So, one of my least favorite things to deal with in clinic is something called restless leg syndrome. Sometimes, it's as easy as a person being iron deficient so you replace that and Wham!, problem solved. However, sometimes this is not the cause and all we can do is try a few different medicines to try and give people relief from this pesky little problem. Sometimes they work, sometimes it's part of a bigger problem, sometimes you never find something for this person who thinks you should be able to solve every single problem they come to you with and now hates your not-problem-solving ass.
'Pesky little problem' is what I thought it was until I started to be afflicted with this uber-annoying, nothing worse than wanting to sleep all the time, but you can't because you're legs feel like you just power-lifted a volvo issue. I tell you people, this sucks. You're snuggling your honey, trying to drift off to wicked crazy pregnant dream land and you just keep tossing and turning and can't get comfortable because your legs keep twitching and no matter which side you lie on, the other one starts to act up. You wake up after a fitful whole 4 cumulative hours of sleep and apologize to your bedmate for the perceived disturbance only to have him inform you that he's had the best three nights of sleep ever. It's like he's stealing your sleep mojo and the worse you get, the more soundly he sleeps. This may or may not breed some resentment and he might start to back slowly away from you when you start to make the crazy, sleep deprived googly eyes at him. To battle this, I picked up some iron pills and pop one each night. It works pretty well, but keeping with the idea that nothing is without side effects and lots of people start one medicine only to have to take another to deal with the firsts side effects, lets just say that the GI side effects of taking iron ( or opiate pain medicines)...sucks. But at least I can sleep.
Onto the more interesting discussion of late. So, all the names in this little tale have been changed because my girlfriend who told me about this crazy phenomenon, reads this blog along with her mother, smother in law, and sister. To bring this issue to light to these blissfully unknowing women would create a family disturbance something the size of World War 8. So I'm chatting on the phone with my pal and she asks what kind of birth plan we have, yada, yada, yada. She gets around to asking who will be there for the delivery and to help with Will and the baby after we get home. We haven't really talked too much about it or made any decisions but really I was planning to have John and I and maybe my mom there for the delivery, but nothing firm. Also, my mom is planning to come up from StL for 3-4 weeks after delivery to help out and I imagine my MIL will be around every now and again as they only live an hour away.
At this point, she took a deep breath and then launched into a 42 minute tirade on what happened with the delivery of her first of three little bundles of joy. Basically a hateful grandma competition the likes of that has never been seen unraveled right before her eyes. Who got to hold the baby first? Who's side is the baby named after? Who's child does it look like more? Who will be babysitting more? Who gives a rip? Apparently, grandmas do. She did not talk to the Gmas beforehand or discuss a plan (i.e. lay down the law)...and they all paid for it. I was not aware of this type of insta-crazy that afflicts soon to be grandma's but have asked around at work and it would seem that in about half the cases, this rang true. How did I not know about this? And FYI, don't giggle at how silly it sounds when talking to a mom who's had to endure this. Not really funny-haha for them to relive it and have you mock the questionable existence.
Apparently, it got so bad with the nanas that they began to refer to the other as the 'smother-in-law' to their respective child and caused quite the unharmonious half year surrounding what should have been the happiest time in those future parents lives. One would let herself into the kitchen and cook up a ton of food to be 'helpful' despite the fact that no one wanted to eat any of what she cooked and now they had to go grocery shopping to replenish the food stores. (I do have to say that this is a huge pet peeve of my GFs. When's the last time you went into another woman's kitchen and just took it upon yourself to make a meal without being asked? She probably wanted to kick you in the head) The other would take the liberty of opening and reading the couples mail to 'save them time' and would dispose of the 'junk mail' (i.e. it's illegal to remove anyone elses mail from the mail box, open it, read it, remove it from the trash to read it, whatever...illegal...read jail time.) This was combatted by the first by her doing all the laundry in the house and personally deciding to 'weed through' and help get rid of all the 'old' or 'too small' or 'unacceptable' clothes (of mom, dad, and baby) and ship them off to the salvation army prompting the exhausted parents to now need to leave the house for a shopping trip...something all new parents wish they had to do. All this done under the guise of 'helping.' All because the parents didn't have a talk with these chicks beforehand. All this BS that caused the new parents to contemplate moving far, far away from anyone sharing any DNA with their new spawn and prompting a name change.
