In the grand scheme of things, I have had it easy during this pregnancy in terms of other people saying or doing stupid things. Very few people - and no strangers - have put their hands on my belly without permission. Hardly anyone has said, "Wow, you look really pregnant!" or, nearly as bad, "Wow, you don't look pregnant at all!" And very few people have insulted me with some smug, amused variation on, "Haha, you have no idea what you're in for."
But last weekend, I got judged because I'm pregnant. Two friends and I were waiting for a table at a restaurant, and while we waited I ordered an O'Doul's. When we were seated, the hostess looked at me (rather, my bulging belly), looked at my bottle of (fake) beer, and said, most disapprovingly, "Is that a beer?" I said it was non-alcoholic, so not really a beer. She responded, "Oh, good, since, you know..." as she gestured between my belly and the beer.
Oh, NO SHE DID NOT. She did NOT just pass judgment on me! While the truth was I was drinking a perfectly "legal" non-alcoholic beverage, what would she have done or said to me if I'd said, "Yep, a big, fat, alcoholic BEER"? Would I have gotten a lecture from her? And if that were the case, would I have decked her? Yes, yes, I probably would have.
Anyway, the incident has lost some of its rage-inducing luster by now. But it still rankles me. I don't know why. I suppose just because the idea that it was none of her business what I was drinking. And she doesn't know me. She doesn't know what I do every day to protect this baby inside me on a day-to-day basis. She knows nothing about me. But she still thinks it's her place to even remotely suggest that she knows better than I do how to be pregnant with MY child. Until I'm pregnant with her baby, she can keep her mouth shut.
At least the dinner was good.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Decisions, decisions
Living in this ultra-consumerist world should have prepared me for the sheer volume of baby crap available. From Babies 'R' Us to Target to online superstores to the countless local storefronts both tacky and quaint, there is no need that should go unfulfilled when it comes to your baby. From the looks of it, we may need a second home to hold all the stuff we apparently need for the Weeble.
Our first foray into the baby-stuff frontier was a few weeks ago when we took our first trip to the superstore that is Babies 'R' Us to get a lay of the land. I had found some furniture online that I liked and wanted to see it in real life to decide if it was as good as it seemed. No such luck: half the stuff found on their website isn't necessarily found in the store. True for most of the furniture, if not all of it.
That evening at BRU was mind-numbing at best. For starters, there must be approximately 487 different types of baby bathtub available. 209 different crib mattresses. And no fewer than 1,763 strollers, carseats, and playpens. Everything does something slightly different, and has slightly different features. And that's just the useful stuff. There are $40 shelves with painted-on bumblebees, which are cute, but anywhere else (and without the baby-decor designer's name attached) that same dinky shelf would cost $7. There are the coordinating valances, lamps, rugs, diaper stackers, curtains, sheets, quilts, wall hangings, trash bins, toy chests, and clothes hampers to ensure that nothing, but NOTHING in your baby's room isn't perfectly matched. Then there are the binkies, bibs, onesies, crib sheets, stuffed animals, and baby socks - each numbering into the millions.
How does one even begin to decide what they want? I say "want" because "need" plays very little part in all of this. I think about when I was a baby (not that I have an extensive memory of this time in my life), and it's pretty clear my mother got away with about 1/100th of what is sold as necessary objects in this day and age. Do I really need a bottle warmer? Or even better, a baby wipe warmer?? Is it absolutely necessary for me to have a matching set of pillows that can't even go into the crib (for fear of suffocation), or a crib CD player that will soothe our little Weeble to sleep?
M and I still have at least one BRU trip left in us to pick out stuff like the stroller, the carseat, and other very utilitarian items that, for all intents and purposes, we actually need. But in an effort to get Weeble started off on the path of less consumerism, we may as well lead by example.
Of course, I say this as I panic about all the projects we have yet to complete (painting, new carpeting, closet reorganization) so there's a suitable place for all the stuff we will be putting into her room. Namely, a new furniture set. Anti-consumerist my ass. Weeble gets all new. We decided at least someone in this house should get a nice, matching bedroom set, and it certainly isn't M and me. And, I have to be honest: there will be some coordinating decorative items in the baby's room. That's right, I said it. Stuff will match. Now, excuse me while I go hang my head in shame. And think gleefully about how awesome my kid's room is going to be.
Our first foray into the baby-stuff frontier was a few weeks ago when we took our first trip to the superstore that is Babies 'R' Us to get a lay of the land. I had found some furniture online that I liked and wanted to see it in real life to decide if it was as good as it seemed. No such luck: half the stuff found on their website isn't necessarily found in the store. True for most of the furniture, if not all of it.
That evening at BRU was mind-numbing at best. For starters, there must be approximately 487 different types of baby bathtub available. 209 different crib mattresses. And no fewer than 1,763 strollers, carseats, and playpens. Everything does something slightly different, and has slightly different features. And that's just the useful stuff. There are $40 shelves with painted-on bumblebees, which are cute, but anywhere else (and without the baby-decor designer's name attached) that same dinky shelf would cost $7. There are the coordinating valances, lamps, rugs, diaper stackers, curtains, sheets, quilts, wall hangings, trash bins, toy chests, and clothes hampers to ensure that nothing, but NOTHING in your baby's room isn't perfectly matched. Then there are the binkies, bibs, onesies, crib sheets, stuffed animals, and baby socks - each numbering into the millions.
