that I can't seem to muster. My To-Do list is growing by a page a day and I'm lucky to get 2-3 things done in an afternoon.
I'm also starting to ponder the possibility that I could may be newly pregnant in addition to the almost finished cooking monster in my belly. All of a sudden, I'm RIGHT NOW STARVING for the most unhealthy of delights. My now gigantour-sized melons are hurting all the time. We've covered the exhaustion. It's like the first trimester all over again, including the constant fight between your desire for intimacy with the baby daddy battling it out with the threat of you going all Bobbit on him if he even looks at you the wrong way. Anywho, as I'm nearly falling asleep with the energy output required to keep typing, I'll finish here. Stay tuned for what's sure to be titillating tales from the final weeks countdown to the little man's entrance...or exit depending on how you look at it.
Another fun and suuuuuper exciting event from this week was seeing the doctor. I was halfway through the week and had been contracting quite a bit so we decided to have a 'look see' and check my cervix to see what was going on down there. Now, having performed this exam on hundreds of women at various points in their last month of pregnancy, I didn't think much of it. As I now know, I did not have an appropriate fear or hatred of this exam and I now will hold off on putting patients through this joy until absolutely necessary. The innocent little check took like 5 minutes (or 30 seconds) and left me with one foot on the table, the other on the wall, one hand in a deathgrip on the head of the bed and the other bracing the opposing wall from the one my foot was on. During this contortionist trick, I also had a ridiculously strong vagal response, also known as coming within inches of embarassingly passing out without your pants on. My doc, who happens to be a pal, was actually amused by the colors changing on my face from ghostly white, to so-green-I'm-pretty-sure-you're-going-to-ralph-on-me, to bright red and flushed...and then I started to breathe again, or rather hyperventilate on the order of a woman who actually did just push a grapefruit out her kiwi. My giggle happy doc then says, 'you are going to be so fun in labor, I just know it.' To which I responded that she should check out my previous post centered on the idea of 'suck it.' Laugh all you want now, chica, because you're stuck there with me and my crazy behavior and elbows deep in the business end of things, so ha.
At least one good thing was discovered during this harrowing event...the fact, that this party is getting started early. Based on the changes that were already going on down South, we've surmised that he's my captive for only 2-3 more weeks if we keep up the current rate of contracting.
I thought that this news of early arrival would make me joyous and that I'd be out exercising, cleaning, having sex and doing anything possible to continue the contraction party. In fact, the exact opposite happened. I find myself sad that all his little kicks, punches, head butts, squirmy disco moves and general state of unrest are something that will soon be over. One of the best things about being pregnant is carrying around this little 'mouse in my pocket' who I can talk to and dance with and moves all about when he hears my voice or we're rocking out in the tank. Whenever we're out with Will or John and have to make a decision, we automatically have a majority as I pretend he, of course, would vote along party lines with me. I doubt Will will believe me that Ollie does want to go to Target instead of the splash pad when he sees that he actually doesn't speak and his main concern is pooping and drooling. Will is going to be somewhat shocked, I have a feeling, when he realizes that Ollie is not the talkative, little opinionated mofo that I play him out to be. Also, at least for right now, he's hand free. He eats, sleeps, plays and chills out all without me carrying him, having sore nipples, changing a diaper or wondering why he's crying. He's about to become a whole bunch more high maintenance than mama in a couple of weeks.
I don't know if it's me subconciously trying to prolong his descent or if this is just what happens the second the clock hits 35 weeks, but I've become almost inert. I sleep in 30 minute to 2 hour intervals, waking every 1.5-2 hours to pee or change position as one of my legs is asleep or my hips are screaming out in pain, getting a total of 4-6 hours per night on average, prompting me to re-discover the deliciousness that is known as the daytime nap. 9-10 am and 4-5pm are my fave times when I could pretty much sleep through any natural disaster. Looking past the sleep deprivation, my energy level in general pretty much just bites the big one. Swimming one lap in the pool winds me. Going up one flight of stairs is exhausting. Folding laundry, driving to Target, sitting down to pee...all of these things require a superhuman amount of energy that I can't seem to muster. My To-Do list is growing by a page a day and I'm lucky to get 2-3 things done in an afternoon.