So, the question is this. How often does this really happen? Are we at risk since our parents are not first time grandparents and seem to be with it the majority of the time? Should we have a little sit down with them or would that plant the seed of psycho? I just don't know and didn't think I even had to worry about this, so for now I'm thinking about sweeping it under the rug and seeing what happens. But will I come home to find that rug has been disposed of and replaced with a more baby-friendly or acceptable version by one of the 'helping' nanas?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
The 'Tude
Ever since we found out that the little monster was sporting some external plumbing, we've pretty much slowed down on the ultrasonic stalkerazzi act that was previously replacing my daytime job. It's now limited to special occasions like when Nana Joyce comes to visit, it's Wednesday, or crazy Auntie Jazzie hasn't seen Disco Stu lately. I'm trying to stretch it out to once weekly at most, but we're seeing how long I can go in between this time. It's like everytime I see the baby, I get a hit of crack or something, because it's soooooo addicting (like McD's fries and Little Debbie).
There is one other tiny, little, itsy bitsy deterrent keeping me away from the high tech machinery. That would be the fact that my baby has developed, let us call it an 'aversion,' to being spied on. He is totally my child because he's already developing some serious social phobia, doesn't like his picture taken, and when he doesn't get his way, he throws a fit. Now, if you've never seen a 14 week fetus throw a temper tantrum, it's a pathetically cute sight to be seen.
So, there I was, minding my own business, staring at my unborn child via transducer and LOTS of cold goo on my ever-expanding belly. He was being his usual diva self and sleeping (of all the rebelious acts), so I couldn't get a good profile and I couldn't get a good between the legs view to confirm our previously toy truck loving prediction. He was just lying there on his side, sucking his thumb (as evidenced by his little lips moving around his hand--SO CUTE), completely content to ignore me for the afternoon bonding session...or napping, but that doesn't help me rationalize what is to come next nearly as well. So, what did I do? What any good mother with absolutely no patience and egocentric 'he's doing this to me on purpose' feelings would do. I jackhammered that transducer into my belly to cause a little local earthquake measuring a magnitude of 10 on the Richter scale.
What did I hope would happen? That he'd lazily open an eye and roll away from me (his usual 'can't wait to be an apathetic teenager' act) so I could get a better view. What happened? Apparently I woke him from a really good dream which pissed him off something fierce. You know what it looks like when a newborn infant is crying and throwing a fit and they get their arms and legs flexing and extending, but not synchronously so it looks like a crazy little dance, except they're screaming and turning red so it's only a funny-ha-ha for a second? Well, lets just say he woke up and instantly started into this little display of pure crazy making mommy-dearest A) wonder if this was some sort of abuse/neglect, and B) wonder if I should start taking prophylactic seizure medicine for his obvious condition. Had it stopped there, I wouldn't have been too crazed with guilt. However, he did not stop there. After his full minute of epipleptic behavior, he grabbed ahold of his cord and began doing front flips like a cirque de soleil performer at a never before measured velocity which assured me of his impending doom via cord knot/some type of decreased blood supply to his little developing brain.
This is where my panic attack began, prompting me to yell 'nooooooooo,' throw the transducer at the machine and sprint from the room promising never to do that to him again. This was extra funny for everyone else but me since my belly was full of goo, my pants weren't done up completely, and I tripped out the door and rammed into the supply closet causing an impromptu 're-organizing' of all the casting supplies. Dramatic? Yes. Rationalized as crazy preganant hormones? Of course. Have I gone back to ultrasound again? Not a chance.