How does one even begin to decide what they want? I say "want" because "need" plays very little part in all of this. I think about when I was a baby (not that I have an extensive memory of this time in my life), and it's pretty clear my mother got away with about 1/100th of what is sold as necessary objects in this day and age. Do I really need a bottle warmer? Or even better, a baby wipe warmer?? Is it absolutely necessary for me to have a matching set of pillows that can't even go into the crib (for fear of suffocation), or a crib CD player that will soothe our little Weeble to sleep?
M and I still have at least one BRU trip left in us to pick out stuff like the stroller, the carseat, and other very utilitarian items that, for all intents and purposes, we actually need. But in an effort to get Weeble started off on the path of less consumerism, we may as well lead by example.
Of course, I say this as I panic about all the projects we have yet to complete (painting, new carpeting, closet reorganization) so there's a suitable place for all the stuff we will be putting into her room. Namely, a new furniture set. Anti-consumerist my ass. Weeble gets all new. We decided at least someone in this house should get a nice, matching bedroom set, and it certainly isn't M and me. And, I have to be honest: there will be some coordinating decorative items in the baby's room. That's right, I said it. Stuff will match. Now, excuse me while I go hang my head in shame. And think gleefully about how awesome my kid's room is going to be.
Friday, April 20, 2007
What to say
I tried to think of what I could possibly say about the tragedy at Virginia Tech. But once I read this, I decided my fellow first-time mother-to-be and blogger had already said it best.
Is she really?
It doesn't take much to shake my "mother's instinct," I guess. Two weeks ago, an ultrasound technician declared to M and me, with full confidence, that I am pregnant with a girl. I myself had already believed it anyway. And M has never for a moment thought she was anything but a girl. Even the old wives tales signs pointed to a girl. You'd think I'd feel fairly confident in the ultrasound technician's assessment of my kid's in utero plumbing.
But after a friend of mine gave birth earlier this week to a little girl, after her own ultrasound pointed decidedly to a boy, I am suddenly not so sure. Thankfully, the surprise girl is healthy and both she and her new mother are doing great.
Now, let's get one thing straight, here. To me - and probably to most pregnant women out there - it truly does not matter if this baby is a girl or a boy, so long as it's a healthy baby. THAT is my primary concern, and I have no doubt that my friend's first thought was not, "WTF, a GIRL???" but "Thank god our baby is healthy (plus, I'm not in labor anymore!)." Even if I painted every surface in the baby's room pink (which I won't) and picked out a girl's name (which I haven't) and got everything monogrammed with said name (which I wouldn't), in the end, what I want most is a healthy child baby add to our small family.
BUT... I won't deny that this would be a major mind-screw. A happy, wonderful, joyous end to nine (ten) months of being pregnant and who knows how long of labor. But a mind-screw none the less. This is because when you learn the (probable) gender of your child in advance of its birth, you start identifying that child as such. I have this feeling there's no way to truly prepare for meeting your first child. I'm impatient, and I want to meet this kid now. But in the absence of the actual person (living outside of me, I mean), I will grasp anything that helps give me a sense of WHO SHE IS. Her gender is one piece of what will form her identity after she's born. And besides, I far prefer calling her "her" instead of "it". "Him" would be just fine, too.
One friend, when I expressed this sentiment about how the switch could be hard to take, said, "This is why you don't get invested in the gender they tell you at the ultrasound." But I don't know that it's possible not to use that information and go with it. I can say to myself (and do) that there's ALWAYS the possibility that the ultrasound technician was seeing things (or in this case, not seeing things), and all my "she"s and "her"s will make a fool of me when Weeble actually makes an official appearance in four months. But in the meantime, Weeble is my little girl. And if it comes to her being a him, I will be a little (a lot) shocked. I'll think about the little girl that was, and I'll feel sad that she's gone. But then I will get over it in about 2 seconds, count my little boy's toes, say a prayer of thanks that he's healthy, and then I will love him more than I ever thought possible.
But after a friend of mine gave birth earlier this week to a little girl, after her own ultrasound pointed decidedly to a boy, I am suddenly not so sure. Thankfully, the surprise girl is healthy and both she and her new mother are doing great.
Now, let's get one thing straight, here. To me - and probably to most pregnant women out there - it truly does not matter if this baby is a girl or a boy, so long as it's a healthy baby. THAT is my primary concern, and I have no doubt that my friend's first thought was not, "WTF, a GIRL???" but "Thank god our baby is healthy (plus, I'm not in labor anymore!)." Even if I painted every surface in the baby's room pink (which I won't) and picked out a girl's name (which I haven't) and got everything monogrammed with said name (which I wouldn't), in the end, what I want most is a healthy child baby add to our small family.
