Stats - 32 Weeks

I had my final 4-week appointment the other day. From here on out, I'll go in every two weeks. My doctor wasn't there (nor was she when I went in after the accident). But I did get to meet another doctor in the practice, and since there's a chance someone other than my usual doctor will deliver me when the time comes, I'm happy to meet the extra players.

Good news all around. I'd gained only three pounds since my previous appointment. My belly, while seemingly huge to everyone else (to the point that comments have begun to make me a little paranoid about my size), measures completely normally in terms of size.

We also had a bonus ultrasound to size Weeble up and make sure she was on track. Oh, she's on track alright. She's so on track she's passed the station and is cruising on up the mountain. What I mean by this complete nonsense is that, while my belly is measuring "normal," Weeble is a big girl as of right now. The ultrasound puts her at five pounds and some odd ounces. More than a pound plus a few ounces over what a 32-week baby would "normally" be. But my favorite nurse said that puts her in the 65th percentile for size, which sounds a lot less scary. Still, if she keeps on this particular track, she's going be out of newborn size clothing before she's even born.

All around, she looks good and healthy. Fluids - check; placenta - check; 2 arms, 2 legs, check. We got a lovely view of her face, too (second picture). It's fairly clear from this that she's already taking after me, what with the lips. Of course, the first thing that came to my mind was "Baby fish mouth!" No offense to her whatsoever, but those are some big lips she's got.

Looking at these ultrasound pictures compared to the previous two sets (at around 14 weeks and again at about 21 weeks) is unreal. She was scarcely a blip before. Then the "baby" in there became apparent. And now she's too big to fit on the screen. If there was ever a kick in the pants I needed to convince me that, oh, yeah, this is happening and she is real, this is it.

My stretch marks, as predicted, have in no way abated. They've all but taken over. I look at them as a hedge across my lower belly, since they do look very tree-like with all their spidery branches. People try to console me with the usual, "They'll go away eventually," clearly forgetting that stretch marks don't go away if you're not a celebrity with endless funds to get laser treatments or whatever it is the beautiful people do. They simply fade to become silvery branches instead of the angry red-purple ones they are today. But I suppose I'll embrace them eventually. I'm sure it's worth it. That's what they keep telling me anyway.

Stretch

It finally happened. After 30 weeks and 3 days of flawless, gorgeous skin covering my belly, they came. A nice little crop of stretch marks have appeared just above my bikini line. This does not please me. I'm not interested in battle wounds. I'm interested in being exceedingly pretty.

OK, I'm exaggerating a bit (a lot). But still, I really don't like it. I'm already big, cumbersome, awkward, and cranky about 98.7% of the time. Now I get some purple road maps to Crazyville to boot?

I am aware there was little to nothing I could have done to prevent this particular side-effect of pregnancy. The cocoa and shea butter I've been lathering on since the 4th month I was pregnant were nice effort, but ultimately proved futile. Of course they did. Stretch marks laugh at lotions and potions. Stretch marks answer to genetics. My mom had them when she was pregnant with me, so it was pretty likely I'd get them, too. Hell, I got them during puberty when my boobal region grew faster than my poor skin could accommodate.

Still, I had maintained the small hope I'd escape this particular fate - or that I'd at least get farther along. I have the feeling it's all downhill from here. In fact, I'm pretty sure that in the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten at least 472 more stretch marks. Clearly, I need to up the ante: from now on I use TWICE as much shea butter. See if I can stop these suckers from getting any worse. Don't hold your breath, people.

Crash

Monday was not a good day. I should have known the moment I woke up. In fact, i did toy with the idea of staying home. I was sore and sunburned from our yard sale on Sunday, and even more tired than I usually am on a Monday morning. Sign #1.

But I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and geared up for my 1.5-hour commute to the office, an 8-hour workday, and another 1.5-hour commute home. When I let Ollie out for his morning constitutional, I noticed he was fixated on something on the ground. I went to investigate only to find 5 naked little baby birds, along with one egg, scattered about the base of our birdhouse. Very sad. Poor little shavers. Who knows what happened to them - there was no sign of trauma. But it was definitely Sign #2 for me.

Sign #3 was the ridiculous traffic. Having left home at the much-later-than-usual time of 8:00, I thought perhaps I'd miss a good deal of morning rush hour traffic. I was wrong. It was taking forever. At 9:00 I was pulling off the highway off-ramp, and when I finally made it to the top of the off-ramp, the driver in front of me started, then stopped. Unfortunately, I had also started. And when I stopped, I was cheek-to-cheek with her rear bumper. Sigh.

Fortunately, the lady I hit was nice about it. But I was a mess. Couldn't think straight, couldn't function properly. Barely knew my own name well enough to give it to her. But finally, we finished the information exchange and I headed back to my car for the last half-hour of my ride to work. I was in tears before I even closed the door. I cried like a little girl the entire way to work. Not sniffles, not occasional sobs. Outright inconsolable weeping, torrential downpours of tears. It wasn't just that I had hit the girl and done actual damage to both our cars. It was that I've gone nearly 20 years of driving with only one other (very small) fender bender where my insurance company let me off clean, and one speeding ticket (for a mere $5 - those were the golden years in Montana, my friends). I've been pulled over two other times, but got away with written warnings. So this little fender bender was something of a legitimate accident that was my fault. Dammit - such a clean record for so long. Combine this despair with pregnancy hormones... bad news.