Maybe I'm already being a bad mommy and showing him that a little temper tantrum will make mommy do whatever he wants. Don't know, don't care and no judgement because you weren't there for the exorcist act.
There is one other tiny, little, itsy bitsy deterrent keeping me away from the high tech machinery. That would be the fact that my baby has developed, let us call it an 'aversion,' to being spied on. He is totally my child because he's already developing some serious social phobia, doesn't like his picture taken, and when he doesn't get his way, he throws a fit. Now, if you've never seen a 14 week fetus throw a temper tantrum, it's a pathetically cute sight to be seen.
So, there I was, minding my own business, staring at my unborn child via transducer and LOTS of cold goo on my ever-expanding belly. He was being his usual diva self and sleeping (of all the rebelious acts), so I couldn't get a good profile and I couldn't get a good between the legs view to confirm our previously toy truck loving prediction. He was just lying there on his side, sucking his thumb (as evidenced by his little lips moving around his hand--SO CUTE), completely content to ignore me for the afternoon bonding session...or napping, but that doesn't help me rationalize what is to come next nearly as well. So, what did I do? What any good mother with absolutely no patience and egocentric 'he's doing this to me on purpose' feelings would do. I jackhammered that transducer into my belly to cause a little local earthquake measuring a magnitude of 10 on the Richter scale.
What did I hope would happen? That he'd lazily open an eye and roll away from me (his usual 'can't wait to be an apathetic teenager' act) so I could get a better view. What happened? Apparently I woke him from a really good dream which pissed him off something fierce. You know what it looks like when a newborn infant is crying and throwing a fit and they get their arms and legs flexing and extending, but not synchronously so it looks like a crazy little dance, except they're screaming and turning red so it's only a funny-ha-ha for a second? Well, lets just say he woke up and instantly started into this little display of pure crazy making mommy-dearest A) wonder if this was some sort of abuse/neglect, and B) wonder if I should start taking prophylactic seizure medicine for his obvious condition. Had it stopped there, I wouldn't have been too crazed with guilt. However, he did not stop there. After his full minute of epipleptic behavior, he grabbed ahold of his cord and began doing front flips like a cirque de soleil performer at a never before measured velocity which assured me of his impending doom via cord knot/some type of decreased blood supply to his little developing brain.
This is where my panic attack began, prompting me to yell 'nooooooooo,' throw the transducer at the machine and sprint from the room promising never to do that to him again. This was extra funny for everyone else but me since my belly was full of goo, my pants weren't done up completely, and I tripped out the door and rammed into the supply closet causing an impromptu 're-organizing' of all the casting supplies. Dramatic? Yes. Rationalized as crazy preganant hormones? Of course. Have I gone back to ultrasound again? Not a chance.
Maybe I'm already being a bad mommy and showing him that a little temper tantrum will make mommy do whatever he wants. Don't know, don't care and no judgement because you weren't there for the exorcist act.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Is that a kickstand?
It's official. Well, as official as it can be at 12 weeks. We had our perinatology ultrasound (read top o' the line machine) on Monday at 12w3d and what would appear to be danglies in the form of a 3mm pixelated penis were in plain view for all to see. That's right kids, it would appear that we are adding yet another Y-chromosome to our household which brings the tally to: boys -3, good guys-2 (Yeah, I'm counting the cats because otherwise it's 2-1 and that's lonesome for a sister.) I'll admit that I had my 2 minutes of gender disappointment while all the dreams of princess outfits and tutus flew out the window, but, I was elated to hear that we had a very, very healthy little man growing bigger by the day in my ever expanding buddha belly. Now, it's still early and there's a small possibility that things may end up on the opposite end of the gender spectrum, but lets not get our hopes up people. The other residents of our testosterone-laden abode are pumped to be adding another to the club allowed in the man-rage. Will could only be happer if we'd picked from his list of possible names including Nick, Levi, or Tristan, but he got over it when we reminded him of his master plan to change his name to Levi when he 1)turns 18, and 2) has $100. I don't know if he's been researching this online or what, but he's pretty sure those are the only requirements for the name change.