BUT... I won't deny that this would be a major mind-screw. A happy, wonderful, joyous end to nine (ten) months of being pregnant and who knows how long of labor. But a mind-screw none the less. This is because when you learn the (probable) gender of your child in advance of its birth, you start identifying that child as such. I have this feeling there's no way to truly prepare for meeting your first child. I'm impatient, and I want to meet this kid now. But in the absence of the actual person (living outside of me, I mean), I will grasp anything that helps give me a sense of WHO SHE IS. Her gender is one piece of what will form her identity after she's born. And besides, I far prefer calling her "her" instead of "it". "Him" would be just fine, too.
One friend, when I expressed this sentiment about how the switch could be hard to take, said, "This is why you don't get invested in the gender they tell you at the ultrasound." But I don't know that it's possible not to use that information and go with it. I can say to myself (and do) that there's ALWAYS the possibility that the ultrasound technician was seeing things (or in this case, not seeing things), and all my "she"s and "her"s will make a fool of me when Weeble actually makes an official appearance in four months. But in the meantime, Weeble is my little girl. And if it comes to her being a him, I will be a little (a lot) shocked. I'll think about the little girl that was, and I'll feel sad that she's gone. But then I will get over it in about 2 seconds, count my little boy's toes, say a prayer of thanks that he's healthy, and then I will love him more than I ever thought possible.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Birthday reflection
Every year for the past 25 or so years on my birthday, my dad calls me and tells me the story of my birth. As he tells it, my mother didn't even wake him up until she'd been in labor for a few hours. And at that point, he started running around like a chicken with its head cut off while my mother remained utterly calm. At about 7:30, they took off for the hospital. I was in such a hurry to be born that after only a few big pushes, I came out like a rocket. Apparently the doctor said if his hands hadn't been there, I'd have ended up on the floor. My dad cut the umbilical cord, and there I was. His first kid.
My dad's reaction to my birth has always been that it was a life changing moment for him. This year, there was a bit of a twist to the usual story. Echoing a thought that had been running through my own head all day, he talked about how today is my last birthday before becoming a parent. Obviously, it means something different for the two of us. For me, it signals the last year I can indulge in my birthday, when I can pretend to be the most important person on this day. Granted, my birthday was rendered useless for the most part after I hit 18, with the exception of some of the landmark birthdays - 21, 25, and 30 were all definite ME days. But otherwise, it's typically just another day on the calendar.
For my dad, today is something of a rite of passage. The last birthday his first daughter will be just his daughter. Next year at this time, I will be his daughter, he will be my father. But we will also be a mother and a grandfather. Two whole new identities that are both completely new to each of us. He said, "I would love to be there for your baby's birth. But it's OK if I'm not. This belongs to you and M. I have to let go, now. You're becoming the parent, now."
This is all true, of course. My dad will always be my dad, and I'll always be his daughter. But with "mother" and "grandpa" looming on the horizon, things will change. And to be honest, I think these things will change for the better. My dad hasn't always had the greatest life. But he swears that my half-sister and I are two of the best things he ever had a hand in. I'm looking forward to understanding the part of his life that has made him happy and proud consistently through the years I've known him.
My dad's reaction to my birth has always been that it was a life changing moment for him. This year, there was a bit of a twist to the usual story. Echoing a thought that had been running through my own head all day, he talked about how today is my last birthday before becoming a parent. Obviously, it means something different for the two of us. For me, it signals the last year I can indulge in my birthday, when I can pretend to be the most important person on this day. Granted, my birthday was rendered useless for the most part after I hit 18, with the exception of some of the landmark birthdays - 21, 25, and 30 were all definite ME days. But otherwise, it's typically just another day on the calendar.
For my dad, today is something of a rite of passage. The last birthday his first daughter will be just his daughter. Next year at this time, I will be his daughter, he will be my father. But we will also be a mother and a grandfather. Two whole new identities that are both completely new to each of us. He said, "I would love to be there for your baby's birth. But it's OK if I'm not. This belongs to you and M. I have to let go, now. You're becoming the parent, now."
This is all true, of course. My dad will always be my dad, and I'll always be his daughter. But with "mother" and "grandpa" looming on the horizon, things will change. And to be honest, I think these things will change for the better. My dad hasn't always had the greatest life. But he swears that my half-sister and I are two of the best things he ever had a hand in. I'm looking forward to understanding the part of his life that has made him happy and proud consistently through the years I've known him.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Favorite things
There are definitely some unglamorous aspects to being pregnant. Stuff I could maybe do without. Besides a myriad of digestion-related issues (I'd expand on this, but people I work with read this blog), there's the frequent abdominal pain as one's belly pooches out more and more every day. There's the bone-crushing exhaustion, which leads to ass-expanding laziness. The absent-mindedness that serves little purpose other than to annoy M. And the strange acne that plagues me now, even though as a teenager I was smooth-skinned as could be.
But there are some really, really great things about being pregnant. Of course, there's the one BIG THING of knowing you're growing a baby human in there. That alone makes being pregnant just about the coolest thing I've done yet (although seeing REO Speedwagon in concert in 6th grade was pretty awesome). And it's not just that people are nice and really happy for you when they find out you're going to be a mother, or that you can get away with falling asleep in meetings or at your desk because, hey, you've got a lot going on in there, what with the gestating at all.
There are a lot of subtle things that I really enjoy about this experience, some meaningful, and some shallow. All true.
