Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to my Due Date (Part II)...
This is what I remember about the drive to the hospital:
Absolutely nothing.
I know that Sean drove. And I know that we got there relatively quickly, despite rush hour traffic. But that's about where my memory of the trip ends; clearly, my brain was still processing the morning's events at the time.
We pulled up at the Emergency entrance and double-parked next to the tiniest sign in the world that read "Emergency and Expectant Mother Drop-off Only." Sean walked me in the door and up to the admittance desk where a rather large woman took a pause from her flirting session with the security guard to ask how she could help us. I told her that we had come at the recommendation of my doctor to get checked out because we suspected my water had broken. Her eyes never left the computer screen as she asked for my name, date of birth and contact info; before I knew it, a hospital ID band was being slapped on my wrist and a nurse whisked a wheelchair underneath me. (I tried to protest the latter, as - despite the drippage - I felt completely capable of walking; apparently no one in the ER department shared this sentiment, as my protests went completely ignored.) Sean gave me a quick smooch, then left to move the car to the parking garage; he was to meet me up in Labor and Delivery triage after they assessed me.
The nurse commandeering my wheelchair attempted to make smalltalk as she pushed me through the labyrinth of Rush's halls and up the rickety elevators to the sixth floor. Once we reached the tiny waiting room, she wheeled me up to the desk, alerted the nurses who I was (Dr. Archie had apparently already called to let them know I was on the way,) and wished me good luck before heading back down the elevator. I waited quietly in the empty room for a few minutes before the triage door opened, and another nurse - Tinesha - beckoned me to come inside. She handed me a plastic bag and a hospital gown, and told me to take everything off and change into the gown; I could toss my clothes and shoes into the bag for now. *A Note on Modesty while in the hospital: You will see soon how quickly one's thoughts on the subject can change as the circumstances do as well.*
I padded my way back into the triage area once I was done, and followed Tinesha to a bed. She pulled the curtain closed around us and began her assessment, firing away with the usual questions (Is this your first pregnancy? How many weeks along are you? Any previous complications?.) She asked about why I had come in this morning while taking my temperature and blood pressure, and after I told her she asked if I still felt any leakage. I told her I did, but not as much as before (I was also laying down at this point, so it was hard to tell.) She finished charting all my responses, told me another nurse would be in shortly to perform an ultrasound to check my fluid levels and do an exam, and we would go from there. I nodded nervously, and she shot me a warm smile and said "Don't worry, sweetie!" and she disappeared back out of the curtain.
It felt like an eternity before anyone came back, though - in reality - it was only five or ten minutes. The next nurse, Joan, came in to greet me through the curtain, wheeling the sonogram machine in with her. We gave our introductions, I gave her the lowdown once prompted (Geez, doesn't anyone read a chart before they ask?,) and she prepped the wand with some warm gel before getting down to business. I knew the routine well: at 21 weeks, my doctor had discovered an anomaly in the baby's abdominal area and suspected some sort of cystic growth (we were initially told it was most likely an ovarian cyst.) We were sent to a specialist for further review, and had a series of ultrasounds throughout the pregnancy to monitor the cyst. In the beginning, I was inconsolable over the whole matter, and continuously freaked myself out over what I did to cause the cyst or what it would mean for the baby's health. With each ultrasound, however, we were assured that - other than the suspected cyst - the baby was perfectly healthy, and the issue would most likely resolve on its own. I also taught myself to chill out before each ultrasound (I had worked myself up so much in the beginning that, twice, I almost passed out during them!) and learned to view each visit as just another opportunity to get another glimpse at our little girl before her arrival.
As the nurse moved the wand over my stomach, I watched as the image of the little one appeared on the screen and listened as her strong heartbeat became clear. It was so funny to feel her kicks coincide with the visual image in front of me. Joan's eyes were glued to the monitor as she investigated every corner of my uterus. After a minute or two, I couldn't stand it any longer:
"How we looking?," I asked quietly.
"Well," she said, "Your fluid levels are actually looking pretty good. I would say, based on this, you're probably fine!"
Immediate relief flooded through my entire body.
"Of course," she reminded me, "We have to do a physical exam to confirm."
While Joan began my exam down below, Tineshia came back through the curtain to let me know Sean was in the waiting room area; once my exam was complete, she would bring him back. She also let me know that, since I hadn't yet been tested for Group Strep B (a test usually performed at 35 weeks and, coincidentally, would have been performed the following day during my appointment with Dr. Biester,) they would go ahead and take a sample during my exam. Just as she said this, I felt an enormous gush of warm liquid rush out of me and looked down to see Joan's raised eyebrows.
"I may have to take back my previous statement," she said, "because you were right: your water has definitely broken!"
Smiles flashed across both her and Tineshia's face. I tried to force one for show, but my returning anxiety made it impossible: I immediately began to express my fears over the baby's impending early arrival. Both women listened earnestly, then took turns to address me. Joan soothed me by using the sonogram she had just performed as an example; the baby's heartbeat was very strong, and she estimated the weight at around 5 1/2 lbs (which, she explained, is quite big for a premature baby.) Tineshia assured me that everything would be fine: at 2 days shy of 35 weeks, the baby was barely even considered premature and the NICU nurses would be present at the birth to address any issues immediately, should they arise. The confidence in the voices of these nurses brought the calm back that Sean had worked so hard to instill earlier that morning, and we would need it, too, because as he was ushered through the curtain by Tineshia, I could see that he was now the one riddled with anxiety.
"What's going on?!," he strained, "They wouldn't let me back here and I feel like I've been waiting forever!"
"Well,..." I took a deep breath, as my brain worked to process the reality of what I was about to say:
"It looks like we're going to have a baby today."
It took him a moment to register this, but I could tell the moment it did, as the biggest grin I'd ever seen broke out across his face.
"Seriously?," he said quietly.
"Seriously," I replied.
