Parenthetical Three

Since weeks change on Sundays, I figured I’d better get this week’s recap posted tonight.

Week 13: I’m grumpy.

Blame it on the expectations that all the yuckiness would miraculously abate.  The sun would shine, the birds would sing, and I’d be able to eat a meal without immediate repercussions.

But no. Still yucky. And to top it off, I hate being one of those whiny pregnant women who goes on and on and on about how she realizes it’s a little taboo but she just has to tell you her secret: she hates being pregnant.

Blegh.

It’s no secret – this never ending flu thing ain’t my thang.  But since I don’t have a kid to show for it, I often find myself caught up in the yucky and forgetting there’s a baby in there!

So I’m trying to glow.  Failing, but trying.

See me glowing?  Yea, didn’t think so.

Being pregnant is such a big body experiment.  Every day I try something to see how it works.  Tonight I tried yogurt.  And peanut butter on toast.  At the same time, because I am a crazy wild woman like that.  Tomorrow I’ll know if it paid off (I slept!) or not (I spent the night in the bathroom).

I remind myself that this is only temporary and in the end I’ll have a baby in my arms.

Better to be awake freaking out over our ability to handle the responsibility of a tiny human who requires feeding nevermind raising and (I’m guessing) prefers a modicum of cleanliness than over the temporary misery of first trimester pregnancy, right?

{I am freaking out over our ability to successfully manage a kid at the end of this.  I often fail to get myself fed and into relatively clean clothes, never mind in a relatively tidy habitat.  This poor kid is bound to spend his/ her toddler-hood being licked loved by a variety of pets all while being constantly covered in their fur.  My highest hopes are that he/ she doesn’t ingest something too disgusting, you know?}

Bright side: this is the last weekly post of the “beginning.”

Body: Puffy.  In the morning you can’t really tell I’m pregnant unless you look closely.  By the evening, I look round.  And dumpy.  I’m already feeling like a dumpy rolly polly pregnant woman.  My boobs have now exceeded the boundaries of the Small++ nursing bra I bought two weeks ago, so more shopping in my future.  My awesome mom sent me some bras, too, but alas, they are also too small.

Soul: Feeling down, like a rolly polly dumpy pregnant woman who can’t eat a meal.  Truly, I can eat almost anything I want at lunch (never onions) but dinner?  Nope.  Crackers, peanut butter… that’s it.  I’m trying valiantly to remember the discomfort is for the baby.  Imagining him/ her helps, too.  I had a dream this week where I said “my daughter/ son” for the first time, and while in the dream I was freaking out, once awake I liked the feeling.

Baby: Well, while I’ve been whining, this kid has been growing!  He/ she has ears and can hear us; fingers and can suck them (!); feet and can cross them.  Peach-sized!!