He's been a trooper all through this baby-mania, but had his first lightbulb moment while waiting for his parent-teacher conference to start on Tuesday. We're sitting in the tiny chairs (as if I didn't already feel like the fat guy in a little coat) outside his classroom waiting for our turn. I was fresh from the gym in my 'sweet' workout sweats since I didn't get the memo that apparently moms and dads dress to the nines for these things. He was sitting quietly next to me trying not to draw attention to his sweaty, hobo excuse for a mom. As we ate our bananas (another faux paus in the hall at a school...who knew), we were chatting about the ultrasound and how it was a boy and his name, yada, yada, yada. He quits chewing, turns to me with his cheeks all chipmunked out with banana, and only spits a little of this tasty treat on my already embarassing outfit while saying, 'wait, a minute. I'm not going to be the only child anymore. Whaaaaaat?" Needless to say that my assurances that he was the FIRST child and would always be the OLDEST child who had us all to himself for years before the others, fell on dead ears. It was only after I solemnly pinky swore that Nana Joyce would continue to spoil him and that he'd get to do a host of things the baby would be too small to do that he came around...a little. I still think he's excited, he's just beginning to scheme and lock down certain promises and 'that's not how we do its' as a form of 6 year old, self preservation. It's pretty cute.
It's also pretty cute when I can do anything crazy and he's like, 'Is that the baby doing that?' "Is the baby making you eat my french fries, mama?" "Is the baby making you eat another piece of cake?" "Is the baby making you not go to the gym to do your exercises anymore?" He's like my own little guilty conscience, following me around reminding me that I'm only supposed to eat 300 extra calories a day and exercise is not a form of devil worship. A-freaking-dorable, I tell ya. Just don't try to blame all the yucky side effects of parasitism/pregnancy on the baby when your hubby is around. He doesn't buy it that all the yummy GI side effects are the baby 'burping' and promptly calls you out on it which makes the 6 year old look at you with squinty eyes wondering what else the baby 'isn't doing' to you. FYI, when he looks at you like this, it's like he has the two fingers pointing at his eyes, then at you, then at his eyes, and then at you as if to signal "I'm watching you crazytown."
On a closing note, it's funny the inappropriate things that fly out of previously distinguished and quasi-normal peoples mouthes after you tell them you're sporting a tri-pod. One is funny, one is not PG-13, but it didn't come out of my mouth, I'm simply re-typing it so you can try to imagine the look on my face when this was said to me. My fave two were:
1: Next time your husband acts up, tell him this. "Watch it mister, I have just as many balls as you do now."
2: It's kind of like the first time you had sex, huh? There's a cock in you and you're not getting anything out of the deal! (Followed by an insane cackle/laugh and then she just walked away as if she'd just congratulated me and moved on...It was sooooooo weird.)
On that note, I'm off to eat more fruit (awesome) to fend off my Little Debbie cravings. By the way, this is not a good plan and I don't suggest that you try it if your goal isn't to gain 60 lbs in 9 months.
He's been a trooper all through this baby-mania, but had his first lightbulb moment while waiting for his parent-teacher conference to start on Tuesday. We're sitting in the tiny chairs (as if I didn't already feel like the fat guy in a little coat) outside his classroom waiting for our turn. I was fresh from the gym in my 'sweet' workout sweats since I didn't get the memo that apparently moms and dads dress to the nines for these things. He was sitting quietly next to me trying not to draw attention to his sweaty, hobo excuse for a mom. As we ate our bananas (another faux paus in the hall at a school...who knew), we were chatting about the ultrasound and how it was a boy and his name, yada, yada, yada. He quits chewing, turns to me with his cheeks all chipmunked out with banana, and only spits a little of this tasty treat on my already embarassing outfit while saying, 'wait, a minute. I'm not going to be the only child anymore. Whaaaaaat?" Needless to say that my assurances that he was the FIRST child and would always be the OLDEST child who had us all to himself for years before the others, fell on dead ears. It was only after I solemnly pinky swore that Nana Joyce would continue to spoil him and that he'd get to do a host of things the baby would be too small to do that he came around...a little. I still think he's excited, he's just beginning to scheme and lock down certain promises and 'that's not how we do its' as a form of 6 year old, self preservation. It's pretty cute.