I'm also starting to ponder the possibility that I could may be newly pregnant in addition to the almost finished cooking monster in my belly. All of a sudden, I'm RIGHT NOW STARVING for the most unhealthy of delights. My now gigantour-sized melons are hurting all the time. We've covered the exhaustion. It's like the first trimester all over again, including the constant fight between your desire for intimacy with the baby daddy battling it out with the threat of you going all Bobbit on him if he even looks at you the wrong way. Anywho, as I'm nearly falling asleep with the energy output required to keep typing, I'll finish here. Stay tuned for what's sure to be titillating tales from the final weeks countdown to the little man's entrance...or exit depending on how you look at it.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Put your hands up and spread 'em
You dirty, dirty minded children.
As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.
So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.
This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.
The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.
Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?
As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.
So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.
This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.
The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.
Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Hello July
So, I finished work yesterday. Really, it was last Friday and I've been doing 'paperwork' for the last three days which consisted of sleeping late, running errands, lunching with Ann and the occasional stop by the office to sign my name to something. Can I just tell you how much fun it is to not go to work everyday? Don't get me wrong, I love what I do the majority of the time. Yeah, we all get a little whiney and have a bad day and curse the thought of ever deciding to go to medical school, but most days I am happy with my choice and realize how lucky I am to be in the field I'm in. On the other hand, not working is totally awesome. It's just that there are some things that I hadn't realized happen when you stay home with a munchkin that I've learned quite quickly just over these past few days.
First of all, being a housewife or stay at home mom is actually pretty busy when there are kids involved. Will may sleep in til the late hour of 6:45am or he might sleep til 9:00am, prompting you to sneak into his room and make sure he's still breathing. You never know so it's not like you can stay up late watching a movie with the hubby and say, 'oh, I'll just sleep in tomorrow.' Maybe, maybe not. Also, when you're married, there's a new wacky trend to share a bedroom with your significant other. You know, the one who gets up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work in the same room you're sleeping in. You'd never say anything about the lights on and off, windows shades opening letting in the 'glorious' sunlight and doors opening and closing because you know he's 'trying' to be quiet and going to bring home the bacon so that you don't have to. But sometimes you think, 'huh, this sucks that I'm awake at the buttcrack of dawn so maybe if I slept on the pullout this wouldn't happen.' Then you remember how much you love your big comfy bed and snuggling the man at night and how much closer your bed is to the bathroom when compared to the pullout and decide that maybe you can deal...for now.
Along with erratic bedtimes, there's the ever fluctuating mood and energy level that children are famous for. Who knows if he'll be in a pouty mood or a sunshine happy mood or a tired mood because he didn't get enough sleep, but refuses to nap. Or my favorite, the 'I got 12 hours of sleep and now nothing short of a straight jacket can control this kind of crazy' mood. When you spend ALL DAY with a child who's constantly running on full steam, laughing like a crazy person at everything, spazzing out at every store you go to because 'the aisles are just so long!', and screaming 'I love samples' upon entering Sams Club, it's hard not to run the other direction when your spouse gets home so you can have some peace and quiet. Your hubby will then act surprised that you aren't up to going to soccer or BMX or playing outside because he doesn't know how physically and mentally exhausted you are from your daylong adventure...every single day. I honestly don't know how people who teach kids all day long can go home to their kids and still have the energy or brain power to have a fulfilling family life. These people must be superhuman.
When you stay home, you also become the maid. I know, I know. This should not be a shocker. The chores you were normally splitting after work and taking precious minutes away from time you could be spending with your family or eachother, can now be done during the day so you can both chill out at night. That makes sense and all, but it still sucks. Nobody LIKES to clean everyday. Even if its laundry one day, sweep and mop the floors the next, vacuum the floors and couches after that. It still sucks that it's all your job now and you start to think that dealing with drug seekers and sick kids may actually be easier than staying at home.
I also have a new found understanding of why stay at home parents meet their spouses at the door and word vomit instantly upon their arrival. They've been talking to a kid all day. Now the good thing about chilling with your offspring 24/7 is that you really get to know them and they tell you all kinds of things that you probably wouldn't have heard otherwise. The majority of your convo's revolve around tech decks and flick trix or 'remember when we went to Florida...that was fun.' The school yard banter is sweet and all, but sometimes leaves you dreaming of a discussion about why Mrs. X's kidney function is all of a sudden in the crapper. (Will will one day kill me for posting this, but I still giggle everytime I think about it.) One priceless chat went a little like this:
We're having a bath the other day and talking about how tall Will is getting and he's like, 'I'm growing so much my bones hurt, especially when they get all stiff.'