I love:
-- My growing pooch. This belly business is something else. Even though I'm carrying really high and tend to look puffy more than pregnant, when I lift up my shirt and see that definition of where my body becomes the temporary home for this baby I am amazed.
-- Feeling Weeble kick me, punch me, and roll around in there. It's occasionally disconcerting, especially since she's extremely active these days and I constantly feel rather pummeled. But there's nothing like it.
-- I hardly have to shave my legs anymore. Seriously, practically no hair grows on them anymore. It's the weirdest thing ever, and not a side-effect I'd ever heard of before. But it comes in handy since it's getting annoying to bend over to shave anyway.
-- Thinking about how this little kicker is "our daughter." It's something of a thrill to use those words. Daughter. It's potent; so much so that I can't bring myself to say it out loud. It's almost like a secret thrill.
-- Imagining what she'll be like, and what we'll teach her, where we'll take her, and what music we'll expose her to. It's even fun to think about the fact that at some point, she'll be listening to music that M and I think is utter crap, and we'll wonder who this freak is we brought into the world. Yep, even that's cool. Maybe more for me than M, since I'm well aware of the sh*t music I thought was just swell back in my pre-teen years and I turned out just fine. After all, M fell in love with me because of my music collection.
-- Thinking of how my husband will be as a father. I'm pretty sure he's just as nervous about this as I am about being a mother. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like he would be. But I think he'll be so good at it. And I can't wait for him and Weeble to be introduced.
-- Thinking about how my mother will be as a grandmother - and mother to a mother. She's not really a baby sort. She likes kids, but only once they get to an age where they can hold normal conversations. Babies are not her thing. Plus, for the first 20 years of my life, it's been her and me. Boys have come and gone (with the exception of M, who obviously stayed). But for her, I've always been it. And for me, she's always been it. So me having a baby changes our relationship completely - and in ways neither of us can possibly anticipate. It's going to be a new chapter for us, and I'm looking forward to it. Plus, my mom is the one person who will always be my mommy if I need her to be.
-- Singing to Weeble. I don't do it on purpose, really. I never set out to sing to my belly. But I sing all the time anyway, and whenever I do (usually during my commute to work) I catch myself and think, "She can hear me right now." And I smile.
There are many more things about this experience that I love. I guess most of it is the forward-looking stuff. The dreams and the hopes I already have for her, for her father, and for the three of us (six of us - including the cats and dog) as a family. I know we don't know what we're in for, and it won't be all tender moments. But she's making an impact on me (and not just with her little feet and fists) already, and I just can't wait to meet her.
But there are some really, really great things about being pregnant. Of course, there's the one BIG THING of knowing you're growing a baby human in there. That alone makes being pregnant just about the coolest thing I've done yet (although seeing REO Speedwagon in concert in 6th grade was pretty awesome). And it's not just that people are nice and really happy for you when they find out you're going to be a mother, or that you can get away with falling asleep in meetings or at your desk because, hey, you've got a lot going on in there, what with the gestating at all.
There are a lot of subtle things that I really enjoy about this experience, some meaningful, and some shallow. All true.
I love:
-- My growing pooch. This belly business is something else. Even though I'm carrying really high and tend to look puffy more than pregnant, when I lift up my shirt and see that definition of where my body becomes the temporary home for this baby I am amazed.
-- Feeling Weeble kick me, punch me, and roll around in there. It's occasionally disconcerting, especially since she's extremely active these days and I constantly feel rather pummeled. But there's nothing like it.
-- I hardly have to shave my legs anymore. Seriously, practically no hair grows on them anymore. It's the weirdest thing ever, and not a side-effect I'd ever heard of before. But it comes in handy since it's getting annoying to bend over to shave anyway.
-- Thinking about how this little kicker is "our daughter." It's something of a thrill to use those words. Daughter. It's potent; so much so that I can't bring myself to say it out loud. It's almost like a secret thrill.
-- Imagining what she'll be like, and what we'll teach her, where we'll take her, and what music we'll expose her to. It's even fun to think about the fact that at some point, she'll be listening to music that M and I think is utter crap, and we'll wonder who this freak is we brought into the world. Yep, even that's cool. Maybe more for me than M, since I'm well aware of the sh*t music I thought was just swell back in my pre-teen years and I turned out just fine. After all, M fell in love with me because of my music collection.
-- Thinking of how my husband will be as a father. I'm pretty sure he's just as nervous about this as I am about being a mother. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like he would be. But I think he'll be so good at it. And I can't wait for him and Weeble to be introduced.
-- Thinking about how my mother will be as a grandmother - and mother to a mother. She's not really a baby sort. She likes kids, but only once they get to an age where they can hold normal conversations. Babies are not her thing. Plus, for the first 20 years of my life, it's been her and me. Boys have come and gone (with the exception of M, who obviously stayed). But for her, I've always been it. And for me, she's always been it. So me having a baby changes our relationship completely - and in ways neither of us can possibly anticipate. It's going to be a new chapter for us, and I'm looking forward to it. Plus, my mom is the one person who will always be my mommy if I need her to be.
-- Singing to Weeble. I don't do it on purpose, really. I never set out to sing to my belly. But I sing all the time anyway, and whenever I do (usually during my commute to work) I catch myself and think, "She can hear me right now." And I smile.
