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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Flipping out...literally
So, this will be a short because the little man in my tummy (that would sound odd in any other circumstance...kind of makes you picture a creepy leprechaun) is wreaking havoc on my thought process today. It all started a couple of weeks ago when he first started to move around and I'd get the occasional flutter or 'gas bubble' feeling everyone tells you about. Word to the wise, if you don't know what gas feels like at age 30 and you can't figure out the difference between your baby and your intestinal by-product, we should chat. I digress, so his movements finally become noticable and then, like everything else he does, he kicks it into supernova for me. It wasn't that bad at first, just a jab here and a head roll there that would make me giggle and daydream about the little bugger. I started feeling this weird rolling sensation and had to ultrasound simultaneously (of course) to prove that yes, he's in there doing front flips and side rolls. It's the most palpable when he's doing the front flip and, as if he heard my silent prayers that this move be banned from inter-utero play, this has become his chosen manuever every two to three minutes or so...all day long. I thought babies were like cats and slept anywhere from 18-22 hours per day, but who am I kidding, all my spawn will be special.
This incessant gymnastics practice wouldn't be an issue if his incubator didn't have the initial attention span of a two month old cockerspaniel, but with all this increased activity, his hyperactive tush can stop me mid-sentence like a sighting of a half-dressed RPattz. Most of the time I can cover and figure out what I was talking about and get back on track. I would not be telling the truth if I said that I haven't had to ask a patient 'what was that you just said?' a few times, but only once, 'what were you saying?' Not 'what were you saying' because I didn't hear you, but 'what were you saying' so you can jog my memory as to the topic we were even discussing before I departed for baby lala land. Having baby on the brain has only brought me close to asking a man how the breastfeeding was going once...so far.
As much as I can cover with my patients, my friends and family know me too well. Apparently when you're already used to me behaving as if I have untreated ADHD and it gets significantly worse, it's your duty to point this out and laugh at every possible instance. I have literally stopped in mid-conversation to gaze away/out the window/basically anywhere that could give the signal 'I couldn't give a rats what your saying' which people tend to notice, take personally, and then the pointing and laughing begin. I mean come on. Pregnancy brain only works when you're cute and pregnant. Not in that in between stage when you just look like you've been sneaking daily trips to McDonalds and the bakery for the past few months. All I can say is hopefully it doesn't get worse over the next 20 weeks. Or at least hopefully my BMI will increase to the point where people feel sorry for me and no one likes to call a fat girl dumb or flighty. It's like kicking a three legged dog. Just not cool.
This incessant gymnastics practice wouldn't be an issue if his incubator didn't have the initial attention span of a two month old cockerspaniel, but with all this increased activity, his hyperactive tush can stop me mid-sentence like a sighting of a half-dressed RPattz. Most of the time I can cover and figure out what I was talking about and get back on track. I would not be telling the truth if I said that I haven't had to ask a patient 'what was that you just said?' a few times, but only once, 'what were you saying?' Not 'what were you saying' because I didn't hear you, but 'what were you saying' so you can jog my memory as to the topic we were even discussing before I departed for baby lala land. Having baby on the brain has only brought me close to asking a man how the breastfeeding was going once...so far.
As much as I can cover with my patients, my friends and family know me too well. Apparently when you're already used to me behaving as if I have untreated ADHD and it gets significantly worse, it's your duty to point this out and laugh at every possible instance. I have literally stopped in mid-conversation to gaze away/out the window/basically anywhere that could give the signal 'I couldn't give a rats what your saying' which people tend to notice, take personally, and then the pointing and laughing begin. I mean come on. Pregnancy brain only works when you're cute and pregnant. Not in that in between stage when you just look like you've been sneaking daily trips to McDonalds and the bakery for the past few months. All I can say is hopefully it doesn't get worse over the next 20 weeks. Or at least hopefully my BMI will increase to the point where people feel sorry for me and no one likes to call a fat girl dumb or flighty. It's like kicking a three legged dog. Just not cool.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Hypno-whosiwhats
We'll start this blog with a cute, but dorky funny story courtesy of the big brother to be. So, remember back in the day when I was whining about restless legs at night and had to start taking some medicine? Well, the other night, Will comes out of his room, while we're totally engrossed in Idol (as engrossed as you can be this season) and says, "I'm having a bad night, mama. I just can't go to sleep. My body just won't stop going." Knowing that the little rascal hates going to bed and will come out of his room at least a couple of times a night with one excuse or another to make sure we aren't having fun without him, we sent him back to bed and continued vegging on the couch, adding to our BMI's. The next night, he comes out again and says, 'I'm having another bad night. I just can't go to sleep. My legs just want to keep moving all night (he's been in his room 3 minutes). I think I might need some IRONING pills."