To which I reply, 'yeah, sometimes you can have a little pain when your arms and legs are growing quickly.'
He says (completely straight faced), 'no mama, not my arms and legs. When the bone in my junk gets all stiff, it sticks out straight and won't lay down. I don't like it.'
First off, this is when you realize multiple things: A) you should quit using the work 'junk' to describe the goods and maybe go with a more anatomically appropriate label, B) you're never allowed to laugh when you're kid talks about his 'junk' or he looks at you with the saddest little 'I-thought-we-were-bonding-and-now-you're-mocking-me' look, and C) he's growing into a little man which makes you sad at first and then paranoid at the fact that all these precocious little 7 year old girls keep asking to come over for a 'play date.' I'm not trying to be a grandma before I'm 40...or 50.
Along with joining the housekeepers union, when you don't work outside the home, you also become the chief errand runner...aka everyones bitch. We need groceries, the car needs an oil change, the car needs a new parking sticker, we need to mail this package, the kid needs new socks, etc. All the things that used to get done after work or fit in between clinics or surgeries or on lunch hours or a random day off are now your job while you're sitting at home doing 'nothing' all day. Do you mind? No, because really what else is going to give you an excuse to take a break from cleaning all day, right? Between the chores and cleaning and keeping the boy entertained all day, there's nothing very relaxing about being a stay at home mom. Especially when you're growing a person who plans on coming into the world in 7 weeks or so and, thus, makes sleeping or finding a remotely comfortable daytime position completely impossible.
Enough crying in my cinnamon life about how busy I am. I am staying home for the next few months and I am happy about it. I just have a new respect for stay at home parents because it's not all daytime TV and bonbons. It's a freaking full time job and you should not feel guilty about spending your working spouses hard earned dollars because you're earning your share all day long, too. God (and John) knows there are no guilty shopping feelings here.
First of all, being a housewife or stay at home mom is actually pretty busy when there are kids involved. Will may sleep in til the late hour of 6:45am or he might sleep til 9:00am, prompting you to sneak into his room and make sure he's still breathing. You never know so it's not like you can stay up late watching a movie with the hubby and say, 'oh, I'll just sleep in tomorrow.' Maybe, maybe not. Also, when you're married, there's a new wacky trend to share a bedroom with your significant other. You know, the one who gets up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work in the same room you're sleeping in. You'd never say anything about the lights on and off, windows shades opening letting in the 'glorious' sunlight and doors opening and closing because you know he's 'trying' to be quiet and going to bring home the bacon so that you don't have to. But sometimes you think, 'huh, this sucks that I'm awake at the buttcrack of dawn so maybe if I slept on the pullout this wouldn't happen.' Then you remember how much you love your big comfy bed and snuggling the man at night and how much closer your bed is to the bathroom when compared to the pullout and decide that maybe you can deal...for now.
Along with erratic bedtimes, there's the ever fluctuating mood and energy level that children are famous for. Who knows if he'll be in a pouty mood or a sunshine happy mood or a tired mood because he didn't get enough sleep, but refuses to nap. Or my favorite, the 'I got 12 hours of sleep and now nothing short of a straight jacket can control this kind of crazy' mood. When you spend ALL DAY with a child who's constantly running on full steam, laughing like a crazy person at everything, spazzing out at every store you go to because 'the aisles are just so long!', and screaming 'I love samples' upon entering Sams Club, it's hard not to run the other direction when your spouse gets home so you can have some peace and quiet. Your hubby will then act surprised that you aren't up to going to soccer or BMX or playing outside because he doesn't know how physically and mentally exhausted you are from your daylong adventure...every single day. I honestly don't know how people who teach kids all day long can go home to their kids and still have the energy or brain power to have a fulfilling family life. These people must be superhuman.
When you stay home, you also become the maid. I know, I know. This should not be a shocker. The chores you were normally splitting after work and taking precious minutes away from time you could be spending with your family or eachother, can now be done during the day so you can both chill out at night. That makes sense and all, but it still sucks. Nobody LIKES to clean everyday. Even if its laundry one day, sweep and mop the floors the next, vacuum the floors and couches after that. It still sucks that it's all your job now and you start to think that dealing with drug seekers and sick kids may actually be easier than staying at home.