It's also pretty cute when I can do anything crazy and he's like, 'Is that the baby doing that?' "Is the baby making you eat my french fries, mama?" "Is the baby making you eat another piece of cake?" "Is the baby making you not go to the gym to do your exercises anymore?" He's like my own little guilty conscience, following me around reminding me that I'm only supposed to eat 300 extra calories a day and exercise is not a form of devil worship. A-freaking-dorable, I tell ya. Just don't try to blame all the yucky side effects of parasitism/pregnancy on the baby when your hubby is around. He doesn't buy it that all the yummy GI side effects are the baby 'burping' and promptly calls you out on it which makes the 6 year old look at you with squinty eyes wondering what else the baby 'isn't doing' to you. FYI, when he looks at you like this, it's like he has the two fingers pointing at his eyes, then at you, then at his eyes, and then at you as if to signal "I'm watching you crazytown."
On a closing note, it's funny the inappropriate things that fly out of previously distinguished and quasi-normal peoples mouthes after you tell them you're sporting a tri-pod. One is funny, one is not PG-13, but it didn't come out of my mouth, I'm simply re-typing it so you can try to imagine the look on my face when this was said to me. My fave two were:
1: Next time your husband acts up, tell him this. "Watch it mister, I have just as many balls as you do now."
2: It's kind of like the first time you had sex, huh? There's a cock in you and you're not getting anything out of the deal! (Followed by an insane cackle/laugh and then she just walked away as if she'd just congratulated me and moved on...It was sooooooo weird.)
On that note, I'm off to eat more fruit (awesome) to fend off my Little Debbie cravings. By the way, this is not a good plan and I don't suggest that you try it if your goal isn't to gain 60 lbs in 9 months.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
My body is a Wonderland?
So, there are good things and not so savory things that happen to your temple when you become with child. No, I'm not saying my body resembles anything close to Jennifer Love Hewitt's song inspiring physique. It's more like, "I wonder what's going to happen to it next?" We'll start with the good things.
As we all know, one of the perks of being pregnant is the temporary bust augmentation. Coming from someone who's always been the 'other sister' surrounded by buxom women all my life, this is fan-freakingtastic. It's kind of nice knowing that I get to have them around for a bit, no matter how painful they get just from a towel brushing them, and then give them back when I reclaim by 12 year old boy body of yesteryear. That happens, right? It's like I'm growing into Dolly Parton's long lost sister and I L-O-V-E it.
A couple other wonderous things that follow a period of major suckage are the skin and the libido. Way back when, I told you how I was eating like a carb loading 15-year-old track star. Well, apparently that track star was also going through puberty. I was never a really acne-prone adolescent, but weeks 6-11 taught me a lesson. Just like braces, if you're going to have wicked zit face, it's best to have them in high school when everyone else does. Not when you're a 30-year old professional woman. The silver lining, however, is that upon reaching the 11-week mark, all of this seemed to dramatically improve. I admit that my diet consisting of McDonalds, candy, ice cream, all dairy all the time, and my investment in the college funds of the children of the makers of Little Debbie during weeks 6-11 may have fueled this dermatological dilemma. I also kind of 'gave up' on exercise for a month or so, for lack of a better (more embarassing) term. Now that I'm getting back in the healthy eating groove and working out a couple of times a week and hydrating adequately, I think my body has stopped punishing me...for the moment.