Light bulb moment. This is hilarious to us because he's been feigning restless legs and heard me talking about the iron pills I was taking to combat it and decided to see if this could get him out of bedtime. After Will's request, we, of course, put him back to bed sans ironing pills, but it wasn't a matter of minutes before the hubby mentioned that someone else might benefit from ironing pills, given the fact that I couldn't really tell you what our ironing board looks like or how to turn on the iron. It's not my fault I don't believe in high maintenence clothes and won't purchase anything that may need to be ironed or dry-cleaned...ever.
Anywho, so one of my pals (who has birthed two nordic giants sans epidural) gave me a book on hypnobirthing, which I've been making my way through. I know, I know, it sounds a little anti-medicine, but I'm open to at least learning about other ways of doing things even if I don't plan to employ them. So, I'm reading this book and not all of it is total nutjob preaching, which is surprising and enlightening. They play a lot of captain obvious, telling you how chicks in third world countries who are pregnant feel themselves go into labor, find a nice sturdy wall, lean against it while crouching down and deliver their own baby and go own about their travels. Does this happen? Dunno, but it kind of makes sense. Would you want to be the next person to lean against that wall while waiting for the bus? Nope. Puke. Yes, the magic of epidurals and modern medicine is lacking from this story, but you can't dispute the fact that it sounds a lot more tolerable than the cinema-made-famous scene of the screaming, crazy spaz crowning in a modern birthing suite screaming 'you did this to me' at her schmo of an inseminator.
My plan has always been to head to the hospital for my epidural when I was, oh, a half centimeter dilated. Now, I'm wondering if I couldn't hold off a bit. They talk alot about fear being the root of the pain and the perception of the impending pain causing a lot of reactions that do indeed lead to the sensation of pain. All of this, physiologically makes sense, but then why does everyone in this country think that labor should be and is psychotically painful? There's a lot of massage and relaxation techniques taught in the book which every person, pregnant or not, could benefit from. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all Gisele on you and climb into a tub, sneeze out my baby and claim I never needed maternity clothes. I, after all, am not a Victoria's Secret model. I am, however, going to try to remind myself that it might not hurt and that I might not need an epidural and that chicks do this all the time, so why should it be more difficult for me than them. Hopefully, this thinking gets me to at least 3 cm before I squeeze my hubby's livelihood hard enough to have him calling for my epidural.
Another book, more like a collection of really short essays, I been thumbing through is Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs, or something like that. I'm a little dismayed by anything she does since the whole autism and vaccinations thing, but I gave it a shot. It's funny in parts, which isn't surprising, given her generally fun and crazy personality...at least what I've seen on TV. Unfortunately, the 'chapters' are on average 4-5 pages long and don't really get into whats going on besides, 'Yep, I have discharge and it's a lot and it's gross.' She's made a ton of dough on this book and I kind of am in awe her publicist for that one. I need to get that man's name.