I also have a new found understanding of why stay at home parents meet their spouses at the door and word vomit instantly upon their arrival. They've been talking to a kid all day. Now the good thing about chilling with your offspring 24/7 is that you really get to know them and they tell you all kinds of things that you probably wouldn't have heard otherwise. The majority of your convo's revolve around tech decks and flick trix or 'remember when we went to Florida...that was fun.' The school yard banter is sweet and all, but sometimes leaves you dreaming of a discussion about why Mrs. X's kidney function is all of a sudden in the crapper. (Will will one day kill me for posting this, but I still giggle everytime I think about it.) One priceless chat went a little like this:
We're having a bath the other day and talking about how tall Will is getting and he's like, 'I'm growing so much my bones hurt, especially when they get all stiff.'
To which I reply, 'yeah, sometimes you can have a little pain when your arms and legs are growing quickly.'
He says (completely straight faced), 'no mama, not my arms and legs. When the bone in my junk gets all stiff, it sticks out straight and won't lay down. I don't like it.'
First off, this is when you realize multiple things: A) you should quit using the work 'junk' to describe the goods and maybe go with a more anatomically appropriate label, B) you're never allowed to laugh when you're kid talks about his 'junk' or he looks at you with the saddest little 'I-thought-we-were-bonding-and-now-you're-mocking-me' look, and C) he's growing into a little man which makes you sad at first and then paranoid at the fact that all these precocious little 7 year old girls keep asking to come over for a 'play date.' I'm not trying to be a grandma before I'm 40...or 50.
Along with joining the housekeepers union, when you don't work outside the home, you also become the chief errand runner...aka everyones bitch. We need groceries, the car needs an oil change, the car needs a new parking sticker, we need to mail this package, the kid needs new socks, etc. All the things that used to get done after work or fit in between clinics or surgeries or on lunch hours or a random day off are now your job while you're sitting at home doing 'nothing' all day. Do you mind? No, because really what else is going to give you an excuse to take a break from cleaning all day, right? Between the chores and cleaning and keeping the boy entertained all day, there's nothing very relaxing about being a stay at home mom. Especially when you're growing a person who plans on coming into the world in 7 weeks or so and, thus, makes sleeping or finding a remotely comfortable daytime position completely impossible.
Enough crying in my cinnamon life about how busy I am. I am staying home for the next few months and I am happy about it. I just have a new respect for stay at home parents because it's not all daytime TV and bonbons. It's a freaking full time job and you should not feel guilty about spending your working spouses hard earned dollars because you're earning your share all day long, too. God (and John) knows there are no guilty shopping feelings here.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Hater-ific
Alright people, do I look like freaking Clark Griswald? No. Will I ever drive a mini-van, a regular, big 'ole cargo van or a station wagon? Not on your life. My mom had a kick-ass black and silver astro van that she rocked pretty hard core and that all us kids loved and spent loads of time in while she carted us between here and China for all of our extracurriculars. That's my mom, that's not me. Why is it that as soon as you are impregnated, everyone imagines that you can't wait to get your swollen little hands on a damn Dodge Caravan? I know that lots of people have them and lots of people love them, but that's not me. It just isn't in my being, my fiber, my...anything. For the most part, the majority of people that know me, didn't expect anything different when I finally bought a car. However...the majority tend to keep their cakeholes shut and it's the annoying haters that can't quit their yapping about your personal decisions.
So, you may have heard that my little bambino's impending arrival prompted me to lose the 13 year old wheels and pick up the closest thing to a tank that could be purchased for under $1 million and was street legal. I was looking for the Porsche-designed German Panzer VIII Maus but my husband nixed the idea labelling it as a 'crazy pregnancy emotional fit' (as if) but I think he didn't like the idea because I wanted it in pink...with a sunroof. We compromised and picked up the most tank-like-but-still-pretty SUV to protect our little monsters. It's pretty and huge and safe and comfy and has an awesome stereo and sunroof and rides high enough that you feel like you're in a semi-truck and can totally eavesdrop on all the cars you pass, which is Will's new favorite game. 'Hey mama, guess what that guy was doing?' I love it, but am scared at the same time that he's going to have an early education on what people do when they think they aren't being watched.
But anywho, so we bought a car. No big deal, right? Unless you're one of those people who say 'congratulations' when you buy a car as if you've achieved something special other than procuring a mode of transportation, just like everyone else in this gas-guzzling nation has, it really is not a big deal. Oh wait. Also, unless you are one of those people who think that your opinion, A) absolutely must be heard by all, B) matters in the least to anyone other than you or your extremely fugly effeminate husband, and C) you simply lack the gene that allows you to be happy for anyone else when they reap the rewards of their hard work because your a jealous, hating little biz-natch and everyone knows it. Oops, was that out loud?