His joy became my joy, and the calm assurance the nurses provided finally gave me an excuse to just RELAX and enjoy the day's events, because - one way or another - this baby was going to be born. Any stress or lingering worry would only work to turn what should be the happiest day of our lives into a nightmare; and, even though I would have never anticipated what we were about to go through just 24 hours earlier, I knew that I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Tineshia let us know we'd soon be moving out of triage into a transition room; there, Dr. Archie would meet up with us to discuss the plan for getting the Beast out safe and sound.
And off we went...
Absolutely nothing.
I know that Sean drove. And I know that we got there relatively quickly, despite rush hour traffic. But that's about where my memory of the trip ends; clearly, my brain was still processing the morning's events at the time.
We pulled up at the Emergency entrance and double-parked next to the tiniest sign in the world that read "Emergency and Expectant Mother Drop-off Only." Sean walked me in the door and up to the admittance desk where a rather large woman took a pause from her flirting session with the security guard to ask how she could help us. I told her that we had come at the recommendation of my doctor to get checked out because we suspected my water had broken. Her eyes never left the computer screen as she asked for my name, date of birth and contact info; before I knew it, a hospital ID band was being slapped on my wrist and a nurse whisked a wheelchair underneath me. (I tried to protest the latter, as - despite the drippage - I felt completely capable of walking; apparently no one in the ER department shared this sentiment, as my protests went completely ignored.) Sean gave me a quick smooch, then left to move the car to the parking garage; he was to meet me up in Labor and Delivery triage after they assessed me.
The nurse commandeering my wheelchair attempted to make smalltalk as she pushed me through the labyrinth of Rush's halls and up the rickety elevators to the sixth floor. Once we reached the tiny waiting room, she wheeled me up to the desk, alerted the nurses who I was (Dr. Archie had apparently already called to let them know I was on the way,) and wished me good luck before heading back down the elevator. I waited quietly in the empty room for a few minutes before the triage door opened, and another nurse - Tinesha - beckoned me to come inside. She handed me a plastic bag and a hospital gown, and told me to take everything off and change into the gown; I could toss my clothes and shoes into the bag for now. *A Note on Modesty while in the hospital: You will see soon how quickly one's thoughts on the subject can change as the circumstances do as well.*
I padded my way back into the triage area once I was done, and followed Tinesha to a bed. She pulled the curtain closed around us and began her assessment, firing away with the usual questions (Is this your first pregnancy? How many weeks along are you? Any previous complications?.) She asked about why I had come in this morning while taking my temperature and blood pressure, and after I told her she asked if I still felt any leakage. I told her I did, but not as much as before (I was also laying down at this point, so it was hard to tell.) She finished charting all my responses, told me another nurse would be in shortly to perform an ultrasound to check my fluid levels and do an exam, and we would go from there. I nodded nervously, and she shot me a warm smile and said "Don't worry, sweetie!" and she disappeared back out of the curtain.
It felt like an eternity before anyone came back, though - in reality - it was only five or ten minutes. The next nurse, Joan, came in to greet me through the curtain, wheeling the sonogram machine in with her. We gave our introductions, I gave her the lowdown once prompted (Geez, doesn't anyone read a chart before they ask?,) and she prepped the wand with some warm gel before getting down to business. I knew the routine well: at 21 weeks, my doctor had discovered an anomaly in the baby's abdominal area and suspected some sort of cystic growth (we were initially told it was most likely an ovarian cyst.) We were sent to a specialist for further review, and had a series of ultrasounds throughout the pregnancy to monitor the cyst. In the beginning, I was inconsolable over the whole matter, and continuously freaked myself out over what I did to cause the cyst or what it would mean for the baby's health. With each ultrasound, however, we were assured that - other than the suspected cyst - the baby was perfectly healthy, and the issue would most likely resolve on its own. I also taught myself to chill out before each ultrasound (I had worked myself up so much in the beginning that, twice, I almost passed out during them!) and learned to view each visit as just another opportunity to get another glimpse at our little girl before her arrival.
As the nurse moved the wand over my stomach, I watched as the image of the little one appeared on the screen and listened as her strong heartbeat became clear. It was so funny to feel her kicks coincide with the visual image in front of me. Joan's eyes were glued to the monitor as she investigated every corner of my uterus. After a minute or two, I couldn't stand it any longer:
"How we looking?," I asked quietly.
"Well," she said, "Your fluid levels are actually looking pretty good. I would say, based on this, you're probably fine!"
Immediate relief flooded through my entire body.
"Of course," she reminded me, "We have to do a physical exam to confirm."
While Joan began my exam down below, Tineshia came back through the curtain to let me know Sean was in the waiting room area; once my exam was complete, she would bring him back. She also let me know that, since I hadn't yet been tested for Group Strep B (a test usually performed at 35 weeks and, coincidentally, would have been performed the following day during my appointment with Dr. Biester,) they would go ahead and take a sample during my exam. Just as she said this, I felt an enormous gush of warm liquid rush out of me and looked down to see Joan's raised eyebrows.
"I may have to take back my previous statement," she said, "because you were right: your water has definitely broken!"
Smiles flashed across both her and Tineshia's face. I tried to force one for show, but my returning anxiety made it impossible: I immediately began to express my fears over the baby's impending early arrival. Both women listened earnestly, then took turns to address me. Joan soothed me by using the sonogram she had just performed as an example; the baby's heartbeat was very strong, and she estimated the weight at around 5 1/2 lbs (which, she explained, is quite big for a premature baby.) Tineshia assured me that everything would be fine: at 2 days shy of 35 weeks, the baby was barely even considered premature and the NICU nurses would be present at the birth to address any issues immediately, should they arise. The confidence in the voices of these nurses brought the calm back that Sean had worked so hard to instill earlier that morning, and we would need it, too, because as he was ushered through the curtain by Tineshia, I could see that he was now the one riddled with anxiety.
"What's going on?!," he strained, "They wouldn't let me back here and I feel like I've been waiting forever!"
