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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
I love you, now go away.
When you're getting bigger seemingly by the hour due to your ever growing little monster, why is it that everyone around you decides this is the perfect time to become as svelte and physically fit as possible? You're still happy for them as they get healthier by the day and you love that this 'baby weight' your putting on is helping you grow a ginormous and healthy little rugrat that will have the best start in life. But...it still sucks that you are fat now. Here is a short list of the people in my life, whom I love dearly big or small and am uber-pumped for their newfound healthy body image...but that I plan on not speaking to again until I fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes so that I don't blurt anything regretfully stupid related to the annoying discrepancy in the direction that our scale numbers are headed. If you have people in your pregnant life who fit into these categories, I strongly suggest a hiatus to preserve your sanity...and your friendship.
1. The svelte blonde who can sympathize with your heartwrenching 'I'm so hungry, but gaining weight sucks' story, only to follow it up with a description how she couldn't fit into anything when she gained 40 lbs...with her twins. You're up 25 lbs at 27 weeks with one baby? Nothing to feel bad about there!
2. The cute little brunette sister who popped out twins and two weeks later you're shopping to find 'something she could possibly fit into,' only to realize that she's trying on jeans that are a size double 00 (her pre-pregnancy size). Why they even make a size double 00 is beyond my comprehension.
3. The forementioned sister with the twins who after her second pregnancy (only one this time...bummer) totally quits working out for like three years and doesn't start up again til she's 'just sick of wearing a 6-8, I mean we're the same size Kourtney,' she says with disgust. Well we couldn't have that, could we? Being my size would probably be the cause of your divorce for heavens sake!
4. The friend who lost like 80 lbs before and after lap band surgery who had fallen off the wagon, but your weight gain and general hobo-type appearance have urged her on and convinced her to beat this plateau and drop another 30lbs or so. I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy.
5. The friend who decides to join weight watchers with her man and begins to instantly melt away to half her size AND gets to keep her absolutely humongous boobs. Not only are you bigger now, but you still have smaller boobs...that leak milk.
6. The pal who decided to lose some weight so she hired a trainer at Golds to work with a couple times a week and get a 'head start'...and has lost like 25 lbs. Not the 25 lbs like you don't really notice a difference, but the 25lbs where she looks like a different person. A hot, skinny different person. Unlike you who looks like a fuzzy, melasma covered, fat different person.
7. The husband who continues his satanic ritual otherwise known as waking up BEFORE 6 AM to workout everyday and is smokin' hot and gets your pregnant hormones all pumping despite the near impossible chance of satisfactory loving because you're so caught up in what you look like. Yeah that husband who says, 'I just feel so gross' in reference to his physique. Yep, gross dear. That's exactly what I was thinking...about me, not you hottie.
Do I love these people to death, feel grateful to have them in my life, and continue to be happy for them in their pursuit of a longer, healthier life and applaud their valiant, superhuman effort? Yes. Do I want to talk to or have any of them see me in a bathing suit or, God forbid, nude right now? Not a chance in fatty hell. Just joshing kiddos. Go ahead and keep rubbing the buddha belly and telling me that I look so 'cute' 25lbs heavier and know this: Now that we're all chumming around the same size, I will be stealing all you bitches clothing when I get back to my pre-pregnancy size. When, not if. So go ahead and start shopping. I look fab in blue, brown and fushia-esque pink.
1. The svelte blonde who can sympathize with your heartwrenching 'I'm so hungry, but gaining weight sucks' story, only to follow it up with a description how she couldn't fit into anything when she gained 40 lbs...with her twins. You're up 25 lbs at 27 weeks with one baby? Nothing to feel bad about there!
2. The cute little brunette sister who popped out twins and two weeks later you're shopping to find 'something she could possibly fit into,' only to realize that she's trying on jeans that are a size double 00 (her pre-pregnancy size). Why they even make a size double 00 is beyond my comprehension.
3. The forementioned sister with the twins who after her second pregnancy (only one this time...bummer) totally quits working out for like three years and doesn't start up again til she's 'just sick of wearing a 6-8, I mean we're the same size Kourtney,' she says with disgust. Well we couldn't have that, could we? Being my size would probably be the cause of your divorce for heavens sake!
4. The friend who lost like 80 lbs before and after lap band surgery who had fallen off the wagon, but your weight gain and general hobo-type appearance have urged her on and convinced her to beat this plateau and drop another 30lbs or so. I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy.
5. The friend who decides to join weight watchers with her man and begins to instantly melt away to half her size AND gets to keep her absolutely humongous boobs. Not only are you bigger now, but you still have smaller boobs...that leak milk.
6. The pal who decided to lose some weight so she hired a trainer at Golds to work with a couple times a week and get a 'head start'...and has lost like 25 lbs. Not the 25 lbs like you don't really notice a difference, but the 25lbs where she looks like a different person. A hot, skinny different person. Unlike you who looks like a fuzzy, melasma covered, fat different person.
7. The husband who continues his satanic ritual otherwise known as waking up BEFORE 6 AM to workout everyday and is smokin' hot and gets your pregnant hormones all pumping despite the near impossible chance of satisfactory loving because you're so caught up in what you look like. Yeah that husband who says, 'I just feel so gross' in reference to his physique. Yep, gross dear. That's exactly what I was thinking...about me, not you hottie.