On a side note, I worked out today for the second and final time this week. It's enlightening to see that if you set your goals pretty low (working out 2x/week), they are miraculously easier to achieve and you can celebrate your accomplishment with dill pickle chips way more often and with much less guilt. Another fun fact is that I'm officially the girl who walks on the treadmill. Yeah, that's me. Huffing and puffing on an incline of 12 at 4.0, sometimes swinging my arms like a seizure victim and sometimes grasping the top of the machine, holding on for my life. I tried to run and use the elliptical, but the image of my baby holding on to his umbilical cord for dear life as he was tossed around, ricocheting from side to side of my belly, crying, 'why, mama, why?' is not one easily erased from the mind.
Back to the good stuff, libido. I hate that word but 'horny' creeps me out that much more. This will be a fairly short segment given that my family reads this (aka my dad) and him knowing too much about this department is a little creeptastic. Anywho, so during the whole 'feeling like death' and wanting to eat like crap and ralph all the time and sleep horribly period known as the first trimester, the desire to be one with your hubby is akin to your desire to be lit on fire and run over my a truck. Not that he's not hot and not that you don't think about it, but fathoming actually doing it, literally makes you nauseated. However, a magical little flip switched right at 11 weeks and 2 days and now it's on like donkey kong. I'm happy, he's happy (and relieved that he wasn't SOL for the next 6.5 months) and that's the end of that story.
So, John, remember when you said that some things I can share with you and some things I should save for my girlfriends. You should quit reading right here or else you'll have images that will be burnt into your mind forever and ruin our forementioned, new fun time.
The bad stuff isn't, like, life or death bad, just weird-kinda-gross-not-normal-me bad. For one thing, your previous monthly escape to the esthetician for some painful 'landscaping' now may be needed every 3 weeks, even every 2. It's crazy what those prenatal vitamins and eating healthy and staying hydrated will do for your hair, skin and nails. We also get to endure fun new patches of furry goodness in places that were previously barren and beautiful. Take, for instance, the happy trail. This is one of the things that just looks better on a guy (preferably with dark hair and a little tan) in addition to the weird, over-developed oblique abs that only guys can rock (sorry Pink, it's creepy.) During pregnancy, there is nothing fun or happy about having to shell out even more dough for 'landscaping' especially on your belly. And they can't even call it something cute like the 'happy trail,' it has to be the 'linea nigra'. Oh, that sounds real promising. Can't wait to find what's waiting at the end of the linea nigra. Told you, not the same effect, right. When I mentioned before that I was turning into Dolly Parton's long lost sister, I forgot to mention that it was the one who's mom was shacking up with a wookie. (That song is classic Bloodhound Gang).
Other things aren't so bad and are really par for the course. The fatigue, you sleep more. The growing belly, even in the first trimester, you wear bigger clothes and revel in your hugeness. The emotional roller coaster, you get to get everything off your chest about and to anyone who you want to because it's all the 'crazy pregnancy hormones' talking. That is one of the unsung benefits of being preggers, by the way. The baby is an excuse for EVERYTHING. I don't want to eat that. That smell makes me sick. I don't want to go there. I don't feel up to doing that. It doesn't matter what any of these is talking about because the reason and indesputable excuse is that it's 'because of the baby.' Love it, love it, love it. Is it crying wolf? You betcha. Does every pregnant woman in the history of sperm meets egg do it? Damn straight. Who am I to mess with historical precedent?
As we all know, one of the perks of being pregnant is the temporary bust augmentation. Coming from someone who's always been the 'other sister' surrounded by buxom women all my life, this is fan-freakingtastic. It's kind of nice knowing that I get to have them around for a bit, no matter how painful they get just from a towel brushing them, and then give them back when I reclaim by 12 year old boy body of yesteryear. That happens, right? It's like I'm growing into Dolly Parton's long lost sister and I L-O-V-E it.