"Well,..." I took a deep breath, as my brain worked to process the reality of what I was about to say:
"It looks like we're going to have a baby today."
It took him a moment to register this, but I could tell the moment it did, as the biggest grin I'd ever seen broke out across his face.
"Seriously?," he said quietly.
"Seriously," I replied.
His joy became my joy, and the calm assurance the nurses provided finally gave me an excuse to just RELAX and enjoy the day's events, because - one way or another - this baby was going to be born. Any stress or lingering worry would only work to turn what should be the happiest day of our lives into a nightmare; and, even though I would have never anticipated what we were about to go through just 24 hours earlier, I knew that I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Tineshia let us know we'd soon be moving out of triage into a transition room; there, Dr. Archie would meet up with us to discuss the plan for getting the Beast out safe and sound.
And off we went...
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to my Due Date (Part I)...
I remember waking up that Wednesday morning for the obligatory 4 am potty break and uneventfully making the trek down the hall to the bathroom and back to the bedroom. I always hated this one, because it meant I only had 2.5 more hours of sleep before the alarm would go off, and I would have to get up, get ready and drag Sean out of bed before we piled into Freddie Mercury (my lovable '94 Toyota Corolla) and head through Chicago rush hour traffic into the loop for work.
The alarm never had a chance to go off. I woke up again at 6 am, aware that something wasn't right. I heaved myself out of bed (as most pregnant women do in the third trimester) and padded back down the hall. I checked my pantyliner (I had been wearing them pretty much the whole pregnancy, thanks to an increase in vaginal discharge that NO ONE seems to tell you about until you ask) and found it was soaked through to the underwear. Now, the Beast had been using my bladder as a comfy pillow of late; more than once in the previous weeks had I inadvertently peed my pants when she decided to fluff it up and settle in for a nap. But this was different: I felt no pressure on my bladder, and (yes this is gross, I know) it didn't smell like pee. The liquid was clear and had a sickly-sweet smell to it, and it continued to slowly drip down my legs even after a clean-up session. This is about the time when I started to piece things together.
I hobbled back down the hall to the bedroom and began the attempt to rouse Sean from his snore-laced bliss. Eventually he came to, and I expressed to him that something wasn't right and I needed his help to figure out what to do. I think he could sense the slight panic in my tone, because he was out of bed faster than he had ever been and immediately at the computer, searching "broken bag of waters." We followed some information that instructed us to change the pantyliner and lay down for 15-20 minutes; if, when I stood up, liquid continued to drip, we were to call the Doc for further instructions.
As we both laid down again, my mind took off and left me no chance to even attempt to follow it. A thousand thoughts raced neck-and neck:
She's way too early. The nursery isn't ready. The crib isn't put together. I don't have a hospital bag. We haven't had a chance to practice relaxation techniques. I need more time to do my Kegels. I haven't shaved my legs this week. We haven't gotten to make our belly cast. The apartment is a WRECK, and I haven't had a chance to grocery shop yet! The laundryZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Sean's snore cut through my thoughts, and brought me back to reality: A reality in which I was now in an all-out panicked pregnant lady hysteria:
"Sean," I called softly. He answered with another wave of snores.
"Sean," a little louder.
Nothing.
"Sean, I love you, but if you sleep through this, I will fucking murder you."
His eyes fluttered open, and he asked me what I needed him to do. I explained that I could feel myself starting to lose control and all I needed was for him to hold my hand and see me through the next few minutes until we would stand up, and figure out where to go from there. His hand found mine and we waited.
When I stood up, I felt the trickle of liquid before I saw it. Damn. We called my OBGYN office and got connected to Dr. Archie, the Doc on call. I had only previously had my visits with Dr. Biester, a rad female OBGYN at the Partners in Women's Health Practice: we shared a love of handmade jewelry and telling it like it is. I had yet to start going to the office for my weekly check-ups; this was when Dr. Biester said I would get the chance to meet the other doctors in the practice (there were 3 others - one other female, 2 males) in case she was not on call when I went into labor. All I knew of Dr. Archie was that he was in his 70s, what Biester described as "old school," and totally NOT who I wanted to be talking to about what was gushing from my vagina at 6:30 in the morning.
Both Sean and I traded off the phone and gave him the play-by-play of that morning's activities. He asked some specific questions about what was going on down below, and if I was feeling any contractions (Nope.) Then he asked how far along I was.
"Almost 35 weeks."
Silence. More silence. An ETERNITY of silence.
"Why don't you both head down to the hospital and we'll go ahead and check you out and see what's going on, okay?," he said. He gave instructions to come through the ER, since it was just before the main hospital entrance opened for the day, and told us to go straight to triage. He would call the nurses to let them know we were on our way and they would update him once I was examined.
The call ended, and I looked up into Sean's worried face. I relayed to him Dr. Archie's instructions. He took a breath, nodded his head, and told me he would start getting a bag together. I acknowledged this, but my mind had already started racing again. Oh no. The panic: I couldn't control it. I couldn't control what was happening. The control freak that I was hit a brick wall of realization that I no longer had any semblance of control over ANYTHING that was happening this morning.
I marched into the bedroom to find Sean, Tazmanian Devil-style, throwing random items in a suitcase. I calmly instructed him to stop packing. He looked up at me, but continued to sort and stow items:
"What?"
"STOP. PACKING."
And that's when the breakdown occurred.
All the thoughts and fears that had been swimming around in my noggin since I felt the first trickle run down my leg that morning somehow made their way out of my mouth. I choked them out to Sean through my sobs, and he just listened and held me. When I finished, he told me that he knew everything I was going through, because he was going through it, too. He was scared; he was anxious; he also felt unprepared. But then he told me something that would stick with me the rest of the day - something I would continuously return to for comfort:
Our life with this child was going to be full of moments just like these, where we felt totally blindsided, powerless and out of control. That's the thing about being a parent, and if we couldn't start accepting that now, then we were majorly, majorly screwed. Something clicked then, and I realized I could either fight what was happening to me (as if I even had a chance of "winning") or I could just let go.