Do I love these people to death, feel grateful to have them in my life, and continue to be happy for them in their pursuit of a longer, healthier life and applaud their valiant, superhuman effort? Yes. Do I want to talk to or have any of them see me in a bathing suit or, God forbid, nude right now? Not a chance in fatty hell. Just joshing kiddos. Go ahead and keep rubbing the buddha belly and telling me that I look so 'cute' 25lbs heavier and know this: Now that we're all chumming around the same size, I will be stealing all you bitches clothing when I get back to my pre-pregnancy size. When, not if. So go ahead and start shopping. I look fab in blue, brown and fushia-esque pink.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Isn't it ironic? Dontcha think?
So, 'ironic' is one of the most misused terms in the English language. While there are hundreds of types/definitions, the ones I stick with are 'Both coincidental and contradictory in a humorous or poignant and extremely improbable way' and/or 'Contrast or discrepancy between expectation and reality.' So is it ironic that Beethoven lost his hearing? Yes. Is it ironic that the chick who ate nothing but little debbie treats and fast food during the first two trimesters of pregancy would fail her glucose (i.e. gestational diabetes...diabetes that comes on in pregnancy) test? No. In the words of one of my new favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, (http://www.jennsylvania.com/), 'the b@^#* deserved it.'
So, I'm seeing my doctor last Thursday and we're doing all of our pregnancy/doctor stuff, etc. When I said, '14 weeks to go,' she said, 'I don't think so, how about somewhere between 37-38 weeks.' This is creepy but fantastic because I've had the same premonition that this little parasite will be joining us sooner than later given the general lack of room in my abdomen and his exponential growth rate. I know there's no possible way for her to REALLY know that I'll pop early (being a doctor really kills it for you sometimes), but I spent the better part of the day reveling in the fact that my need for instant gratification would be more quickly met than I had previously dreaded and I'd see his angelic little face sooner than later. So, we got our doctor on and we're finished and I'm leaving and she's like, 'while you're here, why don't you just do you sugar and hemoglobin tests?' These seemed like innocent little words and a perfectly acceptable idea. Seemed, being the operative word.
I mozy on over to the lab area and, knowing how I have to wait an hour after I drink the stuff til they can draw my blood (eech), stare impatiently at the chicks til they hand over the goods so we can get this party started. I have to say to all of my patients who have been whining about how awful the sugary drink is and how some have even refused to take it a second time...quit your bitching. It's not that bad. It was really cold, flat lemon-lime soda that went down in about 3 gulps. No more excuses people. Anywho, so I sit there for a shade under a decade, have my blood drawn and head back to work. FYI, it's never a good sign when your doctor's nurse calls you within 45 minutes of your visit to the vampires because the chances of them needing to tell you RIGHT NOW that everything is hunky dory, is slim to none.
She was cute because she's like, 'so your hemoglobin is fine...just a little low, so keep taking your vitamins, blah, blah, blah. But...(unacceptably long pause)your glucose was high. 149 to be exact, so Dr. Schmoopy wants you to get a three hour glucose tolerance test.' Forgetting I'm a physician for a minute, I say, 'I wonder when I have to do that, if it can wait til next week I mean.' She says, 'No. Tomorrow.' (and you can tell she wanted to add, Idiot. You should know this.) And by the way, you have to fast after midnight and don't eat anything but sips of water and don't really move around too much til they finish the FOURTH BLOOD DRAW three hours after you start.' Now, for someone who a)loves to eat more than breathe, b) has an unnatural hatred of having blood drawn, and c) is impatient to the point of psychosis on occasion, this sounds like a death sentence.
I agree to the craziness and hang up the phone only to realize that this means that during the part of the day that I normally consume an average of 2400 calories (otherwise known as the hours between 6 and noon or morning), I can have nothing. I immediatly blame my 20lb weight gain at 26 weeks on the 'diabetes' and start to have nightmares about 12 lb babies trying to be purged from my delicates. That's when I started to cry. I went home to my husband making dinner #1 (on swimming lesson days, Will has dinner before and after) which I cant partake in at all because I'm too worked up with the notion that if I eat a single granule of sugar or unrefined carbs, I'll have nothing but insulin in my future. After inspecting our carb-loaded refrigerator, I ate two pieces of hard salami (yummmmy) and announced I was finished to which my loving husband said, 'no dice, why don't I make you an omelet or something.' I pouted, but agreed and that was it for calories for the evening. Knowing I couldn't eat for the better part of the next day, I'm not really sure why I thought it was a good idea to start a self-imposed fast six hours earlier than necessary. We'll blame it on the hormones.