There are many more things about this experience that I love. I guess most of it is the forward-looking stuff. The dreams and the hopes I already have for her, for her father, and for the three of us (six of us - including the cats and dog) as a family. I know we don't know what we're in for, and it won't be all tender moments. But she's making an impact on me (and not just with her little feet and fists) already, and I just can't wait to meet her.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Things not to say to a pregnant woman
For the most part, I can't complain about excessive hormonal rages. Well, I can't complain. M might have a different take on this. But by and large, I've felt pretty happy. Very few people have been killed or maimed as a result of my pregnancy.
That said, I have been compiling a list of things one should never, ever say to a pregnant woman. A woman who is pregnant is, among other things, feeling one or more of these things at any given moment:
> > Fat
> > Overwhelmed
> > In some form of pain and/or discomfort
> > Lonely
> > Irritated, annoyed, or outright pissed. At what, she likely doesn't know.
Add any of these emotions to the already toxic combination of hormone soup she's experiencing, and a poorly considered remark can result in a day's worth of 1) bitchiness, 2) weepiness, 3) silent treatment, or 4) all of the above.
For the dear husbands, friends, co-workers, family members, and random strangers, I am providing this list of remarks that should be considered off limits when speaking to any and all pregnant women. Print it out and keep it on hand at all times so you never accidentally find ourself at the hands of a toxic hormone attack.
1. "Why, you don't look pregnant at all!" - This is a bad thing to say to a pregnant woman. During the first trimester, a woman is likely nauseous, exhausted, and can't even tell anyone why she's such a disaster. When you find out she's pregnant, regardless of whether she looks pregnant or not, you say, "Congratulations! How wonderful for you! You're already glowing!"
2. "Wow, this pregnancy is hitting you really hard!" - When you're a pregnant woman's husband, and your wife has just returned from BJ's with a heavy box of groceries, in the dumping rain, having just contended with a crowd of imbeciles who wouldn't get out of her way, complaining about how her back muscles hurt from carrying said heavy box, and clearly ON THE EDGE, under no circumstances whatsoever should you comment that she is somehow weaker in the face of her pregnancy. No, no, no. This will do nothing but put her either closer to the aforementioned edge, or send her right over. This is bad because she will TAKE YOU WITH HER.
3. "You'll never sleep again." - In this scenario, "sleep" can be interchanged with "have fun," "have money," or "go out." OK, I know people who have experience with the whole kids thing have a different perspective than those of us seeing child rearing through the semi-rose tinted glasses of pre-parenthood, but come ON. It's not like us pregnant women need any additional reasons to be freaked out, overwhelmed, and wondering what in god's name ever possessed us to get ourselves into this condition. We'll find out soon enough. Leave us alone and let us enjoy our last few months of being childfree.
4. "You're naming your child WHAT???" - Unless your friend is planning to name her soon-to-be child something like Tequila or RawkStahr, which could lead to serious therapy in the child's future, just keep your mouth shut if you don't like the name. Pregnant lady feels fat and judged enough as it is. Don't add to it.
5. "Are you happy?" - Well, let's see. If I weren't happy, would I have even told you I was pregnant? Yeah, probably not. People who use this phrase will get an automatic BITE ME.
That's all for now. Not terribly comprehensive as of yet, but it's Sunday night and all this rain is starting to get to me. And I'm still sore from my trip to BJ's earlier today.
That said, I have been compiling a list of things one should never, ever say to a pregnant woman. A woman who is pregnant is, among other things, feeling one or more of these things at any given moment:
> > Fat
> > Overwhelmed
> > In some form of pain and/or discomfort
> > Lonely
> > Irritated, annoyed, or outright pissed. At what, she likely doesn't know.
Add any of these emotions to the already toxic combination of hormone soup she's experiencing, and a poorly considered remark can result in a day's worth of 1) bitchiness, 2) weepiness, 3) silent treatment, or 4) all of the above.
For the dear husbands, friends, co-workers, family members, and random strangers, I am providing this list of remarks that should be considered off limits when speaking to any and all pregnant women. Print it out and keep it on hand at all times so you never accidentally find ourself at the hands of a toxic hormone attack.
1. "Why, you don't look pregnant at all!" - This is a bad thing to say to a pregnant woman. During the first trimester, a woman is likely nauseous, exhausted, and can't even tell anyone why she's such a disaster. When you find out she's pregnant, regardless of whether she looks pregnant or not, you say, "Congratulations! How wonderful for you! You're already glowing!"
2. "Wow, this pregnancy is hitting you really hard!" - When you're a pregnant woman's husband, and your wife has just returned from BJ's with a heavy box of groceries, in the dumping rain, having just contended with a crowd of imbeciles who wouldn't get out of her way, complaining about how her back muscles hurt from carrying said heavy box, and clearly ON THE EDGE, under no circumstances whatsoever should you comment that she is somehow weaker in the face of her pregnancy. No, no, no. This will do nothing but put her either closer to the aforementioned edge, or send her right over. This is bad because she will TAKE YOU WITH HER.