Right.
We fed the kitties, got dressed, grabbed our phones, and headed to the hospital - placing calls to our respective workplaces on our way out to let them know of the possibility that we may be *slightly* late coming in that morning.
To Be Continued...
The alarm never had a chance to go off. I woke up again at 6 am, aware that something wasn't right. I heaved myself out of bed (as most pregnant women do in the third trimester) and padded back down the hall. I checked my pantyliner (I had been wearing them pretty much the whole pregnancy, thanks to an increase in vaginal discharge that NO ONE seems to tell you about until you ask) and found it was soaked through to the underwear. Now, the Beast had been using my bladder as a comfy pillow of late; more than once in the previous weeks had I inadvertently peed my pants when she decided to fluff it up and settle in for a nap. But this was different: I felt no pressure on my bladder, and (yes this is gross, I know) it didn't smell like pee. The liquid was clear and had a sickly-sweet smell to it, and it continued to slowly drip down my legs even after a clean-up session. This is about the time when I started to piece things together.
I hobbled back down the hall to the bedroom and began the attempt to rouse Sean from his snore-laced bliss. Eventually he came to, and I expressed to him that something wasn't right and I needed his help to figure out what to do. I think he could sense the slight panic in my tone, because he was out of bed faster than he had ever been and immediately at the computer, searching "broken bag of waters." We followed some information that instructed us to change the pantyliner and lay down for 15-20 minutes; if, when I stood up, liquid continued to drip, we were to call the Doc for further instructions.
As we both laid down again, my mind took off and left me no chance to even attempt to follow it. A thousand thoughts raced neck-and neck:
She's way too early. The nursery isn't ready. The crib isn't put together. I don't have a hospital bag. We haven't had a chance to practice relaxation techniques. I need more time to do my Kegels. I haven't shaved my legs this week. We haven't gotten to make our belly cast. The apartment is a WRECK, and I haven't had a chance to grocery shop yet! The laundryZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Sean's snore cut through my thoughts, and brought me back to reality: A reality in which I was now in an all-out panicked pregnant lady hysteria:
"Sean," I called softly. He answered with another wave of snores.
"Sean," a little louder.
Nothing.
"Sean, I love you, but if you sleep through this, I will fucking murder you."
His eyes fluttered open, and he asked me what I needed him to do. I explained that I could feel myself starting to lose control and all I needed was for him to hold my hand and see me through the next few minutes until we would stand up, and figure out where to go from there. His hand found mine and we waited.
When I stood up, I felt the trickle of liquid before I saw it. Damn. We called my OBGYN office and got connected to Dr. Archie, the Doc on call. I had only previously had my visits with Dr. Biester, a rad female OBGYN at the Partners in Women's Health Practice: we shared a love of handmade jewelry and telling it like it is. I had yet to start going to the office for my weekly check-ups; this was when Dr. Biester said I would get the chance to meet the other doctors in the practice (there were 3 others - one other female, 2 males) in case she was not on call when I went into labor. All I knew of Dr. Archie was that he was in his 70s, what Biester described as "old school," and totally NOT who I wanted to be talking to about what was gushing from my vagina at 6:30 in the morning.
Both Sean and I traded off the phone and gave him the play-by-play of that morning's activities. He asked some specific questions about what was going on down below, and if I was feeling any contractions (Nope.) Then he asked how far along I was.
"Almost 35 weeks."
Silence. More silence. An ETERNITY of silence.
"Why don't you both head down to the hospital and we'll go ahead and check you out and see what's going on, okay?," he said. He gave instructions to come through the ER, since it was just before the main hospital entrance opened for the day, and told us to go straight to triage. He would call the nurses to let them know we were on our way and they would update him once I was examined.
The call ended, and I looked up into Sean's worried face. I relayed to him Dr. Archie's instructions. He took a breath, nodded his head, and told me he would start getting a bag together. I acknowledged this, but my mind had already started racing again. Oh no. The panic: I couldn't control it. I couldn't control what was happening. The control freak that I was hit a brick wall of realization that I no longer had any semblance of control over ANYTHING that was happening this morning.
I marched into the bedroom to find Sean, Tazmanian Devil-style, throwing random items in a suitcase. I calmly instructed him to stop packing. He looked up at me, but continued to sort and stow items:
"What?"
"STOP. PACKING."
And that's when the breakdown occurred.
All the thoughts and fears that had been swimming around in my noggin since I felt the first trickle run down my leg that morning somehow made their way out of my mouth. I choked them out to Sean through my sobs, and he just listened and held me. When I finished, he told me that he knew everything I was going through, because he was going through it, too. He was scared; he was anxious; he also felt unprepared. But then he told me something that would stick with me the rest of the day - something I would continuously return to for comfort:
Our life with this child was going to be full of moments just like these, where we felt totally blindsided, powerless and out of control. That's the thing about being a parent, and if we couldn't start accepting that now, then we were majorly, majorly screwed. Something clicked then, and I realized I could either fight what was happening to me (as if I even had a chance of "winning") or I could just let go.
Right.
We fed the kitties, got dressed, grabbed our phones, and headed to the hospital - placing calls to our respective workplaces on our way out to let them know of the possibility that we may be *slightly* late coming in that morning.
To Be Continued...
Friday, August 27, 2010
32 weeks.
Sometimes, no matter how much support I get from those around me-
Or how often I visit other blogs and websites to gain comfort in the stories of all those other awesome mamas and mamas-to-be out there-
Or whatever the Boy does for me-
Or how desperately I attempt to cram every bit of information in my noggin from every baby book every written-
Sometimes...
I still feel scared shitless in what I'm going through.
And so utterly alone.
Or how often I visit other blogs and websites to gain comfort in the stories of all those other awesome mamas and mamas-to-be out there-
Or whatever the Boy does for me-
Or how desperately I attempt to cram every bit of information in my noggin from every baby book every written-
Sometimes...