The smart me would have slept in as long as possible the next morning to skip some hours when I couldn't be eating, but the dumb me wanted to see Will before school, so I got up early and watched everyone else eat pancakes while I sipped my super yummy water. My stomach was already growling when I got to the lab and had the first blood draw and started chugging the nasty orange drink. (this one was way worse...not cold, syrup, cold-medicine aftertaste). I was trying to savor it as this was my only intake for the morning, but the sadist lab tech reminded me 27 times that it was bottoms up in 5 minutes or less or we couldn't do the test. Thanks for your help! I finish it off and let her know that I'll be up on family birthing and I'll be back in an hour for my blood draw. This prompts a pretty stern disapproving face and she says, ' they normally have to wait here until the test is done. I guess since your a doctor...' They wait down here for three hours? Really? Well that sucks, but I'm not so I'll catch you later. This is what I thought, but what I said was, 'I promise I won't exert myself or eat and I'll be back in 58 minutes. Here's my pager,' and I took off before she could argue. Hey, I don't pull the doctor card very often, but I wasn't about to sit there for 3 hours counting the ceiling tiles.
The next three hours were hell. I felt so faint every time I stood up and was nauseated with hunger, especially since everyone with food decided to follow me around, munching as loudly as possible on their vittles. Somehow, I survived until the final draw at 11:15 and hightailed it to the cafeteria. I literally had one foot in the door and one hand on a tray when, what joyous noise did I hear overhead? "Dr. Quick, Family birthing center, room 315." This, children, is an example of irony. Being the resident on OB this month, it was my job to sprint my fat pregnant butt up three flights of stairs, to the other side of the hospital after being about a pint down from all the blood draws and being so starving that I contemplated grabbing food off patient trays as I ran past in the hallway. Got there, baby out, sprint back to the caf. Still worried about my 15 pound baby, I selected some healthy food and began to gorge myself. If you haven't eaten in, now, 18 hours and you finish a full plate of food in 47 seconds, you may or may not immediately need to evacuate said food into the nearest garbage can and then traipse back down to the caf to refuel. If you 'evacuate' while you're in the doctors lounge and eveyone hears it and comes running to 'help' (pet peeve...trying to help when someone is vomiting. If they aren't passed out, you can't be much help, so leave 'em be people...or just continue to stand there staring talking about how gross it is. You're doctors, for heavens sake!), you might be really embarassed and not venture into this previous safehaven for damn near a week.
Anywho, the test came back okay, so no needles and insulin and big, fat babies (fingers-crossed) for me...at least for now. I definitely had to cut back on my sugar intake (we're not counting the tray of brownies and cookies and cream ice cream my hubby made) and have started to try and exercise again. It's weird. You know there's something patological going on when just because it hits 75 and sunny outside, your body says, 'you must run.' Almost 27 weeks pregnant and gave up exercise about...oh, 27 weeks ago? Doesn't matter, my body said run so that's what I did last night. It sucked, but I slept like a baby and I swear that my cankles might be more shapely today so maybe if the weather keeps up, so will I.
So, I'm seeing my doctor last Thursday and we're doing all of our pregnancy/doctor stuff, etc. When I said, '14 weeks to go,' she said, 'I don't think so, how about somewhere between 37-38 weeks.' This is creepy but fantastic because I've had the same premonition that this little parasite will be joining us sooner than later given the general lack of room in my abdomen and his exponential growth rate. I know there's no possible way for her to REALLY know that I'll pop early (being a doctor really kills it for you sometimes), but I spent the better part of the day reveling in the fact that my need for instant gratification would be more quickly met than I had previously dreaded and I'd see his angelic little face sooner than later. So, we got our doctor on and we're finished and I'm leaving and she's like, 'while you're here, why don't you just do you sugar and hemoglobin tests?' These seemed like innocent little words and a perfectly acceptable idea. Seemed, being the operative word.
I mozy on over to the lab area and, knowing how I have to wait an hour after I drink the stuff til they can draw my blood (eech), stare impatiently at the chicks til they hand over the goods so we can get this party started. I have to say to all of my patients who have been whining about how awful the sugary drink is and how some have even refused to take it a second time...quit your bitching. It's not that bad. It was really cold, flat lemon-lime soda that went down in about 3 gulps. No more excuses people. Anywho, so I sit there for a shade under a decade, have my blood drawn and head back to work. FYI, it's never a good sign when your doctor's nurse calls you within 45 minutes of your visit to the vampires because the chances of them needing to tell you RIGHT NOW that everything is hunky dory, is slim to none.
She was cute because she's like, 'so your hemoglobin is fine...just a little low, so keep taking your vitamins, blah, blah, blah. But...(unacceptably long pause)your glucose was high. 149 to be exact, so Dr. Schmoopy wants you to get a three hour glucose tolerance test.' Forgetting I'm a physician for a minute, I say, 'I wonder when I have to do that, if it can wait til next week I mean.' She says, 'No. Tomorrow.' (and you can tell she wanted to add, Idiot. You should know this.) And by the way, you have to fast after midnight and don't eat anything but sips of water and don't really move around too much til they finish the FOURTH BLOOD DRAW three hours after you start.' Now, for someone who a)loves to eat more than breathe, b) has an unnatural hatred of having blood drawn, and c) is impatient to the point of psychosis on occasion, this sounds like a death sentence.