A couple other wonderous things that follow a period of major suckage are the skin and the libido. Way back when, I told you how I was eating like a carb loading 15-year-old track star. Well, apparently that track star was also going through puberty. I was never a really acne-prone adolescent, but weeks 6-11 taught me a lesson. Just like braces, if you're going to have wicked zit face, it's best to have them in high school when everyone else does. Not when you're a 30-year old professional woman. The silver lining, however, is that upon reaching the 11-week mark, all of this seemed to dramatically improve. I admit that my diet consisting of McDonalds, candy, ice cream, all dairy all the time, and my investment in the college funds of the children of the makers of Little Debbie during weeks 6-11 may have fueled this dermatological dilemma. I also kind of 'gave up' on exercise for a month or so, for lack of a better (more embarassing) term. Now that I'm getting back in the healthy eating groove and working out a couple of times a week and hydrating adequately, I think my body has stopped punishing me...for the moment.
On a side note, I worked out today for the second and final time this week. It's enlightening to see that if you set your goals pretty low (working out 2x/week), they are miraculously easier to achieve and you can celebrate your accomplishment with dill pickle chips way more often and with much less guilt. Another fun fact is that I'm officially the girl who walks on the treadmill. Yeah, that's me. Huffing and puffing on an incline of 12 at 4.0, sometimes swinging my arms like a seizure victim and sometimes grasping the top of the machine, holding on for my life. I tried to run and use the elliptical, but the image of my baby holding on to his umbilical cord for dear life as he was tossed around, ricocheting from side to side of my belly, crying, 'why, mama, why?' is not one easily erased from the mind.
Back to the good stuff, libido. I hate that word but 'horny' creeps me out that much more. This will be a fairly short segment given that my family reads this (aka my dad) and him knowing too much about this department is a little creeptastic. Anywho, so during the whole 'feeling like death' and wanting to eat like crap and ralph all the time and sleep horribly period known as the first trimester, the desire to be one with your hubby is akin to your desire to be lit on fire and run over my a truck. Not that he's not hot and not that you don't think about it, but fathoming actually doing it, literally makes you nauseated. However, a magical little flip switched right at 11 weeks and 2 days and now it's on like donkey kong. I'm happy, he's happy (and relieved that he wasn't SOL for the next 6.5 months) and that's the end of that story.
So, John, remember when you said that some things I can share with you and some things I should save for my girlfriends. You should quit reading right here or else you'll have images that will be burnt into your mind forever and ruin our forementioned, new fun time.
The bad stuff isn't, like, life or death bad, just weird-kinda-gross-not-normal-me bad. For one thing, your previous monthly escape to the esthetician for some painful 'landscaping' now may be needed every 3 weeks, even every 2. It's crazy what those prenatal vitamins and eating healthy and staying hydrated will do for your hair, skin and nails. We also get to endure fun new patches of furry goodness in places that were previously barren and beautiful. Take, for instance, the happy trail. This is one of the things that just looks better on a guy (preferably with dark hair and a little tan) in addition to the weird, over-developed oblique abs that only guys can rock (sorry Pink, it's creepy.) During pregnancy, there is nothing fun or happy about having to shell out even more dough for 'landscaping' especially on your belly. And they can't even call it something cute like the 'happy trail,' it has to be the 'linea nigra'. Oh, that sounds real promising. Can't wait to find what's waiting at the end of the linea nigra. Told you, not the same effect, right. When I mentioned before that I was turning into Dolly Parton's long lost sister, I forgot to mention that it was the one who's mom was shacking up with a wookie. (That song is classic Bloodhound Gang).
Other things aren't so bad and are really par for the course. The fatigue, you sleep more. The growing belly, even in the first trimester, you wear bigger clothes and revel in your hugeness. The emotional roller coaster, you get to get everything off your chest about and to anyone who you want to because it's all the 'crazy pregnancy hormones' talking. That is one of the unsung benefits of being preggers, by the way. The baby is an excuse for EVERYTHING. I don't want to eat that. That smell makes me sick. I don't want to go there. I don't feel up to doing that. It doesn't matter what any of these is talking about because the reason and indesputable excuse is that it's 'because of the baby.' Love it, love it, love it. Is it crying wolf? You betcha. Does every pregnant woman in the history of sperm meets egg do it? Damn straight. Who am I to mess with historical precedent?
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