So, on the bean front, we have our 20 wk ultrasound in the next week or so and it's on the kickass high def machine so we'll have some new sweet pics to post of his highness. We're painting the nursery green this weekend and grabbing some furniture in the next couple of weeks, I'm planning. He's still as ADD as ever and moves non-stop, especially at night, which hopefully is not a trend he plans to continue once he vacates the belly. John has been able to feel it through the belly once by mashing so hard I'm not sure if he's feeling my heartbeat through my aorta or the little man practicing his freekicks. (just kidding) I quit having heart-attack-inducing cravings but have gained about 8-10 lbs so far which is a little much for this early, but whatev. Once I proclaimed that I didn't care what happened to my body as long as my baby got everything it needed to be healthy, my body was listening and responded 'you betcha, sucker' and started piling on the pounds quicker than Kirstie Ally. It's actually getting to the point where I'm full after only eating a kidsize serving so I'm either going to quit gaining weight eventually or start developing some killer stretch marks because my belly is as taut as all get out and not in the 'situation' kind of way.
To end on a funny, I'm sitting in clinic the other day, chatting up a 75 year old sweet old lady patient of mine. It went like this:
Her: So, you're married, have a new name and are having a baby. Do you know what it is?
Me: Yeah, it's a boy.
Her: Do you have a name picked out?
Me: Yeah, but I'm not telling anyone any more because I'm sick of people's inability to hide their hatred of my babies future handle.
Her: Well as long as you don't name it ______.
Me: Virginia, why would you say that? Did you talk to my nurses?
Her: No. My husbands, nieces, sister had a boy and named it _______ and all I could think was 'don't you love your child?'
Me: Virginia, I'm naming my kid ________.
Her: (turns to me) Don't you love your kid? There are plenty of good baby names out there, why don't you look some more.
Me: Virginia, that's what I'm naming him. It's interesting, just like your name. I love the name Virginia.
Her: Of course you do because you don't have the name Virginia. I hate my name. Why don't you find a _________ and ask him if he likes his name. Good luck with that.
Me: Virginia, I can't believe you said that.
Her: Well, no one said anything to my parents so I have to stick up for all the kids who are sure to get their ass whooped and it's all their parents fault.
I only ad-libbed a little and the rest of this came from a sweet little old bag who's one of my best patients. I can't wait to be old and be able to say whatever I want and everyone just says, 'she's so old and sweet and funny.' Needless to say, I'm not naming my future daughter Vagina...I mean Virginia.
Light bulb moment. This is hilarious to us because he's been feigning restless legs and heard me talking about the iron pills I was taking to combat it and decided to see if this could get him out of bedtime. After Will's request, we, of course, put him back to bed sans ironing pills, but it wasn't a matter of minutes before the hubby mentioned that someone else might benefit from ironing pills, given the fact that I couldn't really tell you what our ironing board looks like or how to turn on the iron. It's not my fault I don't believe in high maintenence clothes and won't purchase anything that may need to be ironed or dry-cleaned...ever.
Anywho, so one of my pals (who has birthed two nordic giants sans epidural) gave me a book on hypnobirthing, which I've been making my way through. I know, I know, it sounds a little anti-medicine, but I'm open to at least learning about other ways of doing things even if I don't plan to employ them. So, I'm reading this book and not all of it is total nutjob preaching, which is surprising and enlightening. They play a lot of captain obvious, telling you how chicks in third world countries who are pregnant feel themselves go into labor, find a nice sturdy wall, lean against it while crouching down and deliver their own baby and go own about their travels. Does this happen? Dunno, but it kind of makes sense. Would you want to be the next person to lean against that wall while waiting for the bus? Nope. Puke. Yes, the magic of epidurals and modern medicine is lacking from this story, but you can't dispute the fact that it sounds a lot more tolerable than the cinema-made-famous scene of the screaming, crazy spaz crowning in a modern birthing suite screaming 'you did this to me' at her schmo of an inseminator.