I agree to the craziness and hang up the phone only to realize that this means that during the part of the day that I normally consume an average of 2400 calories (otherwise known as the hours between 6 and noon or morning), I can have nothing. I immediatly blame my 20lb weight gain at 26 weeks on the 'diabetes' and start to have nightmares about 12 lb babies trying to be purged from my delicates. That's when I started to cry. I went home to my husband making dinner #1 (on swimming lesson days, Will has dinner before and after) which I cant partake in at all because I'm too worked up with the notion that if I eat a single granule of sugar or unrefined carbs, I'll have nothing but insulin in my future. After inspecting our carb-loaded refrigerator, I ate two pieces of hard salami (yummmmy) and announced I was finished to which my loving husband said, 'no dice, why don't I make you an omelet or something.' I pouted, but agreed and that was it for calories for the evening. Knowing I couldn't eat for the better part of the next day, I'm not really sure why I thought it was a good idea to start a self-imposed fast six hours earlier than necessary. We'll blame it on the hormones.
The smart me would have slept in as long as possible the next morning to skip some hours when I couldn't be eating, but the dumb me wanted to see Will before school, so I got up early and watched everyone else eat pancakes while I sipped my super yummy water. My stomach was already growling when I got to the lab and had the first blood draw and started chugging the nasty orange drink. (this one was way worse...not cold, syrup, cold-medicine aftertaste). I was trying to savor it as this was my only intake for the morning, but the sadist lab tech reminded me 27 times that it was bottoms up in 5 minutes or less or we couldn't do the test. Thanks for your help! I finish it off and let her know that I'll be up on family birthing and I'll be back in an hour for my blood draw. This prompts a pretty stern disapproving face and she says, ' they normally have to wait here until the test is done. I guess since your a doctor...' They wait down here for three hours? Really? Well that sucks, but I'm not so I'll catch you later. This is what I thought, but what I said was, 'I promise I won't exert myself or eat and I'll be back in 58 minutes. Here's my pager,' and I took off before she could argue. Hey, I don't pull the doctor card very often, but I wasn't about to sit there for 3 hours counting the ceiling tiles.
The next three hours were hell. I felt so faint every time I stood up and was nauseated with hunger, especially since everyone with food decided to follow me around, munching as loudly as possible on their vittles. Somehow, I survived until the final draw at 11:15 and hightailed it to the cafeteria. I literally had one foot in the door and one hand on a tray when, what joyous noise did I hear overhead? "Dr. Quick, Family birthing center, room 315." This, children, is an example of irony. Being the resident on OB this month, it was my job to sprint my fat pregnant butt up three flights of stairs, to the other side of the hospital after being about a pint down from all the blood draws and being so starving that I contemplated grabbing food off patient trays as I ran past in the hallway. Got there, baby out, sprint back to the caf. Still worried about my 15 pound baby, I selected some healthy food and began to gorge myself. If you haven't eaten in, now, 18 hours and you finish a full plate of food in 47 seconds, you may or may not immediately need to evacuate said food into the nearest garbage can and then traipse back down to the caf to refuel. If you 'evacuate' while you're in the doctors lounge and eveyone hears it and comes running to 'help' (pet peeve...trying to help when someone is vomiting. If they aren't passed out, you can't be much help, so leave 'em be people...or just continue to stand there staring talking about how gross it is. You're doctors, for heavens sake!), you might be really embarassed and not venture into this previous safehaven for damn near a week.
Anywho, the test came back okay, so no needles and insulin and big, fat babies (fingers-crossed) for me...at least for now. I definitely had to cut back on my sugar intake (we're not counting the tray of brownies and cookies and cream ice cream my hubby made) and have started to try and exercise again. It's weird. You know there's something patological going on when just because it hits 75 and sunny outside, your body says, 'you must run.' Almost 27 weeks pregnant and gave up exercise about...oh, 27 weeks ago? Doesn't matter, my body said run so that's what I did last night. It sucked, but I slept like a baby and I swear that my cankles might be more shapely today so maybe if the weather keeps up, so will I.
Monday, May 3, 2010
18 lbs and counting
So, I have no problems with a girl with a little belly. Whether they're rocking the beer gut or just comfy in their stretched out skin, good for them for being confident in their apple-like shape. The thing is with these women, of whom some are very near and dear to my heart, they did not gain this rotund shape overnight, but it was something they've been working on for years. They've had time to adapt to the changes necessary when you decide to carry a basketball attached to your midsection. However, in pregnancy, you gain this protuberant blessing in a matter of weeks to months and your new addition doesn't come with an instruction guide. So, even when you're only 'a little bigger,' or so your husband tries to convince you, you feel like a full on cow and tard in your own skin. It's like when people are newly walking with a cane or crutches and hit them on everything because they don't relize how wide they are now...only it's your baby...in your fat belly that you ram into everything. The following paragraphs are case in point why it sucks to have a rapidly expanding waistline.
When you have a beautiful bathroom, complete with stand up shower next to your jacuzzi tub, you generally feel lucky. When you're too fat to fit into said shower, you do not feel lucky. A quick romantic shower with your spouse becomes a thing of the past when he offers to join you and you sheepishly hold the door closed mumbling something about being done when you obviously have shampoo in your hair, facewash on your face, a razor in hand and know it's because if you let him in, you'll both be struggling to breath adequately...if the door will close.