Back to the puking and general misery, with a quick break for an ultrasound (yay) that confirmed an 8/1 due date (it read 7/31 based on kid size, so that counts as confirmation).  Once we saw the little dude moving around, he/ she/ it went from ‘THE MONSTER” to “Oh, a baby!”

~~~

Stuff interesting to women who are pregnant only, less so to the general population. Read at your own danger.

1. If ever you find yourself with a belly full of food, feeling like you’re going to throw up and wondering if you should drink water or not, the answer is: DO.  Lots.  Because the only thing worse than puking is puking food that oozes out and chokes you. The water provides the projectile-ness, baby, and while that’s not fun, it’s more of a party than spitting out the nasty stuff stuck in your throat.

(If you read this far and aren’t pregnant, you totally asked for it. I TOLD you.)

2. Green chile is always worth the vomiting.  Well, except for the second night in a row when you figure out it burns your nostrils when it gets stuck there.  And cheese is a bad thing.  Ew.

3. Those little peanut butter crackers you get out of vending machines are the perfect food for first trimester.  Not kidding.  Buy in bulk.  The little (tiny) bit of protein helps with nausea and blood sugar swings (swear) and the crackers absorb stomach acid.  GO NOW.  BUY A CASE.

4. My waist is now thickening and I consistently have a bulge I can’t suck in.  It’s much worse at the end of the day or when I have to pee, and my comfy shirts stick to it in a rather unappealing way.  Wishing my work-clothing style involved something more loose than pencil skirts and tailored jackets.  Let’s hope any business trip I have to take is pushed out past the point where I ‘fess up to people.

In other news, it’s a baby!  So cool.  Even while puking.

I’m now completely confused about what week this is for me, much less what day, so let’s say it’s week 11, maybe the middle, maybe the end, probably near the beginning.

I think.

Salient point: am now an unbuttoned-pants woman.  It’s official.

Background: I work from home.  This means I can go days without leaving the house — though we try to avoid this because then I lose my mind, not good for anyone in the vicinity — and, ahem, a week (this is a true story) between hair washings.  I know, I know.  Shut up.  It’s long and thick and takes 30+ minutes to dry.  With this frigid weather I da-amn sure am not going to hang out with wet hair, so unless I honestly cannot remember the last time I washed it, it stays in a bun.

Also means I rewear clothes to my heart’s content.  I’ve always been this way, happy to pick a comfy and loosey goosy pair of jeans off the floor and put them back on, but since I don’t have to pretend I care enough to change outfits every day, well, I don’t pretend.  So after a few days of alternating the same two pairs of worn-in jeans, my husband declared an intervention and whisked them away to be washed.

Yes, I’m a gross girl who was lucky enough to marry a guy who not only puts up with this, but stages interventions.

So, excited about getting out of the house to stuff my face with Mexican food, I grabbed my favorite pair of jeans and slipped wiggled them on.  *Panic*

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the bathroom mirror. (In slippers, hence the shuffle.  Yea, I’m one of those awesome work from home people.)  Shirt off, pants down, OH. SHIT.

I look like a college freshman who just discovered cheap beer.  And my waist?

WHAT WAIST?

So, I will admit this freaks me out.  Hi, I have a decent body image but only because I like my relatively thin and muscular mid-section.  (I’m sorry, I’m rolling my eyes at myself too.) You might say it’s my secret point of pride. (Well, not so secret anymore.)  And now, darn you hormones, the muscles and ligaments and awesomeness (yes, I am this freaking vain) are stretching and soon I will have a little poochy belly.

Soon.  Ha!  Soon, my arse.  NOW.

See how I’m acting like I’m all tough smart-ass about this?  I’m really not.  Deep down, I am truly freaked out.  I’ve not ever struggled with weight, so I don’t even feel like I come by my freak-out validly, but the idea that my body will be changing completely outside of my control is very freaky.

As are my breasts, which no longer fit in a single one of my bras.  Women with bazongas like mine don’t have “an old loose bra with room to spare,” we have “legions of too-small bras we are convinced we might someday wear again.”

Bright side: when I showed my husband my poochy belly (with a freaked out sad pouty look in my face), he said, and I quote, “Yup, I did that!” like he was getting a gold star.  And then he laughed.

Time to break out the yoga pants.  If only I had fuzzy slippers and too many cats, this cliche would be complete.  Oh, wait.

So, again with the wonky dates.  More on that in a second.

First, my first (and last) disclaimer: you know I’m all about me here, right?  So as I start to talk about the decisions we’re making for our child and our birth and my body, just assume I’m speaking only for myself.  Honestly?  I don’t care what you decide for your own life.  Well, I do, in that I care about you, but c’mon, it’s not affecting my life one bit, really, so you do what you want and I’ll do what I want.  We should still put our decisions and rationale and debates out there because they’re thought-provoking, but leave our decisions unjudged.

If our discussions start to go down a judgmental path, I will delete and/ or turn off comments.  Seriously.  Because who has capacity to deal with the judgment of the internets?  Not me.  This isn’t a democracy, nor have I ever claimed to be at ALL objective.

Whew.  Now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on, shall we?

~~~

Earlier this week, we took a scheduled tour of the only birth center in Knoxville – a free-standing birth center staffed by midwives.  I went to appease my wannabe-hippie, fairly certain I’m too big a wimp to forgo an epidural.