3. "You'll never sleep again." - In this scenario, "sleep" can be interchanged with "have fun," "have money," or "go out." OK, I know people who have experience with the whole kids thing have a different perspective than those of us seeing child rearing through the semi-rose tinted glasses of pre-parenthood, but come ON. It's not like us pregnant women need any additional reasons to be freaked out, overwhelmed, and wondering what in god's name ever possessed us to get ourselves into this condition. We'll find out soon enough. Leave us alone and let us enjoy our last few months of being childfree.
4. "You're naming your child WHAT???" - Unless your friend is planning to name her soon-to-be child something like Tequila or RawkStahr, which could lead to serious therapy in the child's future, just keep your mouth shut if you don't like the name. Pregnant lady feels fat and judged enough as it is. Don't add to it.
5. "Are you happy?" - Well, let's see. If I weren't happy, would I have even told you I was pregnant? Yeah, probably not. People who use this phrase will get an automatic BITE ME.
That's all for now. Not terribly comprehensive as of yet, but it's Sunday night and all this rain is starting to get to me. And I'm still sore from my trip to BJ's earlier today.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
When baseball and pregnancy hormones collide
I love being pregnant. The weirdest things get to you.
Baseball season started last week. This is a glorious time of year, and one that I usually start anticipating with excessive fervor starting approximately 30 seconds after the New England Patriots are out of championship running. This year I was reasonably distracted and haven't been as on the ball in terms of pre-season games, season openers, and how Baltimore, the Yankees, and the Twins are looking for the year. I have yet to see a full game. This is highly unusual. But not surprising given the circumstances. Still, I was somewhat unprepared for how my pregnancy hormones would mix with baseball.
Let me back up a bit and explain. I LOVE BASEBALL. I have since I was a little kid and my mom and step-dad would take me to American Legion games in Billings, MT. And since my father took me to Minnesota Twins games at the Metrodome during Kirby Puckett's heyday (to this day, my favorite joke my dad ever told is, "Kirby's butt is so big he's taller when he sits down." But wow, could that man run like the wind). And since I moved to Boston and my husband filled in all the blanks and made a lifelong devoted Boston Red Sox fan out of me. Bless his heart, he endures ALL my questions about the rules and regulations of baseball. There's no turning back now. Field of Dreams and Bull Durham both made my top 10 movie list in short order. I look forward to watching baseball games on TV. But when that's not possible, I actually listen to, and understand, games on the radio, along with accompanying game analysis. Baseball makes me happy.
Perhaps this deep love of baseball was why, during my morning commute to work, I found myself crying when the John Fogerty's Centerfield started playing on the radio. At first when I heard the song, I cranked it up and smiled, thinking about how today was opening day at Fenway. Within seconds, as I tried to sing along, I found myself choking up. Choked up turned into open crying. Crying turned into outright sobbing. Why? I don't know. Was it these lines?
"Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride.
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all - a moment in the sun;
(pop) It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!"
All I know is it took a solid verse of a Rod Stewart song (I hate Rod Stewart) to get it out of my system. I blame Weeble-related hormones.
A slightly different situation transpired when M and I finally had the opportunity to watch more than 15 seconds of a game, and were enjoying Sunday night's Red Sox vs. Texas Rangers game on ESPN. My enjoyment lasted about as long as it took for Joe Morgan to open his damn mouth and start annoying the hell out of me. Normally the kind of rage and utter hatred I was feeling toward Joe Morgan that night is reserved for f**king Tim McCarver. Yeah, you baseball fans know what I'm talking about. But it appears that Joe Morgan gets to be on that list, too. If he says the phrase "dead red" ONE MORE TIME while I am hostage to these hormones, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Goddamn that guy pisses me off. Thank god the Red Sox won that game or I may have really freaked out.
So the short story is it's something like day nine of the baseball season. There is WAY more baseball ahead, and way more hormones to course through my bloodstream. This doesn't really bode well for the next four months.
Baseball season started last week. This is a glorious time of year, and one that I usually start anticipating with excessive fervor starting approximately 30 seconds after the New England Patriots are out of championship running. This year I was reasonably distracted and haven't been as on the ball in terms of pre-season games, season openers, and how Baltimore, the Yankees, and the Twins are looking for the year. I have yet to see a full game. This is highly unusual. But not surprising given the circumstances. Still, I was somewhat unprepared for how my pregnancy hormones would mix with baseball.
Let me back up a bit and explain. I LOVE BASEBALL. I have since I was a little kid and my mom and step-dad would take me to American Legion games in Billings, MT. And since my father took me to Minnesota Twins games at the Metrodome during Kirby Puckett's heyday (to this day, my favorite joke my dad ever told is, "Kirby's butt is so big he's taller when he sits down." But wow, could that man run like the wind). And since I moved to Boston and my husband filled in all the blanks and made a lifelong devoted Boston Red Sox fan out of me. Bless his heart, he endures ALL my questions about the rules and regulations of baseball. There's no turning back now. Field of Dreams and Bull Durham both made my top 10 movie list in short order. I look forward to watching baseball games on TV. But when that's not possible, I actually listen to, and understand, games on the radio, along with accompanying game analysis. Baseball makes me happy.