This awesome shower also has a 2 ft high little alcove that you used to be able to perch your pretty tootsies on to shave your legs. Used to, because now the concept of raising your ankle remotely near even the bottom of your buddha belly is completely laughable. If you try this, you might fall into the opposite shower wall, which also happens to be the door. This might cause the door to swing wildly open and you to tumble out, nearly hitting your head on the 'quaint' marble deathtrap that used to be your beloved jacuzzi tub. So you give up shaving, which you're husband thinks is totally awesome.
Things are going okay, no more shaving/near death experiences, until one day you reach down to the waiting shampoo on the floor of your teensy enclave only to realize that you have to spread 'em to kind of squat because you can't bend straight over and get it. This not only looks uber-attractive, but now your twice the size ass hits the damn door again, throwing it open and letting all the water splash all over the floor. If you're like some people who maintain a pregnancy blog like this one, you may have a serious pet peeve about water on your bathroom floor and may begin to cry when you realize what you've done, all before getting back in the shower and closing the door. Your husband may find the wading pool of water and knowing your psychotic obsession with water on the floor, not say a word, but just dry it off and go on, in his wet socks, like nothing happened. He may not even ask why all of the toiletries are now on the top two shelves in the shower...except his, which all live on the floor now.
Moving a few feet from the bathroom, your bedroom becomes an area of excitement past once a sizable belly enters the picture. Lets pretend your hubby still finds you attractive and tries to lie on you in order to give you some smoochies or gaze lovingly into your eyes. He now is lying on a cantaloupe that compresses your unborn child into your inferior vena cava until your legs start to ache and you get a little light headed. Not to mention, he now is reminded by this blunt object to the torso, that he has to pee, so needless to say, there end up being no smoochies or gazing for you. You may abandon this position and try to belly-up next to eachother and pretend your fatness doesn't get in the way and your kid isn't kicking him in the bladder through your belly, which can be a little strange. You may try to have him spoon up behind you, only to realize that he can no longer get his arm around you, your ass is double it's previous grandeur and is now almost a hazard to his health should he get lost in its enormity, and to top it all off, your kid HATES this position and lets you know it...non-stop...until you move...away from his father. No smoochies, nada.
'Oh, you're so lucky you're in medicine because you can just wear scrubs when you get pregnant.' This sounds awesome, right? Not when you realize that you are growing at such an exponential rate that you have to upgrade sizes before the third trimester even comes calling, they still suck because you have to tie them below your belly...which compresses your bladder...and makes you have to pee 10 times an hour instead of 8, and whether you tuck in the top or not, it finds its way loose to ride up and show off your streched out bulbous belly at the least opportune times. Like when a creepy guy patient is asking if your pregnant in a way that tells you, a) he knows damn well your pregnant, b) he's really 'in to' pregnant chicks in a super skeezy way that makes your stomach turn. Yep, I sure am lucky.
My most favorite, thus far, is one I have yet to learn from and am a serious repeat offender. Remember those days when you were slender and getting behind the wheel of a car was no big deal because you could have fit a small child in between you and the wheel...not that you would...right Britney? Now, you do have a small child between you and the wheel, but you tend to forget that ALL THE TIME. You think you can still reach into the backseat or the passenger to grab something, but your belly hits the wheel. You think you can pull your purse from the passenger, into your lap, then rotate and get out of the vehicle. This causes you to become tightly wedged into your seat until you physically move the seat backwards so you can actually disembark. You would think that it would only take one episode of this careless wedging of your child tightly to your Dooney, but no. That's not how I roll. Still happens at least every few days and now I like to spice it up and be holding a cup of tea or soda (I'm a pregnancy sinner) or talking on the phone which allows me to douse myself in my beverage of choice or my phone to keep moving once I become fixed and make its way onto the parking lot post haste. This makes my sprint service even more sublime than usual, let me tell you.
Enough with the whining about becoming a butter ball. I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like 18 lbs and everything's been going pretty swimmingly. If the last 15 1/2 weeks are this easy, I'm up for 10 more of the little buggers. To end on a jovial note, for those of you not acquainted with a breast pump, I highly suggest it. While functional, these little devices can be super duper entertaining too. Pretend you have a bestie who you lovingly call 'the moo-cow' who has to pump all the time, especially over lunch. You kind of get used to the ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh that can lull you into a nice little postprandial nappy.
It's also super fun when you find yourself at the outlet mall over lunchtime and she needs to use a car pump...oh yeah, they exist. ( How many times has someone been moo-cowing it up in the car next you and you never even suspected? I bet you start looking now.) Anyway. Pretend you park facing a little lake with little, cute duckies and she starts the extraction process. Pretend that everything is not exactly in place and the super strong pumping device makes a really loud slurping/sucking noise against her bosom that sounds just like a really loud duck quacking. Apparently this particular 'really loud duck quacking' noise is a signal to all the ducks that can hear it quite well through your open sunroof and windows and they start to aggressively approach the car with looks in their little ducky eyes that are in a way slightly amorous, but also somewhat murderous. You may or may not be prompted to haul ass outta there and move your car to a duck free location should this happen again. You may also choose to never let your friend forget this moment and forever immortalize it by writing about it in your blog that everyone at work reads prompting her to label you and your big ass mouth her ex-bestie. Pretend that happened and it'd make for a pretty good story. Until you remembered that one day soon you're going to be the one hooked up to the milking machine. You'd still smile, though.