So maybe you're sitting there with two friends who have riden in the behemoth and are gushing about some of the cooler features. From across the room you hear, 'so you need this huge car for your one kid?' Um...thanks for the admission that despite knowing me for nearly two years, you are so egocentric that you didn't realize I already have one kid and so this one will make two. One plus one does not equal one. I respond to this unfortunate person stating that, "besides a minivan and station wagons (see above paragraph devoted to my hatred of these vehicles), SUV's are the only cars with the third row seating option and we plan on having another child and will have two in car seats and one in a booster so felt this was necessary."
A future MENSA president then commented, 'so you need a row for each kid?' Well no, genius. This I had to explain REALLY SLOWLY as I was acutely aware of the IQ level I was dealing with. "The third row means there are two rows in the back in addition to the front (adult) seats. There aren't three rows of seats in the back like a freaking 14 passenger van you can rent for a spring break trip." Thanks for playing. This is when the two turn to eachother and continue to whisper conspiratorially as if they are not sitting in a roomful of people who just heard that entire conversation and know exactly how immature they're continuing to be at this point.
To these poor souls and anyone else who feels the need to have an opinion on my choice of vehicle, let alone waste their own time forcing this upon unsuspecting listeners, I defer to one of the smartest women alive, Tina Fey. In her acceptance speech for her Golden Globe win for 30 Rock, she responded to some of the 'special critics' with the simple phrase, 'suck it.' (This can be viewed by youtube or googling Tina Fey 'Suck It' golden globe and is HI-larious, as is Tracy Morgan's speech later in the night.) So, there you go. Don't like my car...suck it. Think it's too ostentatious...suck it. Don't know how many kids I have or what a third row of seats really means in a car...really suck it. Because I've been told that sometimes these drag on, we'll end it here. Stay posted for updates following graduation and the first baby shower which should provide entertaining fodder in the weeks to come.
So, you may have heard that my little bambino's impending arrival prompted me to lose the 13 year old wheels and pick up the closest thing to a tank that could be purchased for under $1 million and was street legal. I was looking for the Porsche-designed German Panzer VIII Maus but my husband nixed the idea labelling it as a 'crazy pregnancy emotional fit' (as if) but I think he didn't like the idea because I wanted it in pink...with a sunroof. We compromised and picked up the most tank-like-but-still-pretty SUV to protect our little monsters. It's pretty and huge and safe and comfy and has an awesome stereo and sunroof and rides high enough that you feel like you're in a semi-truck and can totally eavesdrop on all the cars you pass, which is Will's new favorite game. 'Hey mama, guess what that guy was doing?' I love it, but am scared at the same time that he's going to have an early education on what people do when they think they aren't being watched.
But anywho, so we bought a car. No big deal, right? Unless you're one of those people who say 'congratulations' when you buy a car as if you've achieved something special other than procuring a mode of transportation, just like everyone else in this gas-guzzling nation has, it really is not a big deal. Oh wait. Also, unless you are one of those people who think that your opinion, A) absolutely must be heard by all, B) matters in the least to anyone other than you or your extremely fugly effeminate husband, and C) you simply lack the gene that allows you to be happy for anyone else when they reap the rewards of their hard work because your a jealous, hating little biz-natch and everyone knows it. Oops, was that out loud?
So maybe you're sitting there with two friends who have riden in the behemoth and are gushing about some of the cooler features. From across the room you hear, 'so you need this huge car for your one kid?' Um...thanks for the admission that despite knowing me for nearly two years, you are so egocentric that you didn't realize I already have one kid and so this one will make two. One plus one does not equal one. I respond to this unfortunate person stating that, "besides a minivan and station wagons (see above paragraph devoted to my hatred of these vehicles), SUV's are the only cars with the third row seating option and we plan on having another child and will have two in car seats and one in a booster so felt this was necessary."
A future MENSA president then commented, 'so you need a row for each kid?' Well no, genius. This I had to explain REALLY SLOWLY as I was acutely aware of the IQ level I was dealing with. "The third row means there are two rows in the back in addition to the front (adult) seats. There aren't three rows of seats in the back like a freaking 14 passenger van you can rent for a spring break trip." Thanks for playing. This is when the two turn to eachother and continue to whisper conspiratorially as if they are not sitting in a roomful of people who just heard that entire conversation and know exactly how immature they're continuing to be at this point.