I really liked it.  My husband really liked it.  My inner hippie and outer cheapskate really liked it.  My inner wimp?  Not so much.

The vibe was nice, not nearly as cheesy as I’d expected, and I liked that they had full supportive services on-site – breast-feeding support, a slew of classes, group-focused prenatal sessions, a massage therapist, and, of course, the midwives.

So I postponed my scheduled 10-week prenatal visit with my OB to do one appointment with the midwife, figuring that strategy would buy me enough time to make a decision.

I should know better.

Instead, now I’m more torn.  I could give birth in a hospital with midwives (a happy medium, no?) but the hospital where they have privileges and my insurance company don’t like each other, so we’d have to pay an additional 20% out of pocket.  By my back-of-the-envelope calculations, that’s an extra $3000.  Extra!  But hey, it’s an option.

Option b: to transfer back to my OB, no harm done.  It’s a traditional practice and they didn’t know their c-section rate when I asked (um, seriously?) but I like my OB well enough.  Haven’t met her partners.

The last option is to embrace the epidural-free mentality and just commit to the birth center.  Holding me back? Well, there is some increase in risk (I’ve read all the studies for both sides; no matter your preference, there is always a chance you’ll need post-birth resuscitation) and the whole no chance of an epidural thing.

So, as per my usual, I’m conflicted.  I have time to decide, though, so I’m not freaking out about it.

~~~

We got to hear a heartbeat!  It took her a while to find it, but she kept at it and then… a little fast galloping da-duh-da-duh-da-duh competing with my pulse’s swish-swish-swish.  ‘Twas fabulous.

Second prenatal visit, second time I’ve thought, “oh, so I really am pregnant.”  Weird, I know.

In other news, my husband has started talking to my stomach.  Hilarious when I realize what he thinks is the baby is more likely a big bubble of gas. But hey, the baby’s in there somewhere, right?  It’s the thought?

My due date is back to 8/1/2010.  My midwife (thought: I might feel less hippie about a midWIFE if they had a more professional-ish name) said that unless the ultrasound was more than 5 days off, they stick with the LMP (Last Menstrual Period) EDD (estimated due date) – even if I know I have a 30 day cycle, not a 28, and that I hadn’t ovulated on day 14.  So I am, once again, solidly in my tenth week.  Strange math.

Also, for the big-chested ladies out there: my midwife said it’s very important that you get a supportive and appropriately fitting bra during pregnancy.  Don’t put it off! (Um, I have.)  Good support during pregnancy keeps your breasts from sagging after pregnancy.  So off I go to find a place that sells (non-underwire!) big-ass bras in sizes like, ahem, F and G.  Shoot me now.

I want us to have discussions about this crazy baby/ pregnancy/ birth-giving extravaganza, but I don’t want us to get judgy.  Can we do that?  Can we say things like, “I made my decision to stick with a hospital because the concerns about risk outweighed my hippiness” instead of “I’d NEVER put my future child AT RISK by considering something SO HIPPIE as a birth center!”?  Please?  I think we can.  I have faith.  So let’s try. I’ll even take, “I don’t have kids/ am not pregnant/ don’t want kids, but the idea of _____ skeeves me out, so I think I wouldn’t want to _____.”

And while I’m being all me-me-me about it, I’m interested to hear from the natural birth mamas.  Did you always know you’d be able to give birth without an epidural?  Did you ever doubt?  Do you think doubts mean you shouldn’t?

My weeks/ days are running together and getting all off-kilter, I just noticed.  See, if you calculate my due date from the first day of my last period (10/25/2010), my EDD (estimated due date ) is 8/01/2011.  HOWEVER, I have a longer-than-28-days cycle (about 30, on average) and I happen to know we didn’t get pregnant on day 14 (which is what the “normal” estimate of due date assumes).  Plus, our first ultrasound measured a bit earlier than the calculation and estimated my due date at 8/05/2011.  My OB’s little spinny thing read 8/4/2011.  Argh!

So I popped in the latest EDD on the various websites I use to check in (babycenter, thebump) and assume I change weeks on Thursdays.  But clearly I lose track and get confused.