When you have a beautiful bathroom, complete with stand up shower next to your jacuzzi tub, you generally feel lucky. When you're too fat to fit into said shower, you do not feel lucky. A quick romantic shower with your spouse becomes a thing of the past when he offers to join you and you sheepishly hold the door closed mumbling something about being done when you obviously have shampoo in your hair, facewash on your face, a razor in hand and know it's because if you let him in, you'll both be struggling to breath adequately...if the door will close.
This awesome shower also has a 2 ft high little alcove that you used to be able to perch your pretty tootsies on to shave your legs. Used to, because now the concept of raising your ankle remotely near even the bottom of your buddha belly is completely laughable. If you try this, you might fall into the opposite shower wall, which also happens to be the door. This might cause the door to swing wildly open and you to tumble out, nearly hitting your head on the 'quaint' marble deathtrap that used to be your beloved jacuzzi tub. So you give up shaving, which you're husband thinks is totally awesome.
Things are going okay, no more shaving/near death experiences, until one day you reach down to the waiting shampoo on the floor of your teensy enclave only to realize that you have to spread 'em to kind of squat because you can't bend straight over and get it. This not only looks uber-attractive, but now your twice the size ass hits the damn door again, throwing it open and letting all the water splash all over the floor. If you're like some people who maintain a pregnancy blog like this one, you may have a serious pet peeve about water on your bathroom floor and may begin to cry when you realize what you've done, all before getting back in the shower and closing the door. Your husband may find the wading pool of water and knowing your psychotic obsession with water on the floor, not say a word, but just dry it off and go on, in his wet socks, like nothing happened. He may not even ask why all of the toiletries are now on the top two shelves in the shower...except his, which all live on the floor now.
Moving a few feet from the bathroom, your bedroom becomes an area of excitement past once a sizable belly enters the picture. Lets pretend your hubby still finds you attractive and tries to lie on you in order to give you some smoochies or gaze lovingly into your eyes. He now is lying on a cantaloupe that compresses your unborn child into your inferior vena cava until your legs start to ache and you get a little light headed. Not to mention, he now is reminded by this blunt object to the torso, that he has to pee, so needless to say, there end up being no smoochies or gazing for you. You may abandon this position and try to belly-up next to eachother and pretend your fatness doesn't get in the way and your kid isn't kicking him in the bladder through your belly, which can be a little strange. You may try to have him spoon up behind you, only to realize that he can no longer get his arm around you, your ass is double it's previous grandeur and is now almost a hazard to his health should he get lost in its enormity, and to top it all off, your kid HATES this position and lets you know it...non-stop...until you move...away from his father. No smoochies, nada.
'Oh, you're so lucky you're in medicine because you can just wear scrubs when you get pregnant.' This sounds awesome, right? Not when you realize that you are growing at such an exponential rate that you have to upgrade sizes before the third trimester even comes calling, they still suck because you have to tie them below your belly...which compresses your bladder...and makes you have to pee 10 times an hour instead of 8, and whether you tuck in the top or not, it finds its way loose to ride up and show off your streched out bulbous belly at the least opportune times. Like when a creepy guy patient is asking if your pregnant in a way that tells you, a) he knows damn well your pregnant, b) he's really 'in to' pregnant chicks in a super skeezy way that makes your stomach turn. Yep, I sure am lucky.
My most favorite, thus far, is one I have yet to learn from and am a serious repeat offender. Remember those days when you were slender and getting behind the wheel of a car was no big deal because you could have fit a small child in between you and the wheel...not that you would...right Britney? Now, you do have a small child between you and the wheel, but you tend to forget that ALL THE TIME. You think you can still reach into the backseat or the passenger to grab something, but your belly hits the wheel. You think you can pull your purse from the passenger, into your lap, then rotate and get out of the vehicle. This causes you to become tightly wedged into your seat until you physically move the seat backwards so you can actually disembark. You would think that it would only take one episode of this careless wedging of your child tightly to your Dooney, but no. That's not how I roll. Still happens at least every few days and now I like to spice it up and be holding a cup of tea or soda (I'm a pregnancy sinner) or talking on the phone which allows me to douse myself in my beverage of choice or my phone to keep moving once I become fixed and make its way onto the parking lot post haste. This makes my sprint service even more sublime than usual, let me tell you.
Enough with the whining about becoming a butter ball. I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like 18 lbs and everything's been going pretty swimmingly. If the last 15 1/2 weeks are this easy, I'm up for 10 more of the little buggers. To end on a jovial note, for those of you not acquainted with a breast pump, I highly suggest it. While functional, these little devices can be super duper entertaining too. Pretend you have a bestie who you lovingly call 'the moo-cow' who has to pump all the time, especially over lunch. You kind of get used to the ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh that can lull you into a nice little postprandial nappy.