To these poor souls and anyone else who feels the need to have an opinion on my choice of vehicle, let alone waste their own time forcing this upon unsuspecting listeners, I defer to one of the smartest women alive, Tina Fey. In her acceptance speech for her Golden Globe win for 30 Rock, she responded to some of the 'special critics' with the simple phrase, 'suck it.' (This can be viewed by youtube or googling Tina Fey 'Suck It' golden globe and is HI-larious, as is Tracy Morgan's speech later in the night.) So, there you go. Don't like my car...suck it. Think it's too ostentatious...suck it. Don't know how many kids I have or what a third row of seats really means in a car...really suck it. Because I've been told that sometimes these drag on, we'll end it here. Stay posted for updates following graduation and the first baby shower which should provide entertaining fodder in the weeks to come.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Quit with the countdowns already
You may or may not have noticed that I've been a little pathologic with the countdown's lately. Countdown until I'm done with work: 25 days. Countdown til Ollie arrives: 10w6d...at the latest. Countdown til I start work at my new job: 4 months, 25 days. I don't know when all this counting down business became the overwhelming driving force in my life, but I promise you all that I'm not starting anymore from now on...because I think my husband might leave me if he has to hear about the countdown to the diaper sale at Babies R Us one more time. Or the countdown til Will starts soccer or something else as un-countdown-worthy.
Anywho, it's been a pretty uneventful week in the lives of the Houle fam. The insanely quick weight gain has finally leveled off and we're holding tight at 23-24 lbs which sounds much more acceptable to me at 29wks, not so much at 26 weeks. I may or may not have been consuming enough for someone growing triplets and that may or may not have stopped since the whole 'failed then passed diabetes test debacle' which may or may not be the cause of my less than acceptable waistline expansion.
That and the heat. MN sucks 5 months out of the year, isn't so bad 3 months out of the year and then is the best place in the world the rest of the time...i.e. the summer. Warm weather, not too bad humidity, sunny skies, the cleaner lakes and abundant water sports when you have time to escape to them and aren't too pregnant to enjoy them. All of this would normally inspire you to be in the best bathing suit shape during those months, but even though bathing suit season is out this year, the heat definitely curbs the appetite for little debbie. It does, however, make you secretly hate your friends who sit around enjoying the warm weather with a 'rita or cold brew or glass of champy and your only part of this interaction is to play barmaid and keep everyone topped off with refreshing goodness. It's a good thing I'm craving super cold lemonade all the time.
Which, in case you didn't know this, an 'arnold palmer' is a mix of tea and lemonade (another fav is lemonade and root beer mixed) and is awesome and comes in a very large aluminum can when you purchase it at a golf course. It's the size of can that you would buy beer in if you were going to a pimps & ho's party and planned to drink it out of a paper bag. It's the size of can that, when seen from across the golf course, proves it can not be clearly determined that the 28wks pregnant chick is NOT drinking an actual beer and prompts the pedicatrician who bought the 'round' to come over and inspect. He does not find this funny when the 28wks pregnant chick yells across the 8th tee box, 'Baby Ollie said thanks for the brewski!' This is especially humorous when the golf outing is the all staff golf tourney for the hospital so you're surrounded by tons of other docs who hear this exchange and wonder why the pediatrician is buying the pregnant chick beer. Job security? Don't worry, karma got me back by giving me all kind of ligament and abdominal pain the next day since I haven't really used my golfing muscles (core) in a while. Karma also allowed the other chicks I was golfing with to not only mock, but record with their phones for future facebook torture, my 'pregnant chick golf swing' which involves an Elvis-inspired booty shake in order to get my swing on around my bulbous belly.