When I got to the parking garage, I decided it was time to call M and tell him what had happened. True to form, he was lovely about it. So long as I was OK and the Weeble was OK, then it was no big thing. We'd deal with the increase to my auto insurance premium, and we'd be just fine. This made me feel better. And when my manager showed up in the garage looking for me (after I'd left him a voice mail that indicated I'd been in a car accident, but failed to mention that I was OK) to make sure I was, in fact, all in one piece, made me feel even better.

I lost all mental and emotional stability progress I made in the first hour at my desk, however, when I called my OB's office and they told me they wanted to see me. This should have made me feel better, but it just made me nervous. If I didn't go to the doctor, nothing could possibly be wrong with Weeble. But if I did go... there was the possibility they'd find something they didn't like. I didn't want them to find any such thing. I like denial. Still, I went in. I was immediately hooked up for a "non-stress test," which just involved two monitors that were belted around my middle - one to listen to Weeble's heartbeat, and one to hear what was going on in her domain. I was hooked up for nearly an hour and-a-half while they waited for her to do what they wanted her to do: namely, maintain a baseline HR for a bit, then shoot up 10-15 BPM for a minute, and go back down. Little bugger is already stubborn, which is why it took so long.

Everything is fine, of course. My mental state has improved significantly. Weeble checked out normally. And my car, while a little worse for the wear, is still perfectly serviceable. Still, from now on, I'll be watching the signs and actually heeding them.

Best Husband Ever

Last night was the first child-related education class for us. This one was about breastfeeding - how it works, how it doesn't work, and basic techniques.

When I registered for this class, the form indicated that "spouses are welcome and encouraged to attend." I took this to heart, and told M I really wanted him to join me for the class. Granted, I'm the one with the equipment, and thus the one to actually do the deed of feeding Weeble. But from what I can tell, breastfeeding can be tricky business, and women doing it can use all the support they can get - especially from a spouse or partner.

M was mostly on board with the idea of coming to the class. His primary concern was that it's not really a "dad" event, that there would be only expectant mothers attending. I assured him that this couldn't possibly be the case. After all, the registration form encouraged partner participation, and everything I'd read at the threads about this topic at BabyCenter.com indicated that breastfeeding classes were definitely equal opportunity.

As last night's class approached, M had that look about him. The look I know so very well. The look that says, "I don't wanna do this and I'm going to try and get out of it." Before he could even open his mouth, I said, "No way, you are COMING to this class with me and that's it!" Turns out, his concern was putting Ollie pup back in his crate for yet a few more hours (he's not quite trustworthy for a full day of roaming the house just yet). I agreed, this is a lousy situation. But it's a one-time deal, and we don't leave him crated any more than absolutely necessary. As a compromise, we decided to leave him out of the crate for the time we were gone to test his non-destructive inclinations. So with a few pleading moments of "don't eat the couch," we took our leave and headed to the hospital for breastfeeding class.

We walked in - just a minute or two late - and it was immediately clear. I was so very, very wrong. There were no other daddies-to-be. No supportive spouses. M was it. The lone guy in a very mother-oriented class. He (kindly) didn't say anything, but cast me a sardonic sidelong glance, to which I replied, "Not a word." This, of course, was simply my guilt for having dragged him to this class. He was willing to be supportive, but I knew going in that he had his doubts about attending this particular class.

What a guy. I don't know how I got so lucky with this one. He sat through it, and he took it all in with barely any noticeable discomfort. Even the teacher had some props for him, noting that while breastfeeding might seem like strictly a "mom" thing, dads need to be as supportive, knowledgeable, and on board as possible. I couldn't have been prouder. I couldn't help but wonder if all the other expectant moms there were thinking to themselves, "My husband is a dog! Why isn't he here supporting me??" Yep. What a guy. And he's all mine.

During a brief break, I apologized profusely for making him come. I had truly believed there would be many couples there. Why shouldn't there be? Feeding a child - whether the equipment is attached to one parent or there are bottles and formula to mix - should be a family affair. M was so good about it. I couldn't make him stay for the second half. So I sent him home to figure out dinner, entertain Ollie pup, and wait for me to be ready to picked up. He didn't miss too much in the second half - nothing he can't pick up from reading a book or being told by me. And I missed only the pleasure of his presence, and the fact that we're both of the same juvenile mentality to find the same things funny.

What I walked away with from this situation is that I have an awesome, amazing, supportive husband, and I am lucky for it. Not that I didn't already know this. But it's really wonderful to be reminded of it. He put himself out there into a place that was undoubtedly uncomfortable and weird, simply because he knew I wanted him there with me. What a guy.