~~~

We had a big fight yesterday.  I won’t take all the blame for the underlying cause, but the blow-ups are all me.  Well, mostly me.  As humans tend to be, my husband isn’t completely innocent.

We dealt with the aftershocks today and ended on a good note – planning a kitchen remodel!

I’m reminded, though, that whether I like it or not, I carry a lot of responsibility for how our little family functions and thrives.  Sure, peeps get fed and bills get paid whether I’m grumpy or not, but life is a little brighter when we’re not fighting.

So as much as I am shying away from resolutions, not feeling like I tend to succeed, I think I’ll do just one thing this year: Ask.

Ask for help.

Ask for clarity.

Ask for options.

Ask for a decision.

Ask for support.

Ask for anything.

Ask, specifically, for not-a-thing.

Just ask.

I tend to accuse or yell or pout or sigh or huff instead of just asking for what I need.  I suspect this year, of all years, I’ll need the skill more than ever, so it’s my one thing.

So, puking has become a nightly ritual, but I’m getting used to it.  Seriously, who knew you could get used to it?  Not me.  But you can!  I hang out in bed surfing or dozing or reading, then around 11:30, my eyes open wide, I jump into my shoes, and come flying out of our bedroom (door slams!) into the bathroom (door slams!) and the party commences.

Side note: I am unable to burp on purpose and I believe this is making the nausea/ vomiting worse.  Because I can’t voluntarily release the excess gas, I ultimately gag it up.

Something else I never expected? After you puke, you feel so much better. Like, smiling and joking on my way to get a mini bagel to have something in my tummy better.  A week ago when I puked the first time, as per every other time I’ve ever puked, I cried.  And was annoyed at my husband for going back to bed.

We had a talk.

Me: You can’t just leave me there, puking my guts out, while you go snore.

Him: Your hair was already in a ponytail.  What did you need me for?

Me: To share in the misery!

From that point forward, we agreed that when I puked, he’d go get a glass of water.  He has done this every single time and it is wonderful.  Today he laughed when he asked me if I was okay and I whined (while gagging), “I got it up my nose!” And wonder of wonders, I laughed too.

Who knew?

I think I’ve lost weight, not surprising given I can eat four major food groups: cheese, bread, beans, and chips.  Bloated, though.

Body: Same old, I think, with a little bloat.  My pants are uncomfortable, but in the I-ate-too-much-at-Thanksgiving-need-some-room-to-breathe way.  My boobs are still huge and bulbous, but don’t hurt as much.  I bought a Medela sleep bra (so-so) and a $5 soft cup bra at Big Lots (awesome, though I need to take it in); they help.  I’ve beat the nausea-and-vomiting horse to death already.

Oh, yea: we ate ice cream today while on an errand and I was so tired when we got home (you know, from sitting in the car and moving the spoon to my face) I had to doze for a few hours.  Digestion is hard work, people!  And then I remembered — painfully — why I avoid large quantities of sugary dairy.  Much bloat.

Soul: I’m crabby and annoyed at everything/ everyone, but can pull my head out of my arse often enough to be thankful that my husband is a champ at picking up my slack.  He took a sick cat to the vet this morning — without my asking — while I was sleeping late, then spent the evening cleaning up (cat) puke because Frank was rebelling against the liquid meds by regurgitating them.

So, grateful.  And in denial about anything I can’t manage to get my head around: financial adjustments, daycare, MY PROFESSIONAL FUTURE.  I’m setting them all aside for now. (Benefit: letting them percolate without panic means I get little happy bubbles of ideas here and there.)

Baby:

At night when I can’t sleep (because of nausea or reflux), I find it helpful to put my hands on my poochy little (bloated) belly and tell the little dude to cut his mama some slack, please, as she’d like to sleep.  He’s not purposely causing the discomfort, of course, but it helps to remember it’s all for a good reason.