It's also super fun when you find yourself at the outlet mall over lunchtime and she needs to use a car pump...oh yeah, they exist. ( How many times has someone been moo-cowing it up in the car next you and you never even suspected? I bet you start looking now.) Anyway. Pretend you park facing a little lake with little, cute duckies and she starts the extraction process. Pretend that everything is not exactly in place and the super strong pumping device makes a really loud slurping/sucking noise against her bosom that sounds just like a really loud duck quacking. Apparently this particular 'really loud duck quacking' noise is a signal to all the ducks that can hear it quite well through your open sunroof and windows and they start to aggressively approach the car with looks in their little ducky eyes that are in a way slightly amorous, but also somewhat murderous. You may or may not be prompted to haul ass outta there and move your car to a duck free location should this happen again. You may also choose to never let your friend forget this moment and forever immortalize it by writing about it in your blog that everyone at work reads prompting her to label you and your big ass mouth her ex-bestie. Pretend that happened and it'd make for a pretty good story. Until you remembered that one day soon you're going to be the one hooked up to the milking machine. You'd still smile, though.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
But he's moving in there!
Those of you with small children present, any men who are related to me, and anyone with delicate sensibilities should not read on. This entry is about having the sex...or not...during pregnancy and I had to get some graphic issues off my plate. You've been warned.
So, there are certain things during pregnancy that they don't warn you about...not even in med school. I may have mentioned before that there comes a time in pregnancy when you want nothing to do with your spouse romantically, but this is quickly recouped and you can't keep your hormonal hands off him. What they don't tell you...John and Dad, I wasn't kidding...you should quit reading here...is that this is somewhat of a double edged sword.
While you've been growing this healthy, little monster, he's been ever present in your day with all his crazy movements that just seem to become more and more frequent as the days pass by. The 'duh' moment comes when you realize that just because you're exhausted and need to get started on your nightly 10 hours of shut-eye, that doesn't mean he's got the same game plan. This holds true for other times when you might not want to be so aware of his movements...say when you're thinking about giving your hubby a smoochie with the hopes that it'll lead to more. The parasite says 'hold on here, I thought you were gonna eat some ice cream. You're not? Well, I'll kick and punch and practice front flips until you quit doing whatever's causing all that ruckus and get back on track with the eating.' Needless to say, if he decides to throw this little temper tantrum in the middle of the horizontal tango, the moment is officially ruined for you. Simultaneously with your evaporation of desire, you then feel it's a good idea to udder a sentence like, 'aw, dude. It's so weird when you're thrusting and he's kicking,' and then there's no longer anything to thrust. Talk about a cock block...almost literally. So you find yourself in this catch-22 where you WANT to make some beautiful music and your husband KNOWS you want to, but it just not happening because this one pound, eleven inch long creature will be the inevitable uninvited wet blanket who will make it a pretty short-lived party.
If the constant dance team practice in your stomach wasn't enough, there are other reasons why this is a ridiculously sexually frustrating period of life. You don't want it, then you want it, then you have to have it, but you can't actually get it, and then you're so big, you're afraid you're sweetie will get lost in the enormity that is your 'delicates.' The other big issue here, pun intended, is that there are parts of you that change during pregnancy. The hips get a little wider, there's a little more padding in the trunk and on your pubic bone and the inside bits have some minor alterations as the uterus grows as well. This is a boring translation for 'stuff doesn't live where it used to so the things that used to get you there before don't always work anymore.' This sucks. Maybe this isn't common, but when it didn't used to be that hard to get to the fireworks and fanfare and now no single position/activity is bringing it home for you, you start to go a little crazy. And every time he flaunts the fact that, 'nope, no problem for me. I'll just finish up here,' you start to go a little batshit crazy. Then you start to avoid any encounter that may lead to anything remotely intimate, because even though you'd cut off your left pinky toe for some satisfaction, you know it aint happening, so you run the other direction in hopes that he'll forget that he's in the mood too. You find yourself starting to say silly things like, 'oh no, you go ahead and take care of that dear,' and hope he has enough left in the fantasy reel to get you through the next few months with minimal participation. I'm not trying to be a bad wife here or advocate initiating a 10-month lock down on the goods, but come on. You can't give me enough hormones to make me crazier than a horny fifteen year old boy and then not give me a way to find some release. That's just not cool.
Now, all my pregnant friends laugh when I tell this story and tell me to get over it because no one expects you to be a porn star while gestating. I giggle because they're all laughing for different reasons. One tells me that she and her husband bumped uglies approximately 2.5 times during the entire pregnancy and you don't even want to know what the .5 part pathetically consisted of. Another tells me that she, sadly, had three orgasms during pregnancy despite their nearly weekly encounters. 3/40 is not an average I'm swinging for. Yet another tells me that her husband had zero interest as soon as he found out his progeny was seeded in her womb and she actually had more sexual encounters (solo and on the D.L.) during pregnancy than any other time in her life. Another, whom I don't believe one bit, says they used to have sex once a month or so, so skipping out on the 'chore' for nearly a year of preggers wasn't that big a deal. I didn't ask what her husbands thoughts on the topic were...or what his boyfriends name is. Just kidding.