I still feel scared shitless in what I'm going through.
And so utterly alone.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Back in the saddle again...
Holy crap. It's been *quite* a while since my last entry. I won't even attempt to churn out any "catch-up" entries, mostly because my brain can't even process all the details of everything that's happened these past few months. What I will do is give a quick run-down of all the important stuff I can remember happening since last we blogged:
With the help of both our families, as well as our friends Mikey and Nicole, we completed our big move to Oak Park. **We would not have been able to do this on our own, and will never be able to thank everyone enough for all the support we were shown just by everyone's involvement on that day!** It was particularly frustrating for me, not being able to exert myself to the level I wanted to by lifting and hauling the same amount as everyone else, but by the end of the day my exhaustion level was pretty on par with the rest of the crowd. Now that I think of it, I think I've blocked out a majority of that experience because, oh, did I mention?: I HATE MOVING.
Now that we're here, however, I have a confession: I have a HUGE crush. On my neighborhood.
How did I never experience Oak Park prior to moving here? It's the *perfect* marriage of urban and suburban: 15 min max to the Loop via 290, with the Green and Blue lines (practically) at our doorstep. AMAZING Farmer's Market within walking distance every Saturday; plenty of other lil' shops and eateries to explore the rest of the week. Library (walking distance.) Movie theatre (walking distance.) The Ernest Hemingway museum and Frank Lloyd Wright home/studio at our disposal. I mean, is there anything this neighborhood DOESN'T do? Side note: I'm a step away from booking a reservation at the Sushi house on Lake for after I pop the Beast out. Chef: "More volcano roll and sake for the new mommy?" Me: "Uh, duh."
Speaking of the Beast...
She is definitely living up to her namesake these days, as the little nudges and pokes from inside have swiftly morphed into right jabs and roundhouse kicks. Yesterday at work, I got a punch to the left lung that - literally - knocked the wind out of me. I think she's trying to tell me it's getting crowded in there, and I can't blame her: despite what I know to be inevitable, I can't imagine getting any bigger than I am now.
And yes, to address the gender-specific pronouns: shortly after the move, we had our 21 week ultrasound and were told at that time that it's a girl! I must admit, my initial reaction was "are you sure? can we double-check?" - mostly because I had felt so strongly that the little one must have been a boy: I had dreams early on in the pregnancy of a little boy who looked just like my handsome fiancee, and thought my intuition was giving me some insight. I now believe, however, that the perceived "intuition" I felt was merely another emotion I felt at the possibility of not carrying a boy: fear.
I'm not what one might consider "girly." Most of my friends consist of males rather than females. I consider myself a feminist: not in the manner most people perceive of the man-hating, bra-burning chick; I just do not endorse the expectations of my gender that are blasted from every corner of our mainstream media culture, and believe we - as women - should always strive to break through them, celebrating our own when we do (Three women on the Supreme Court for the first time in history? Hello?) All that aside, I was and am terrified of bringing another set of ovaries into this world. I'm worried of her being subjected to those same culture expectations that are thrust on every other female in our country/the world. I'm worried that I will be too critical of her her choices, whether they be mainstream or otherwise. I'm worried that since I don't fall into the category of "girly" or "uber-female," I won't know how to raise her "the right way."
I know, in the end, it all works out. These are just petty anxieties that have chosen to replace the other petty anxieties that my brain has already quieted. I'm sure when she finally comes, all those concerns will be the last of my worries (I hope, at least.)
Next on the pregnancy horizon: Baby Showers. We're heading back home to KY Labor Day weekend for Shower #1, and shortly after will have Keller-sponsored shower #2. I never imagined baby registries to be so overwhelming, but damn...they are. For those of my peeps that are newly-babied: what are some of the items that you would recommend putting on a registry? It can be an unexpected item you now can't imagine doing without, or an item/product you found after the baby came that you wish you would've discovered earlier. Since there's really an abundance of useless crap marketed toward new mothers, I'm trying to weed out all the bunk and just get to the good stuff that I'll actually need/use ;-)
With the help of both our families, as well as our friends Mikey and Nicole, we completed our big move to Oak Park. **We would not have been able to do this on our own, and will never be able to thank everyone enough for all the support we were shown just by everyone's involvement on that day!** It was particularly frustrating for me, not being able to exert myself to the level I wanted to by lifting and hauling the same amount as everyone else, but by the end of the day my exhaustion level was pretty on par with the rest of the crowd. Now that I think of it, I think I've blocked out a majority of that experience because, oh, did I mention?: I HATE MOVING.
Now that we're here, however, I have a confession: I have a HUGE crush. On my neighborhood.
How did I never experience Oak Park prior to moving here? It's the *perfect* marriage of urban and suburban: 15 min max to the Loop via 290, with the Green and Blue lines (practically) at our doorstep. AMAZING Farmer's Market within walking distance every Saturday; plenty of other lil' shops and eateries to explore the rest of the week. Library (walking distance.) Movie theatre (walking distance.) The Ernest Hemingway museum and Frank Lloyd Wright home/studio at our disposal. I mean, is there anything this neighborhood DOESN'T do? Side note: I'm a step away from booking a reservation at the Sushi house on Lake for after I pop the Beast out. Chef: "More volcano roll and sake for the new mommy?" Me: "Uh, duh."
Speaking of the Beast...
She is definitely living up to her namesake these days, as the little nudges and pokes from inside have swiftly morphed into right jabs and roundhouse kicks. Yesterday at work, I got a punch to the left lung that - literally - knocked the wind out of me. I think she's trying to tell me it's getting crowded in there, and I can't blame her: despite what I know to be inevitable, I can't imagine getting any bigger than I am now.