A couple of new items for the past couple of weeks have included the non-existence of more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep and visible movement on the belly that eerily resembles when the Alien is trying to eat it's way out of the people in the movie cleaverly titled, Alien. I don't know if it's Ollie trying to condition me to be awake every two hours to be a good little moo-cow or if it's my body saying 'quit sleeping on your back unless you want to harm your baby' that wakes me up every 2 hours or so. I actually got 4 hours in a row last night, but that's the longest stretch in the past 12 days...not that I'm counting. I think it's starting to make me a little crazy, which I think I'm successfully hiding from the man. I'm kind of on hyperalert all the time and have consumed 1-2 sodas per day to help with a little caffeine. Shush people, two is the limit for the preggers. It doesn't help that he's on call this weekend, so when he needed to sleep in a little longer after a long night, I got up with Will and had to entertain all day. Will enjoys my sleep-deprived state and hanging out with a pregnant chick who has introduced him to french fries dipped in ice cream from McD's & Wendys. Even with the tylenol PM, between the dreams of pre-term labor, dreams of my water breaking, restless legs, having to pee despite a dialysis like water restriction, or the feral felines that meow outside the door until we let them in, sleep still evades me. As a former professional sleeper, I feel like I will probably crash soon and sleep for 3-4 days. Hopefully this is before the delivery.
The new movement thing is also pretty creepy. It's lots of fun and even more distracting than the non-visible movement period (thank God I'm almost done with work and anything else requiring concentration...like driving) and other people can actually watch the munchkin flip and kick and push outwards on my belly surface when I'm sitting/standing still. It's creepy when one side of your belly sticks out a good 2 inches further than the other side or pushes out rhythmically when listening to the radio. Yes, he can hear, and yes, he likes pop music. It's pretty cool except when strangers see your belly moving, it takes them a second to realize your pregnant and not fat and then they decide it's totally appropriate to touch the moving parts on your belly...which is only 2-3 inches above your girlie parts...either way. He also tends to quit moving so ridiculously obviously anytime that his dad is sitting next to me which I'm sure is beginning to infuriate daddy-to-be. I'm like, 'oh, look, he's going crazy.' He looks and puts his hand on the belly and it's instant naptime for the munchkin. Oh well, he'll get to play with him in 10wks and 6 days. Damn, the countdown snuck in there again.
Another little helpful piece of advice. Lets pretend you're pregnant and, thus, have tender, enlarging breasts. Lets also pretend that you have a cute little mole on one of those funbags and it's been growing freakishly larger (prompting you to name it Max) secondary to the hormone storm otherwise known as pregnancy. So pretend you ask your husband to cut it off...of your larger, very sensitive, tata. This is not a good idea. Not only did your boobs kind of ache before, but imagine having non-buffered lidocaine infiltrated around the most sensitive part of the girls, that happen to leak a little milky substance while you're being prepped and then having a piece of tissue cut off. FYI, the lidocaine eventually wears off and because your pregnant, in case I didn't mention that, you can't really take any pain medication beyond tylenol to help with your hyper-sensitive, feedbag pain...that you asked for. Just wait. No matter how creepy it looks or if you wonder if the kiddo will be able to determine which is the actual spot to latch when trying to fishy lips on to the goodness. Just wait until you can be properly meidcated post-op. Idiot.
Okay, off to finish the registry with my little shopping assistant (poor Will) and to eventually return home and focus my sleep-deprived hyper energetic state on cleaning the house. Next up on the blogtastic agenda, a new coche is in the works and NO, it is not a minivan and it never will be.
Anywho, it's been a pretty uneventful week in the lives of the Houle fam. The insanely quick weight gain has finally leveled off and we're holding tight at 23-24 lbs which sounds much more acceptable to me at 29wks, not so much at 26 weeks. I may or may not have been consuming enough for someone growing triplets and that may or may not have stopped since the whole 'failed then passed diabetes test debacle' which may or may not be the cause of my less than acceptable waistline expansion.
That and the heat. MN sucks 5 months out of the year, isn't so bad 3 months out of the year and then is the best place in the world the rest of the time...i.e. the summer. Warm weather, not too bad humidity, sunny skies, the cleaner lakes and abundant water sports when you have time to escape to them and aren't too pregnant to enjoy them. All of this would normally inspire you to be in the best bathing suit shape during those months, but even though bathing suit season is out this year, the heat definitely curbs the appetite for little debbie. It does, however, make you secretly hate your friends who sit around enjoying the warm weather with a 'rita or cold brew or glass of champy and your only part of this interaction is to play barmaid and keep everyone topped off with refreshing goodness. It's a good thing I'm craving super cold lemonade all the time.