Now, I'm not going to say that it never happens or that with slight adjustment here and there...okay alot of research, practice and adjustment, you can't find something that resembles a middle ground and you can resume some amorous activity with some success. It just seems like with all the getting fat, breaking out, emotional outbursts, and libido on crack, that those of us in the knocked up club could use a little break and maybe this was one time in our lives that this particular activity would be easier and more satisfying. You would think that would be a good idea or some kind of payback for all the crap we go through while being in the family way, but what you would think...more correctly, what I think...seldomly turns out to be the way things really are. Oh well, here's to 18 more weeks of bliss?
So, there are certain things during pregnancy that they don't warn you about...not even in med school. I may have mentioned before that there comes a time in pregnancy when you want nothing to do with your spouse romantically, but this is quickly recouped and you can't keep your hormonal hands off him. What they don't tell you...John and Dad, I wasn't kidding...you should quit reading here...is that this is somewhat of a double edged sword.
While you've been growing this healthy, little monster, he's been ever present in your day with all his crazy movements that just seem to become more and more frequent as the days pass by. The 'duh' moment comes when you realize that just because you're exhausted and need to get started on your nightly 10 hours of shut-eye, that doesn't mean he's got the same game plan. This holds true for other times when you might not want to be so aware of his movements...say when you're thinking about giving your hubby a smoochie with the hopes that it'll lead to more. The parasite says 'hold on here, I thought you were gonna eat some ice cream. You're not? Well, I'll kick and punch and practice front flips until you quit doing whatever's causing all that ruckus and get back on track with the eating.' Needless to say, if he decides to throw this little temper tantrum in the middle of the horizontal tango, the moment is officially ruined for you. Simultaneously with your evaporation of desire, you then feel it's a good idea to udder a sentence like, 'aw, dude. It's so weird when you're thrusting and he's kicking,' and then there's no longer anything to thrust. Talk about a cock block...almost literally. So you find yourself in this catch-22 where you WANT to make some beautiful music and your husband KNOWS you want to, but it just not happening because this one pound, eleven inch long creature will be the inevitable uninvited wet blanket who will make it a pretty short-lived party.
If the constant dance team practice in your stomach wasn't enough, there are other reasons why this is a ridiculously sexually frustrating period of life. You don't want it, then you want it, then you have to have it, but you can't actually get it, and then you're so big, you're afraid you're sweetie will get lost in the enormity that is your 'delicates.' The other big issue here, pun intended, is that there are parts of you that change during pregnancy. The hips get a little wider, there's a little more padding in the trunk and on your pubic bone and the inside bits have some minor alterations as the uterus grows as well. This is a boring translation for 'stuff doesn't live where it used to so the things that used to get you there before don't always work anymore.' This sucks. Maybe this isn't common, but when it didn't used to be that hard to get to the fireworks and fanfare and now no single position/activity is bringing it home for you, you start to go a little crazy. And every time he flaunts the fact that, 'nope, no problem for me. I'll just finish up here,' you start to go a little batshit crazy. Then you start to avoid any encounter that may lead to anything remotely intimate, because even though you'd cut off your left pinky toe for some satisfaction, you know it aint happening, so you run the other direction in hopes that he'll forget that he's in the mood too. You find yourself starting to say silly things like, 'oh no, you go ahead and take care of that dear,' and hope he has enough left in the fantasy reel to get you through the next few months with minimal participation. I'm not trying to be a bad wife here or advocate initiating a 10-month lock down on the goods, but come on. You can't give me enough hormones to make me crazier than a horny fifteen year old boy and then not give me a way to find some release. That's just not cool.
Now, all my pregnant friends laugh when I tell this story and tell me to get over it because no one expects you to be a porn star while gestating. I giggle because they're all laughing for different reasons. One tells me that she and her husband bumped uglies approximately 2.5 times during the entire pregnancy and you don't even want to know what the .5 part pathetically consisted of. Another tells me that she, sadly, had three orgasms during pregnancy despite their nearly weekly encounters. 3/40 is not an average I'm swinging for. Yet another tells me that her husband had zero interest as soon as he found out his progeny was seeded in her womb and she actually had more sexual encounters (solo and on the D.L.) during pregnancy than any other time in her life. Another, whom I don't believe one bit, says they used to have sex once a month or so, so skipping out on the 'chore' for nearly a year of preggers wasn't that big a deal. I didn't ask what her husbands thoughts on the topic were...or what his boyfriends name is. Just kidding.
Now, I'm not going to say that it never happens or that with slight adjustment here and there...okay alot of research, practice and adjustment, you can't find something that resembles a middle ground and you can resume some amorous activity with some success. It just seems like with all the getting fat, breaking out, emotional outbursts, and libido on crack, that those of us in the knocked up club could use a little break and maybe this was one time in our lives that this particular activity would be easier and more satisfying. You would think that would be a good idea or some kind of payback for all the crap we go through while being in the family way, but what you would think...more correctly, what I think...seldomly turns out to be the way things really are. Oh well, here's to 18 more weeks of bliss?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
20w6days pics
Okay so these two are his little face with the one below showing his arms/hands up next to his head.
The one above is half his head (right) and (from left) his hand, forearm, elbow, upper arm and shoudler.
The one below is his body and left leg.
The one above is his beautimous little profile. I just want to nibble his nose already.
The one above is his beautimous little profile. I just want to nibble his nose already.
The one below didn't show up the best but is the sole of his foot. Ahhhh, so cute.
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