And yes, to address the gender-specific pronouns: shortly after the move, we had our 21 week ultrasound and were told at that time that it's a girl! I must admit, my initial reaction was "are you sure? can we double-check?" - mostly because I had felt so strongly that the little one must have been a boy: I had dreams early on in the pregnancy of a little boy who looked just like my handsome fiancee, and thought my intuition was giving me some insight. I now believe, however, that the perceived "intuition" I felt was merely another emotion I felt at the possibility of not carrying a boy: fear.
I'm not what one might consider "girly." Most of my friends consist of males rather than females. I consider myself a feminist: not in the manner most people perceive of the man-hating, bra-burning chick; I just do not endorse the expectations of my gender that are blasted from every corner of our mainstream media culture, and believe we - as women - should always strive to break through them, celebrating our own when we do (Three women on the Supreme Court for the first time in history? Hello?) All that aside, I was and am terrified of bringing another set of ovaries into this world. I'm worried of her being subjected to those same culture expectations that are thrust on every other female in our country/the world. I'm worried that I will be too critical of her her choices, whether they be mainstream or otherwise. I'm worried that since I don't fall into the category of "girly" or "uber-female," I won't know how to raise her "the right way."
I know, in the end, it all works out. These are just petty anxieties that have chosen to replace the other petty anxieties that my brain has already quieted. I'm sure when she finally comes, all those concerns will be the last of my worries (I hope, at least.)
Next on the pregnancy horizon: Baby Showers. We're heading back home to KY Labor Day weekend for Shower #1, and shortly after will have Keller-sponsored shower #2. I never imagined baby registries to be so overwhelming, but damn...they are. For those of my peeps that are newly-babied: what are some of the items that you would recommend putting on a registry? It can be an unexpected item you now can't imagine doing without, or an item/product you found after the baby came that you wish you would've discovered earlier. Since there's really an abundance of useless crap marketed toward new mothers, I'm trying to weed out all the bunk and just get to the good stuff that I'll actually need/use ;-)
Friday, May 28, 2010
Why, yes we are.
If you are pregnant, or ever have been pregnant, and do not find this hilarious...I feel sorry for you.
Anywhere I lay my head I'm gonna call my home...
This time next week, we'll finally have made the big move to our new place in Oak Park. It's been a huge point of anxiety and stress for me ever since we were approved for the place, and began hammering out time lines for when we would be there. Because of the huge chunk o' cash needed for the first month's rent PLUS security deposit (1 1/2 mos rent ... ay dios mio!,) it was concerning at first that we'd be able to make our...er, my deadline of June 1st (*I'm having a really hard time accepting the whole 'can't lift this/that' and 'taking it easy' stuff, and want to be able to contribute as much as I can, while I can.) BUT, we got a budget together and a plan and I've been really pleased with how everything has come together to make it all happen. Kudos to us, and for those of our family and friends who are providing more support and help than we could've hoped for.
The place? Awesome. I think we both knew as soon as we walked in and peeked around it was where we wanted to be. SO much friggin' space for the kitties to roam around in, and I about pooped my pants when I spied the jumbo-sized kitchen with counterspacegalore, and a vintage butcher's block built in to the wall (SQUEE!) The neighborhood is ridiculously charming, and nearly everything (and I mean everything: library, movie theater, restaurants, farmer's market, metra AND cta,) is within a stone's throw from the apartment. Oh yeah, and there's a Five Guys down the block, too. Score one for the Beast :-)
As much as I'm anticipating being in our new place, tonight - as I continue the arduous task of packing up my little life in flimsy cardboard boxes - I can't help but start to feel slightly nostalgic about leaving this old place. I've been at the same address for almost as long as I've lived in the city, give a year. It's been my haven and my sanctuary, and first "permanent" address since...well, ever.
As the young child of a divorced family, I was constantly shuttled between residencies: weekdays with Mom, weekends with Dad. Some nights I would spend with grandparents, while Mom (or Dad) worked the night shift. As I got older, things changed...but not really: I got a little more say over my "this house/that house" schedule, but the older I got, the more crap I had to lug around - I always felt as if I was living out of a suitcase. Hell, most of the time I actually was. College came, and I was thrilled to finally have all my shit in one place. But with every year came a new dorm, or a new apartment, and EVERY summer I found myself where I find myself tonight: among a tower of cardboard boxes, armed to the teeth with packing tape and a Sharpie. So I'm beginning to understand exactly why I never bothered to move the last few years, and why this move is causing me to lash out irrationally at Sean when he (what I perceive to be) carelessly removes the magnetic poetry from the side of the dishwasher.
This was THE first place that was truly MY place. A home of my own creation. And just as I'm finally in that comfy zone, I'm find myself abandoning it to move to new place that will never, ever be just my place. It will be ours. (Then later this year...ours + 1.) And that's exciting, yes...but terrifying, too.
I wonder if having this kid will ever make me NOT feel sometimes like such a scared, helpless little kid myself.
The place? Awesome. I think we both knew as soon as we walked in and peeked around it was where we wanted to be. SO much friggin' space for the kitties to roam around in, and I about pooped my pants when I spied the jumbo-sized kitchen with counterspacegalore, and a vintage butcher's block built in to the wall (SQUEE!) The neighborhood is ridiculously charming, and nearly everything (and I mean everything: library, movie theater, restaurants, farmer's market, metra AND cta,) is within a stone's throw from the apartment. Oh yeah, and there's a Five Guys down the block, too. Score one for the Beast :-)
As much as I'm anticipating being in our new place, tonight - as I continue the arduous task of packing up my little life in flimsy cardboard boxes - I can't help but start to feel slightly nostalgic about leaving this old place. I've been at the same address for almost as long as I've lived in the city, give a year. It's been my haven and my sanctuary, and first "permanent" address since...well, ever.