My plan has always been to head to the hospital for my epidural when I was, oh, a half centimeter dilated. Now, I'm wondering if I couldn't hold off a bit. They talk alot about fear being the root of the pain and the perception of the impending pain causing a lot of reactions that do indeed lead to the sensation of pain. All of this, physiologically makes sense, but then why does everyone in this country think that labor should be and is psychotically painful? There's a lot of massage and relaxation techniques taught in the book which every person, pregnant or not, could benefit from. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all Gisele on you and climb into a tub, sneeze out my baby and claim I never needed maternity clothes. I, after all, am not a Victoria's Secret model. I am, however, going to try to remind myself that it might not hurt and that I might not need an epidural and that chicks do this all the time, so why should it be more difficult for me than them. Hopefully, this thinking gets me to at least 3 cm before I squeeze my hubby's livelihood hard enough to have him calling for my epidural.
Another book, more like a collection of really short essays, I been thumbing through is Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs, or something like that. I'm a little dismayed by anything she does since the whole autism and vaccinations thing, but I gave it a shot. It's funny in parts, which isn't surprising, given her generally fun and crazy personality...at least what I've seen on TV. Unfortunately, the 'chapters' are on average 4-5 pages long and don't really get into whats going on besides, 'Yep, I have discharge and it's a lot and it's gross.' She's made a ton of dough on this book and I kind of am in awe her publicist for that one. I need to get that man's name.
So, on the bean front, we have our 20 wk ultrasound in the next week or so and it's on the kickass high def machine so we'll have some new sweet pics to post of his highness. We're painting the nursery green this weekend and grabbing some furniture in the next couple of weeks, I'm planning. He's still as ADD as ever and moves non-stop, especially at night, which hopefully is not a trend he plans to continue once he vacates the belly. John has been able to feel it through the belly once by mashing so hard I'm not sure if he's feeling my heartbeat through my aorta or the little man practicing his freekicks. (just kidding) I quit having heart-attack-inducing cravings but have gained about 8-10 lbs so far which is a little much for this early, but whatev. Once I proclaimed that I didn't care what happened to my body as long as my baby got everything it needed to be healthy, my body was listening and responded 'you betcha, sucker' and started piling on the pounds quicker than Kirstie Ally. It's actually getting to the point where I'm full after only eating a kidsize serving so I'm either going to quit gaining weight eventually or start developing some killer stretch marks because my belly is as taut as all get out and not in the 'situation' kind of way.
To end on a funny, I'm sitting in clinic the other day, chatting up a 75 year old sweet old lady patient of mine. It went like this:
Her: So, you're married, have a new name and are having a baby. Do you know what it is?
Me: Yeah, it's a boy.
Her: Do you have a name picked out?
Me: Yeah, but I'm not telling anyone any more because I'm sick of people's inability to hide their hatred of my babies future handle.
Her: Well as long as you don't name it ______.
Me: Virginia, why would you say that? Did you talk to my nurses?
Her: No. My husbands, nieces, sister had a boy and named it _______ and all I could think was 'don't you love your child?'
Me: Virginia, I'm naming my kid ________.
Her: (turns to me) Don't you love your kid? There are plenty of good baby names out there, why don't you look some more.
Me: Virginia, that's what I'm naming him. It's interesting, just like your name. I love the name Virginia.
Her: Of course you do because you don't have the name Virginia. I hate my name. Why don't you find a _________ and ask him if he likes his name. Good luck with that.
Me: Virginia, I can't believe you said that.
Her: Well, no one said anything to my parents so I have to stick up for all the kids who are sure to get their ass whooped and it's all their parents fault.
I only ad-libbed a little and the rest of this came from a sweet little old bag who's one of my best patients. I can't wait to be old and be able to say whatever I want and everyone just says, 'she's so old and sweet and funny.' Needless to say, I'm not naming my future daughter Vagina...I mean Virginia.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
What was that?
So, I first thought that I felt the baby move a couple of weeks ago, but wasn't quite sure. Today, which continuing my Big Brother act on my growing spawn, I simultaneously watched him kick off one side of my uterus and hit his head on the other side. I say simultaneous not for the movement but for the fact that I distinctly felt two flutters at the same time. I actually stopped ultrasounding to look at my belly (as if my xray vision would suddenly start working and I'd see him without the aid of technology) and had my little light bulb moment. It was sweet. Now that I'm sure that that particular sensation is the munchkin playing bouncy house in my belly, I'll be even more acutely aware of his darling self. Now I won't have to ultrasound so much to prove his existence, which I'm sure he'll appreciate since he tends to pout and throw a little hissy when we've done it too often.