Suddenly I realize this pregnancy discomfort is the first in a long line of discomforts in the name of parenthood.  Middle of the night feedings, sitting up with a sick kid, getting splattered with all manner of bodily fluids… a little nausea should be nothing, right?

But it envelops me in it’s misery.  I try to remind myself it’s all in the name of a greater good, a greater calling, a greater pay-off than, well, ever in the history of nausea.

It doesn’t work.  I sit on the floor in the bathroom in my “God, just let me puke already!” tears and try to remind myself there’s a kid in there already counting on me.  I shuffle to bed, pull the covers over my head, and realize I’ve forgotten to take my prenatal vitamin.

I failed the kid already.  So it begins, I suppose, this cycle of doing my best and feeling guilty nonetheless.

And yet.  And. Yet.  There’s a kid in there!  We opted to tell our immediate families and one couple with whom we’re close this weekend.  Telling our parents had a long build-up.  We told them before Christmas, after all, when we realized my brother and sister wouldn’t be there for the holiday.  It was the right decision… and the reaction of my family bolstered me more than I expected.

My siblings are awesomely and adorably excited.  My parents – both sets, for whom this will be the first grandchild – were overwhelmed.  My dad mentioned today that it didn’t feel real until today, two days after he found out.

Today, two days later, we told Joey’s parents.  Same MO – a wrapped, framed copy of the ultrasound – but in person… and surprisingly awkward!  (Am I the only one who thinks it’s awkward to be thanked by your parents for basically having sex?)  Already the “oh, you’ll be miserable!” comments are coming up.  Thanks!  (Ahem, bright side please?)  I was amused, but part of me will never say anything but positive things to a woman in her first miserable trimester.  Is this why people wait to tell people? {No, I know, I’m just sayin’.}

Everyone’s excited.  Me?  I came home, put on my new pj’s and took a nap.  With Frank, the cat who stopped being allowed to sleep with me when I started sleeping with Joey and Frank decided his night time job was to perch on the highest part of Joey’s body, dig in, and purr.  So Frank and I had a nice nap.  Now I’ll read more of “Baby Bargains,” the book lent to us by our neighbors.

Telling people has been such a positive experience and I don’t regret doing it a month earlier than is traditional.  No more fibs (“I just can’t manage to shake this flu!”) and avoiding conversations with the parents so as not to have to lie.  No more pretending everything’s fine when I would actually like some advice about the tummy full of acid.  And lots of, “You’ll love it!” – something we definitely need as we adapt to this new version of life.

If it turns out this child is a spirit baby (Have you read “Baby Catcher”? You should), we’ll need all the support we can get.

Thank you to those of you online pals in whom I confided my secret before the big blog announcement.  You all helped me get through the three weeks of radio silence, offering tips and atta-girl’s and excitement when I needed it most.  You are so appreciated.

We bought the monster a book and a movie, one from Mom and one from Dad.  We couldn’t resist.  Inside the book I wrote a note to him/her:

Christmas 2010

… because we couldn’t wait to meet you!  Love, Mom and Dad.

“Dude,” I said to my husband. “We’re Mom and Dad.”

We told my parents tonight, separately but on the same day, each time with both my brother and sister in attendance.

In a word: awesome.  Also: hilarious. And: sweet.

Also, the first gut-hurling of this pregnancy happened a few minutes ago.  I must have already digested dinner (in three hours?) because it was mostly stomach acid, though I did choke on a few chunks.

Oh, TMI. Sorry.

Strangely, I didn’t mind the puking so much because I felt better immediately afterward.  Not much immediate relief of anything had been going on in this miracle of life body o’ mine.

That said, universe + God, I wouldn’t mind not having to vomit anymore, mkay?

Today was a good day!  Yesterday, not so good.

Figuring out what I can eat comfortably has been a real challenge.  All previous guidelines have gone out the window, so I’m living an experiment here.  Yesterday — after eating a salad for dinner — my heartburn was really bad, so I tried milk, something I swear settled things down before.  I also tried water with a pinch of baking soda, sucking on a hard candy, and hot water, all to no avail.