As the young child of a divorced family, I was constantly shuttled between residencies: weekdays with Mom, weekends with Dad. Some nights I would spend with grandparents, while Mom (or Dad) worked the night shift. As I got older, things changed...but not really: I got a little more say over my "this house/that house" schedule, but the older I got, the more crap I had to lug around - I always felt as if I was living out of a suitcase. Hell, most of the time I actually was. College came, and I was thrilled to finally have all my shit in one place. But with every year came a new dorm, or a new apartment, and EVERY summer I found myself where I find myself tonight: among a tower of cardboard boxes, armed to the teeth with packing tape and a Sharpie. So I'm beginning to understand exactly why I never bothered to move the last few years, and why this move is causing me to lash out irrationally at Sean when he (what I perceive to be) carelessly removes the magnetic poetry from the side of the dishwasher.
This was THE first place that was truly MY place. A home of my own creation. And just as I'm finally in that comfy zone, I'm find myself abandoning it to move to new place that will never, ever be just my place. It will be ours. (Then later this year...ours + 1.) And that's exciting, yes...but terrifying, too.
I wonder if having this kid will ever make me NOT feel sometimes like such a scared, helpless little kid myself.
Monday, May 17, 2010
(Possible) Contact
So there we are, sitting on the couch when Jess lets out an, “Oh.” Concerned, I ask her what’s wrong. She indicates her tummy and my Dad-alarms go off. I perk up as if I’d be able to dive in there and assist should anything actually be wrong. I place my hand on her tummy and rest it there for a moment.
Woah. I definitely felt something. To be sure, I mute the television (because, you know, that helps me FEEL things…). There it is again! It’s a huge surprise to me and I react accordingly. I mean, sure I know there’s a baby in there…but to feel it for the first time is totally different. It’s confirmation that there really IS something in there.
I let out a yell and bicycle my legs for a second. It was a mixture of giddy and terrified. Movement is a great sign (the doctor said so), but it’s SO FREAKING WEIRD. Seriously. There is a…THING in there. AND IT’S MOVING.
Next thing I know, Jess is up and running toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she emerges and says, “Well, it’s possible that could have just been gas.” We laugh.
Tell you what, even if that WAS just gas…it was still a wonderful reality-check. There’s going to be a time in the near future when I can actually see the imprint of a foot on her belly, so this should be nothing, right? Well, it was something all right. It was (possibly) the first time I’ve made contact with our child.
It’s just one world-changing moment after another. First there was the, “I’m pregnant.” Then there was the first heartbeat. The first ultrasound. The first trip to Babies-R-Us. And now, first movement. Each time I thought, “This can’t possibly get any more real.” It’s crazy to think that my entire life is going to be full of those moments. It’s scary, but REALLY exciting.
And now for something completely different.
I’d like to address the well documented “Second trimester blonde moments.” Jessica is THE most “on top of it” person I’ve ever met. She ALWAYS has her shit in order, and I love her to death for it. The list making, the reminders, the coupon cutting…she is VERY rarely unprepared or off base about anything. Still, there have been far more moments than usual where I’ve had to question her sanity. Anyone who knows me understands that I have an absolutely terrible memory. That being said, Jess’ memory has been worse than mine at times. I’ll remind her of something she said (or didn’t say) a mere hour ago, and she’ll deny it completely. I know she’s not lying about it, but hearing how adamant she is to the contrary makes me question MY OWN sanity.
Given the amount of hormones that are coursing through her body at this time, I find the best recourse is to agree with her 100%, no matter what. “You’re NOT holding an ice cream cone right now, honey? I believe you.” And so on.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my own behavioral issues lately. For some reason (can’t imagine what) I’ve been considerably more protective of her. Crossing a parking lot together, I’m scanning the area like a hawk. Driving down the highway, I’m estimating the other cars’ trajectories, ready to grab the wheel and perform evasive maneuvers. This may not SOUND like a big deal, but there are moments where I’m sure I overdo it a bit.
One such moment occurred yesterday while we were out running errands. A terrible Chicago driver (read: Chicago driver) honked at us as we were parallel parking. Seeing as we’d had our turn signal on for a good minute before we stopped, this shouldn’t have surprised the guy one bit. As this honk-happy prick drives by us, Jessica leans out the window and, to put it delicately, lets him know what she thinks of him. Now, this sort of thing isn’t abnormal. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It probably shouldn’t have mattered to me, but this time it did…
See, in MY head, this guy was going to stop his car, get out a massive flamethrower, and dispose of my new family. So what did I do? Well, I did what any other intelligent person would have done in my situation. I turned to my already seething pregnant fiancé and told her to knock it off.
Uh-oh.
So there’s a very fine line to tow. I don’t want either of my babies (Jess & the Beast – not twins, settle down) to be in harm’s way. I don’t want there to be even one spark for a potentially risky situation, and a dangerous one at that. At the same time, the absolute LAST thing I should do is further aggravate a very beautiful and understanding explosion of hormones with a snide comment. So…lesson learned. Does the road-rage upset me? Yeah. Do I think it’s unnecessary? Yeah. Even so, next time that happens I’m going to have both middle fingers fully extended and the filthiest thing I can muster up spewing from my mouth at this extremely unfortunate yet-to-be-determined stranger.
I mean…better him than me, right?
Woah. I definitely felt something. To be sure, I mute the television (because, you know, that helps me FEEL things…). There it is again! It’s a huge surprise to me and I react accordingly. I mean, sure I know there’s a baby in there…but to feel it for the first time is totally different. It’s confirmation that there really IS something in there.
I let out a yell and bicycle my legs for a second. It was a mixture of giddy and terrified. Movement is a great sign (the doctor said so), but it’s SO FREAKING WEIRD. Seriously. There is a…THING in there. AND IT’S MOVING.
Next thing I know, Jess is up and running toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she emerges and says, “Well, it’s possible that could have just been gas.” We laugh.
Tell you what, even if that WAS just gas…it was still a wonderful reality-check. There’s going to be a time in the near future when I can actually see the imprint of a foot on her belly, so this should be nothing, right? Well, it was something all right. It was (possibly) the first time I’ve made contact with our child.