Which, in case you didn't know this, an 'arnold palmer' is a mix of tea and lemonade (another fav is lemonade and root beer mixed) and is awesome and comes in a very large aluminum can when you purchase it at a golf course. It's the size of can that you would buy beer in if you were going to a pimps & ho's party and planned to drink it out of a paper bag. It's the size of can that, when seen from across the golf course, proves it can not be clearly determined that the 28wks pregnant chick is NOT drinking an actual beer and prompts the pedicatrician who bought the 'round' to come over and inspect. He does not find this funny when the 28wks pregnant chick yells across the 8th tee box, 'Baby Ollie said thanks for the brewski!' This is especially humorous when the golf outing is the all staff golf tourney for the hospital so you're surrounded by tons of other docs who hear this exchange and wonder why the pediatrician is buying the pregnant chick beer. Job security? Don't worry, karma got me back by giving me all kind of ligament and abdominal pain the next day since I haven't really used my golfing muscles (core) in a while. Karma also allowed the other chicks I was golfing with to not only mock, but record with their phones for future facebook torture, my 'pregnant chick golf swing' which involves an Elvis-inspired booty shake in order to get my swing on around my bulbous belly.
A couple of new items for the past couple of weeks have included the non-existence of more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep and visible movement on the belly that eerily resembles when the Alien is trying to eat it's way out of the people in the movie cleaverly titled, Alien. I don't know if it's Ollie trying to condition me to be awake every two hours to be a good little moo-cow or if it's my body saying 'quit sleeping on your back unless you want to harm your baby' that wakes me up every 2 hours or so. I actually got 4 hours in a row last night, but that's the longest stretch in the past 12 days...not that I'm counting. I think it's starting to make me a little crazy, which I think I'm successfully hiding from the man. I'm kind of on hyperalert all the time and have consumed 1-2 sodas per day to help with a little caffeine. Shush people, two is the limit for the preggers. It doesn't help that he's on call this weekend, so when he needed to sleep in a little longer after a long night, I got up with Will and had to entertain all day. Will enjoys my sleep-deprived state and hanging out with a pregnant chick who has introduced him to french fries dipped in ice cream from McD's & Wendys. Even with the tylenol PM, between the dreams of pre-term labor, dreams of my water breaking, restless legs, having to pee despite a dialysis like water restriction, or the feral felines that meow outside the door until we let them in, sleep still evades me. As a former professional sleeper, I feel like I will probably crash soon and sleep for 3-4 days. Hopefully this is before the delivery.
The new movement thing is also pretty creepy. It's lots of fun and even more distracting than the non-visible movement period (thank God I'm almost done with work and anything else requiring concentration...like driving) and other people can actually watch the munchkin flip and kick and push outwards on my belly surface when I'm sitting/standing still. It's creepy when one side of your belly sticks out a good 2 inches further than the other side or pushes out rhythmically when listening to the radio. Yes, he can hear, and yes, he likes pop music. It's pretty cool except when strangers see your belly moving, it takes them a second to realize your pregnant and not fat and then they decide it's totally appropriate to touch the moving parts on your belly...which is only 2-3 inches above your girlie parts...either way. He also tends to quit moving so ridiculously obviously anytime that his dad is sitting next to me which I'm sure is beginning to infuriate daddy-to-be. I'm like, 'oh, look, he's going crazy.' He looks and puts his hand on the belly and it's instant naptime for the munchkin. Oh well, he'll get to play with him in 10wks and 6 days. Damn, the countdown snuck in there again.
Another little helpful piece of advice. Lets pretend you're pregnant and, thus, have tender, enlarging breasts. Lets also pretend that you have a cute little mole on one of those funbags and it's been growing freakishly larger (prompting you to name it Max) secondary to the hormone storm otherwise known as pregnancy. So pretend you ask your husband to cut it off...of your larger, very sensitive, tata. This is not a good idea. Not only did your boobs kind of ache before, but imagine having non-buffered lidocaine infiltrated around the most sensitive part of the girls, that happen to leak a little milky substance while you're being prepped and then having a piece of tissue cut off. FYI, the lidocaine eventually wears off and because your pregnant, in case I didn't mention that, you can't really take any pain medication beyond tylenol to help with your hyper-sensitive, feedbag pain...that you asked for. Just wait. No matter how creepy it looks or if you wonder if the kiddo will be able to determine which is the actual spot to latch when trying to fishy lips on to the goodness. Just wait until you can be properly meidcated post-op. Idiot.
Okay, off to finish the registry with my little shopping assistant (poor Will) and to eventually return home and focus my sleep-deprived hyper energetic state on cleaning the house. Next up on the blogtastic agenda, a new coche is in the works and NO, it is not a minivan and it never will be.
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