Perhaps this deep love of baseball was why, during my morning commute to work, I found myself crying when the John Fogerty's Centerfield started playing on the radio. At first when I heard the song, I cranked it up and smiled, thinking about how today was opening day at Fenway. Within seconds, as I tried to sing along, I found myself choking up. Choked up turned into open crying. Crying turned into outright sobbing. Why? I don't know. Was it these lines?
"Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride.
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all - a moment in the sun;
(pop) It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!"
All I know is it took a solid verse of a Rod Stewart song (I hate Rod Stewart) to get it out of my system. I blame Weeble-related hormones.
A slightly different situation transpired when M and I finally had the opportunity to watch more than 15 seconds of a game, and were enjoying Sunday night's Red Sox vs. Texas Rangers game on ESPN. My enjoyment lasted about as long as it took for Joe Morgan to open his damn mouth and start annoying the hell out of me. Normally the kind of rage and utter hatred I was feeling toward Joe Morgan that night is reserved for f**king Tim McCarver. Yeah, you baseball fans know what I'm talking about. But it appears that Joe Morgan gets to be on that list, too. If he says the phrase "dead red" ONE MORE TIME while I am hostage to these hormones, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Goddamn that guy pisses me off. Thank god the Red Sox won that game or I may have really freaked out.
So the short story is it's something like day nine of the baseball season. There is WAY more baseball ahead, and way more hormones to course through my bloodstream. This doesn't really bode well for the next four months.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
It's a....
For all you suckers that voted BOY, hang your heads in shame. Apparently M is slightly psychic, and my mother-to-be super-senses were all correct: We're having a girl!!
The ultrasound went really well overall. The technician took all kinds of measurements while Weeble moved around like a sneaky little fish. I suppose the 5 glasses of orange juice and honey toast I had for breakfast may have had something to do with how hopped up she was. The really good news is that everything looks normal and she is healthy, weighing approximately 13 ounces (making M the closest guesser - must he get everything right?).
The whole process lasted no more than 20 minutes, and finally the technician asked if we'd like her to try and find out the baby's gender. Once she had the emphatic go-ahead, it didn't take long at all. A push here, a click there, and voila! "It looks like you have a little girl."
I know I said I would have been happy with a boy - and I truly, truly would have been. But when she said "little girl", I broke out in tears. I had known she was - I had known it when I first felt her move, when she suddenly became "she". So learning that she is, in fact, of the female persuasion confirmed for me like nothing else has so far that I know this baby, and that there is at least that much mother instinct in me.
And so now begins the big name-choosing expedition. Had it been a boy, the choice would have been pretty easy - I've known the boy name I would want to use ever since we started discussing the possibility of children. But the field of potential girl names is much, much broader. When we do pick, it'll be the one piece we keep to ourselves until she's born (just try to pry it out of us), but I have the feeling it'll take a while to decide anyway. M and I may have known she was a girl, but we still don't know her name. Maybe we won't until we meet her in person.
And just for the record, I have informed M that I will not be paying him even though he is technically the winner of the $20 bet. I'll just put an extra $20 into the little girl's college fund in his name.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Big One
We're down to only 13 hours to go before the ultrasound. The votes between boy and girl are neck-and-neck (7 to 6), and it's anyone's game at this point.
I have been waiting anxiously for tomorrow's appointment like I've waited for few other things in my life, and with an impatience that rivals that of any 5-year-old. After our first glimpse of Weeble, I couldn't wait to get more - to learn more about this little person growing in - of all places - me.
Now that tomorrow is nearly upon us, I am all nerves. This probably explains my bizarre behavior in the last hour before I left work today (unnaturally snippy and jittery) and in the car on the way home (even meaner and with more one-sided angry conversations than ever). To the people who were affected by this today, I do apologize. Chalk it up to part nerves, part excitement, part exhaustion, and utter terror for what tomorrow's glimpse will show.
I know I shouldn't worry. What would be the point? I'd just stress myself out and be miserable (read: I have stressed myself out and made myself miserable). Even if there is something wrong with the baby that comes to light tomorrow, what will worrying about it now do? (see above) But I can't help it. Like anyone who loves someone the way I love this little Weeble, I want him or her to have an easy, happy life. And a long one to boot. What if that is not what is destined for my child? How do parents face that question before they've even become parents?
All I can do for now is wait. Thankfully, I have a boatload of ironing to keep me occupied until I go to bed. Not to mention the mini-marathon of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Yeah, that'll take my mind of my worries.
I have been waiting anxiously for tomorrow's appointment like I've waited for few other things in my life, and with an impatience that rivals that of any 5-year-old. After our first glimpse of Weeble, I couldn't wait to get more - to learn more about this little person growing in - of all places - me.
Now that tomorrow is nearly upon us, I am all nerves. This probably explains my bizarre behavior in the last hour before I left work today (unnaturally snippy and jittery) and in the car on the way home (even meaner and with more one-sided angry conversations than ever). To the people who were affected by this today, I do apologize. Chalk it up to part nerves, part excitement, part exhaustion, and utter terror for what tomorrow's glimpse will show.
I know I shouldn't worry. What would be the point? I'd just stress myself out and be miserable (read: I have stressed myself out and made myself miserable). Even if there is something wrong with the baby that comes to light tomorrow, what will worrying about it now do? (see above) But I can't help it. Like anyone who loves someone the way I love this little Weeble, I want him or her to have an easy, happy life. And a long one to boot. What if that is not what is destined for my child? How do parents face that question before they've even become parents?