You'll notice I said 'him' or 'he' as my pronoun of choice above and I'm 99.9% sure that this is an accurate description. We've never gotten a completely clear view of a definite dangly, but the evidence we have would stand up in court. Time to start decorating his room! Speaking of decorations, I've kind of taken some flack for my choices of yellow, green and brown. When you think of those colors, don't think of the hideous shades that flatter no one and are generic enough to use when you don't know the sex of your little monster. Think of a rich green, a pale yellow and a complementary soft brown. Not every pole-toting infant needs to be head to toe blue to prove to the world he's got his own balls to play with. I'm like the Pat-esque colors and am using them to decorate in somewhat of a safari meets winnie the pooh idea I've been tossing around. You don't have to understand it people, you just have to accept it.
Another thing I'm sure of is that this kid is definitely already taking after mom. When I eat something he doesn't like, he throws a fit. When I'm in the wrong position, he throws a fit. When I wear pants that are not elastic, he throws a fit. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but when you watch your child throw a fit on ultrasound, as witnessed by a besty who mocks said childs being just like mom, you can imagine the same type of behavior at other junctions. He actually gets both arms going up and down, pretty quickly, and then starts to bounce off either side of his not-so-roomy- anymore water balloon house. Today, he actually turned his head to the side and brought one of his hands up to rest on his forehead as if to say, 'Wooes me. What shall I do?' It was kind of funny. He'll fit right in with Will who has adopted various parts of my dysfunctional personality as his own. He provided us with our most hilarious form of entertainment on vacation (hard to compete with Shamu) when we went to Cocoa and Daytona beach. It's barely 60 and sometimes sunny and this kid is the ONLY PERSON in his swimtrunks running into the iceberg supportive water and back out and up and down the beach all which laughing and screaming, the kind where everyone looks and wonders A)is someone drowning/being stabbed, and B)who is the crazy person laughing the kind of laugh that you just know they have the crazy googly eyes too while it's going on. The fact that he was the victim and the perpetrator in this audible fairytale and watching him run laps in the sand was H-I-larious.
Oh, and about elastic waistlines...they rock. I think that I might want to be pregnant for the rest of my life. Not wearing your fat pants and eat a big lunch? If you're not wearing pants with an elastic band, this sucks. If you are, you don't have a care in the world and go back for thirds. Although I've only gained 5-6 lbs, it's all right in my belly, which now pooches out and rises nearly to the level of my belly button. I have some bella bands which allow you to wear your old pants and just not fasten them correctly, but I think I might ditch them...too much work. The plain ole' yoga pants that are loose fitting and flared leg that can be worn with a long top and no one gets close enough to touch them and realize they're like cotton sweatpants are my new favorite bottoms of choice. These and scrubs will allow me to drastically increase my oral intake and, thus, scale results, I have no doubt. My other favorite clothes are pregnancy shirts, fyi. They are all low cut to show off the new assets and they're all tight under the girls and super loose over the belly so once again, you can eat whatever you want. It's like the dance scene in Twilight where Bella motions to Jessica that her girls look good in her dress. Every day at lunch, another friend mentions how the girls are looking stellar in that shirt and I have to explain that apparently a man with a side job at playboy designs pregnancy shirts so that the world can take full advantage of the esthetically pleasing view that is the pregnant body.
Anywho, I'm not feeling sick anymore, just tired. But, we did just get back from vacation(in FL...in the first week in March...read 'cold') and I've been working on our hospital service and had a sinus infection so that would account for that. Vacation by the way is way more fun when you're not pregnant. A babymoon should be pre-baby in your belly. There's no staying out late, having a cocktail, doing crazy stuff like bungee jumping, etc. Oh, and if you're at Disney, Universal or Sea World, you can't ride any of the rides so your sole job is to shop and eat and be on picture duty. Now that I think about it, maybe that wasnt such a bad deal.