It was a very long night, digestively speaking.

Today, then, I vowed to eat as bass-ackwardly as possible: no whole grains, no milk, no “healthy” snacks or meals.  I had a biscuit and mashed potatoes from KFC (seriously) for lunch, no snacks and lots of water.  I wasn’t feeling good, but I wasn’t feeling bad.

On the water: during my fitful mostly restless night of not-sleeping, I was obsessed with the fact that I haven’t been drinking enough water.  I never do, never have, but I know how important it is now.  When full of acid and heartburn, though, water is the last thing you want. Still… must. try. harder.

Then I decided that if I can only eat three things, dammit, I’d eat them in variety.  (Three things: cheese, bread, potatoes.)  After a snack of pan-fried potatoes (seriously), I ran to the hippie grocery store and went crazy.  I bought three kinds of cheese, two kinds of potatoes (insert boring details here, blah, blah, blah) and stuff to make a pizza.  Hey, pizza = bread + cheese, right?  I took a chance on a tomato-based sauce, artichoke hearts and pancetta (couldn’t resist) and it was SO GOOD.

But I was dreading the post-meal extravaganza.  And taking my prenatal vitamin.

Sidetracked: I have been taking Rainbow Light Once Daily Prenatals for a while.  Not regularly, but for a while.  When the pregnancy indigestion began, I figured the pill was the culprit and switched to gummie prenatals.  Egads, the sugar!  I tried splitting them, taking them at night, taking them in the middle of the night – nope.  Terrible bubbling pit of tummy acid.

I then switched to my husband’s gummie vitamins in double dose to get enough folic acid.  I got a shallower bubbling pit of acid, but acid nonetheless.

In full-on experimental mode tonight, I went back to my original pill.  Just one, just once a day, no sugar.  I think it’s working!  Sure, I have some heartburn and a nasty taste in my mouth, but people, this is so. much. better than the others.

Or maybe I’m just having a good day?

Lesson learned: must get out of the house, on my feet, in some semblance of walking-ish activity in the afternoon.  How I will do this when my days really get going around 11:00 am and don’t typically end until 7:00 pm, I don’t know, but I’ve got to find a way.