All I can do for now is wait. Thankfully, I have a boatload of ironing to keep me occupied until I go to bed. Not to mention the mini-marathon of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Yeah, that'll take my mind of my worries.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Vote for the winner of the $20 Bet
With only 47 hours to go until the big ultrasound (a.k.a., the much more scientific-sounding "anatomy check"), it seems like a good time for some hot polling action. As I wrote about in the first few posts of this blog - way back in ye olden days of February - M laid out a few bets. The first, for $10, that I was pregnant. The second, for double or nothing, that it was a girl. Well, we already know I lost the first bet. But I can be saved from having to shell out any cash to my money-grubbing (yet oh, so loving) husband if this baby is a boy.
So, what do you all think? Make your voice heard by voting with this handy little polling device. And, just to add even more intrigue, if you want to leave a comment with your best guess on the Weeble's weight as of Thursday's 8:30 am ultrasound, maybe I'll consider awarding a prize (to be shipped out via the series of tubes that is the Internets) to the closest guesser.
Happy voting! May the best parent-to-be win!
So, what do you all think? Make your voice heard by voting with this handy little polling device. And, just to add even more intrigue, if you want to leave a comment with your best guess on the Weeble's weight as of Thursday's 8:30 am ultrasound, maybe I'll consider awarding a prize (to be shipped out via the series of tubes that is the Internets) to the closest guesser.
Happy voting! May the best parent-to-be win!
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Change of tune
Up until relatively recently, if I'd been pressed to answer the question "what do you want, a boy or girl?" and were really honest with my response, I would have had to say that I wanted a girl. I suppose that's just because, well, being a girl, I think I'd have a better idea how to raise one than a boy. I know this is ridiculous, if for no other reason that I haven't the slightest idea how to raise my dog, let alone a child whether it's a girl or a boy. But that's what I thought I wanted, deep down inside.
Recently, though, something started to shift. I can't really remember when I realized I'd changed my tune, but I've been attributing it to an incident a few weeks ago. I had taken Ollie to the dog park by myself. He was tired from the previous day at doggy day care, and not really interested in the other dogs. But, he is ALWAYS afraid of people no matter what. So when a little boy of about seven or eight started approaching him, I called out to him that my dog is fearful of people and he probably shouldn't get too close. Ollie's not aggressive, but you never know when a fearful dog turns into a mean dog. And I've always gotten the sense that kids freak him out. It's like he's thinking, "My god! It's like a person, but... so small!"
The little boy mumbled something in assent and wandered another direction. Which is fine with me. Sometimes kids make me nervous - I don't know why. Maybe for the same reason they make Ollie nervous. But a few minutes later the kid was standing near me, and he said, "What kind of dog is he?" When I responded that he's a yellow lab mix, the boy said, so thoughtfully, "Wow, that's odd! I've never heard of a shy lab before!" I don't know what exactly it was about him, but I just marveled at this little boy's fearlessness. He was so natural and comfortable, and he just felt like talking to me. So he did. And damned if I didn't admire him for it.
That's the thing about little boys. Most of the ones I've met are fearless like that. They go for what they want. And that's just cool.
A few days after the incident at the dogpark, I felt the baby move. And since then, I've been inclined to use "she" and "her". I don't know that it means anything - it just feels right. But I can honestly say that I won't be in the least disappointed if this baby turns out to be a boy; nor will I be if it's a girl. I said it once before, and it's true: all I want is a healthy baby.
Recently, though, something started to shift. I can't really remember when I realized I'd changed my tune, but I've been attributing it to an incident a few weeks ago. I had taken Ollie to the dog park by myself. He was tired from the previous day at doggy day care, and not really interested in the other dogs. But, he is ALWAYS afraid of people no matter what. So when a little boy of about seven or eight started approaching him, I called out to him that my dog is fearful of people and he probably shouldn't get too close. Ollie's not aggressive, but you never know when a fearful dog turns into a mean dog. And I've always gotten the sense that kids freak him out. It's like he's thinking, "My god! It's like a person, but... so small!"
The little boy mumbled something in assent and wandered another direction. Which is fine with me. Sometimes kids make me nervous - I don't know why. Maybe for the same reason they make Ollie nervous. But a few minutes later the kid was standing near me, and he said, "What kind of dog is he?" When I responded that he's a yellow lab mix, the boy said, so thoughtfully, "Wow, that's odd! I've never heard of a shy lab before!" I don't know what exactly it was about him, but I just marveled at this little boy's fearlessness. He was so natural and comfortable, and he just felt like talking to me. So he did. And damned if I didn't admire him for it.
That's the thing about little boys. Most of the ones I've met are fearless like that. They go for what they want. And that's just cool.
A few days after the incident at the dogpark, I felt the baby move. And since then, I've been inclined to use "she" and "her". I don't know that it means anything - it just feels right. But I can honestly say that I won't be in the least disappointed if this baby turns out to be a boy; nor will I be if it's a girl. I said it once before, and it's true: all I want is a healthy baby.
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