You'll notice I said 'him' or 'he' as my pronoun of choice above and I'm 99.9% sure that this is an accurate description. We've never gotten a completely clear view of a definite dangly, but the evidence we have would stand up in court. Time to start decorating his room! Speaking of decorations, I've kind of taken some flack for my choices of yellow, green and brown. When you think of those colors, don't think of the hideous shades that flatter no one and are generic enough to use when you don't know the sex of your little monster. Think of a rich green, a pale yellow and a complementary soft brown. Not every pole-toting infant needs to be head to toe blue to prove to the world he's got his own balls to play with. I'm like the Pat-esque colors and am using them to decorate in somewhat of a safari meets winnie the pooh idea I've been tossing around. You don't have to understand it people, you just have to accept it.
Another thing I'm sure of is that this kid is definitely already taking after mom. When I eat something he doesn't like, he throws a fit. When I'm in the wrong position, he throws a fit. When I wear pants that are not elastic, he throws a fit. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but when you watch your child throw a fit on ultrasound, as witnessed by a besty who mocks said childs being just like mom, you can imagine the same type of behavior at other junctions. He actually gets both arms going up and down, pretty quickly, and then starts to bounce off either side of his not-so-roomy- anymore water balloon house. Today, he actually turned his head to the side and brought one of his hands up to rest on his forehead as if to say, 'Wooes me. What shall I do?' It was kind of funny. He'll fit right in with Will who has adopted various parts of my dysfunctional personality as his own. He provided us with our most hilarious form of entertainment on vacation (hard to compete with Shamu) when we went to Cocoa and Daytona beach. It's barely 60 and sometimes sunny and this kid is the ONLY PERSON in his swimtrunks running into the iceberg supportive water and back out and up and down the beach all which laughing and screaming, the kind where everyone looks and wonders A)is someone drowning/being stabbed, and B)who is the crazy person laughing the kind of laugh that you just know they have the crazy googly eyes too while it's going on. The fact that he was the victim and the perpetrator in this audible fairytale and watching him run laps in the sand was H-I-larious.
Oh, and about elastic waistlines...they rock. I think that I might want to be pregnant for the rest of my life. Not wearing your fat pants and eat a big lunch? If you're not wearing pants with an elastic band, this sucks. If you are, you don't have a care in the world and go back for thirds. Although I've only gained 5-6 lbs, it's all right in my belly, which now pooches out and rises nearly to the level of my belly button. I have some bella bands which allow you to wear your old pants and just not fasten them correctly, but I think I might ditch them...too much work. The plain ole' yoga pants that are loose fitting and flared leg that can be worn with a long top and no one gets close enough to touch them and realize they're like cotton sweatpants are my new favorite bottoms of choice. These and scrubs will allow me to drastically increase my oral intake and, thus, scale results, I have no doubt. My other favorite clothes are pregnancy shirts, fyi. They are all low cut to show off the new assets and they're all tight under the girls and super loose over the belly so once again, you can eat whatever you want. It's like the dance scene in Twilight where Bella motions to Jessica that her girls look good in her dress. Every day at lunch, another friend mentions how the girls are looking stellar in that shirt and I have to explain that apparently a man with a side job at playboy designs pregnancy shirts so that the world can take full advantage of the esthetically pleasing view that is the pregnant body.
Anywho, I'm not feeling sick anymore, just tired. But, we did just get back from vacation(in FL...in the first week in March...read 'cold') and I've been working on our hospital service and had a sinus infection so that would account for that. Vacation by the way is way more fun when you're not pregnant. A babymoon should be pre-baby in your belly. There's no staying out late, having a cocktail, doing crazy stuff like bungee jumping, etc. Oh, and if you're at Disney, Universal or Sea World, you can't ride any of the rides so your sole job is to shop and eat and be on picture duty. Now that I think about it, maybe that wasnt such a bad deal.
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