I wonder how far from the house my cordless phone gets reception?

~~~

In sweet-sentimental news, my husband bought the monster a Christmas present.  Sweet!

I don’t forget I’m pregnant anymore.  For the past few weeks, I’d have a fleeting pre-pregnancy thought, like, “Oooh, fried fish!” or “Beer time!”  Not anymore, not this week.

When I get hungry, I first think of things I can eat comfortably.  This has lessened the meal-related disappointment.  And I’m figuring out a routine that allows me to function during the day and get some sleep at night.

I don’t want to overwhelm you post- or pre-pregnancy folks with boring details, but I clung to the details of my online pregnant friends when trying to figure out how to cope, so I’ll offer them here in case they help anyone else.  For everyone else, I’ll try to summarize in the first and last paragraphs so you can skim.

Body:

I have the palette of a two-year-old: cheese dip, crackers, french fries, a bite of hot dog, and fried potatoes all have settled well.  Fruit is a big no-no right now.  Too much fiber?  Maybe.  Each time I’ve tried, I’ve been miserable.  So, until my second trimester, I’m laying off the fruit.

My indigestion has gotten better with a few minor tweaks to my habits.  One: I eat the opposite of how you’re normally supposed to eat.  Whole wheat?  No, thanks.  I’ll take the white flour biscuits; they’re easier to digest.  Two: I don’t drink with food.  Strange, but it’s helped.  Three: after dinner is the most difficult time because I’m most likely to be lounging or slouching.  I’ve started sipping water with a pinch of baking soda, an old family solution for a gassy tummy.  An online website recommended against it because of it’s salt content, but a pinch won’t kill me and the positive affect on my whole world is outstanding.

I’m not keeping up with recommended water consumption.  I know, I suck, and I’m trying.  Too much liquid makes my stomach turn; too little and I feel nauseous.  Finding the sweet spot has been a challenge, but I’m still trying.

Either my swollen boobies have gotten less painful or I’ve gotten used to the pain, but not noticing the ginormous orbs of pain has been a nice change.  I do sleep in a loose sports bra or tank top with shelf bra.  (Save your not-quite-perfect-clothes, gals.  I’m loving the jeans with the weird loose waist, tank top with the stretched out midsection, and huge pajama pants with the oddly high waist band.)

I definitely have a rounder tummy, something I’ll admit I struggled to be okay with when I first noticed.  Much more noticeable after I’ve eaten, there’s a clear pot belly just below my belly button.

In other (minor) news, my mouth is constantly watering, my nose bleeds when I blow it, and I have constant nasal drip.  Go, hormones!

Soul:

Again, I’m settling into this whole pregnancy thing.  I spent some time searching through the archives of bloggers who have been pregnant, and sure enough, most of them found the first trimester rather miserable.  That helped, somehow.  And I am very lucky not to have been nailed by vomiting.  I have food aversion and low-level nausea, but nothing that’s sending me running for a trash can.

Next week we’ll tell our immediate families and I’m very excited.  Impatient, too.  I told my brother last week and it was really wonderful to have someone else to commiserate with, especially someone as awesome as he is.  We’re already talking about how to stay close when we’re geographically distant, something that’s been weighing on me for years.

Friday night we went to Babies R Us and it was surprisingly fun!  I get overwhelmed by the “stuff” part of baby-prepping, but my husband was very enthusiastic – more than I’d expected.  We tried out strollers (why is it that men go straight for the things-with-wheels?) and learned about car seats and tested gliders.  Oohhhhh, the gliders.  Our favorite were totally not my furniture style, but OH, so comfy.  My husband loves all things cutesy, I discovered – the quilt with the frog on the whale’s head (wtf?), the silly monkeys swinging from the trees, the sea creatures mobile.  I’m not so into the cutesy, preferring strong colors and crazy prints.

Have I mentioned that Joey’s convinced we’re having a girl?  He believes this is a karmic certainty, intended to make him pay for his teenage boy’s dirty thoughts, I guess.  If that was true, all men would have girls, right?  Regardless, it was funny to see him gravitate toward the pink stuff because in his mind, we are having a girl. I really don’t have a feeling either way.

Baby:

This kid now has feet and arms, a brain growing rapidly each day, and a body roughly 10,000 times the size (s)he was at conception.  10,000 times!  The third set of kidneys (the permanent ones) are getting ready to start practicing; the monster has eyelids and color in his/ her pupils.

Crazy!

While dozing the other morning, I was struck by a new (to me) thought: all the kicking and punching and moving babies do before they’re born is the only exercise they get before they have to help birth themselves and function out here in the real world.  Imagine trying to maintain — no, build! — muscle ability in a little tiny space like the womb?  Amazing.  It’s all incredibly amazing.

Knowing the why behind the what has been really helpful in getting through the discomfort.  The food aversion is a defensive tactic to make sure the monster isn’t exposed to anything harmful while the critical parts are forming.  The indigestion? I don’t know this for sure, but certainly eating more often and less at a time is good for maintaining blood sugar levels.

~~~

I think I’m getting used to the Pregnant Me, so I’m not disappointed to find I can’t eat the thing I’m thinking about or sad to remember I can’t do something.  It’s now expected.  I’ve stopped reading books about pregnancy or by pregnant women.  Perhaps later I’ll enjoy relating; for now, reading about nausea just makes me feel it more.  Adjusting to the Pregnant Me’s inability to really dig in and enjoy a meal has been embarrassingly difficult.  Clearly I orient my life around food, so finding I can only eat McD’s snack wraps or bean burritos has eliminated a whole thought topic (“What shall we eat today?”).

All in all, I think I’m over the how-will-I-ever-survive spiral of week six, and looking forward to week eight (when we tell our parents)!