It’s just one world-changing moment after another. First there was the, “I’m pregnant.” Then there was the first heartbeat. The first ultrasound. The first trip to Babies-R-Us. And now, first movement. Each time I thought, “This can’t possibly get any more real.” It’s crazy to think that my entire life is going to be full of those moments. It’s scary, but REALLY exciting.
And now for something completely different.
I’d like to address the well documented “Second trimester blonde moments.” Jessica is THE most “on top of it” person I’ve ever met. She ALWAYS has her shit in order, and I love her to death for it. The list making, the reminders, the coupon cutting…she is VERY rarely unprepared or off base about anything. Still, there have been far more moments than usual where I’ve had to question her sanity. Anyone who knows me understands that I have an absolutely terrible memory. That being said, Jess’ memory has been worse than mine at times. I’ll remind her of something she said (or didn’t say) a mere hour ago, and she’ll deny it completely. I know she’s not lying about it, but hearing how adamant she is to the contrary makes me question MY OWN sanity.
Given the amount of hormones that are coursing through her body at this time, I find the best recourse is to agree with her 100%, no matter what. “You’re NOT holding an ice cream cone right now, honey? I believe you.” And so on.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my own behavioral issues lately. For some reason (can’t imagine what) I’ve been considerably more protective of her. Crossing a parking lot together, I’m scanning the area like a hawk. Driving down the highway, I’m estimating the other cars’ trajectories, ready to grab the wheel and perform evasive maneuvers. This may not SOUND like a big deal, but there are moments where I’m sure I overdo it a bit.
One such moment occurred yesterday while we were out running errands. A terrible Chicago driver (read: Chicago driver) honked at us as we were parallel parking. Seeing as we’d had our turn signal on for a good minute before we stopped, this shouldn’t have surprised the guy one bit. As this honk-happy prick drives by us, Jessica leans out the window and, to put it delicately, lets him know what she thinks of him. Now, this sort of thing isn’t abnormal. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It probably shouldn’t have mattered to me, but this time it did…
See, in MY head, this guy was going to stop his car, get out a massive flamethrower, and dispose of my new family. So what did I do? Well, I did what any other intelligent person would have done in my situation. I turned to my already seething pregnant fiancé and told her to knock it off.
Uh-oh.
So there’s a very fine line to tow. I don’t want either of my babies (Jess & the Beast – not twins, settle down) to be in harm’s way. I don’t want there to be even one spark for a potentially risky situation, and a dangerous one at that. At the same time, the absolute LAST thing I should do is further aggravate a very beautiful and understanding explosion of hormones with a snide comment. So…lesson learned. Does the road-rage upset me? Yeah. Do I think it’s unnecessary? Yeah. Even so, next time that happens I’m going to have both middle fingers fully extended and the filthiest thing I can muster up spewing from my mouth at this extremely unfortunate yet-to-be-determined stranger.
I mean…better him than me, right?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A Beast by any other Name...
So.....
There's been a bit of a buzz lately about our chosen nickname for the lil' one. From more than a few individuals. Their reactions range from the slightly annoyed to the extremely offended, but the general consensus is the choice terminology for our unborn child is quite the inappropriate one.
When the opinions of said individuals began to trickle in, I did what any other hormonally-charged impregnated female would do: I flipped out like a four-year old, threw myself on the bed and began to cry uncontrollably. I hadn't even popped the kid out, and already felt like I had failed as a parent. Feelings of inadequacy flooded in and I felt powerless to stop them; I was the straight-A student who had brought home a B, and disappointed them all. Luckily, the Boy let this go on for about 2 minutes before he strolled in and put it a stop to it all by offering me some perspective, and a shin-kicking reality check. (Did I mention I love him madly and can't wait to marry him and have his babies? Oh,...right....)
Despite popular belief (and personal aspirations,) I am not made of stone. In fact, I'm an extremely sensitive individual; one of my worst flaws is that I care too much about what others think of me and my actions, and have been known to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict and please everyone in the process. That, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad attribute to have - BUT, when it is at the expense of my own happiness, my own wishes...well, my friends, that's when it becomes a bit different.
From the moment I first found out about the life growing inside me, I felt a connection to it. The connection to what it was doing, how it was growing, how it was changing and changing me. The first time I verbalized this connection to the Boy, the name just rolled out of my mouth. Without premeditation, or thought. We were discuss dinner plans, or something similar, and I casually told him that the Beast demanded Mexican that night. He stopped, and gave me a look, and we both started laughing. Not just because it was unexpected or funny, but because it was so us. It was as if it already understood what sort of family it was being born into.
We didn't choose "The Beast," the Beast chose for itself.
Lots of expectant gals have their "beans" and their "bumps," and that's just fine. But that's not who I am/who we three are. Does that mean that I'm any less excited about the little one? That I acknowledge the miracle of its existence with any less love and adoration as the mothers who regard their unborn children with conventionally cuter monikers? Hell to the NO. And, by the way, if any of you happen to think otherwise you can do one of the following: a.) keep it to yourself. b.) let me know, and you and I will have a private discussion about the future of our friendship, or c.) don't read this blog :-) I realize that this is just the beginning of the onslaught, and so I'd better get used to it. Because once you're pregnant, everyone - and I mean everyone - starts coming out of the woodwork to offer you a shit ton of unsolicited advice. *And, on an related-but-unrelated-note, many thanks to those mommies who have offered sound advice (Sarah M. and Sara B!) that reaches beyond the cliches of others'!
So I'm steppin' off the pregnant lady pedestal, now. 'Cause, yes, my back hurts... but mainly, there's some Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk calling me from the freezer.
'Night, y'all.
There's been a bit of a buzz lately about our chosen nickname for the lil' one. From more than a few individuals. Their reactions range from the slightly annoyed to the extremely offended, but the general consensus is the choice terminology for our unborn child is quite the inappropriate one.
When the opinions of said individuals began to trickle in, I did what any other hormonally-charged impregnated female would do: I flipped out like a four-year old, threw myself on the bed and began to cry uncontrollably. I hadn't even popped the kid out, and already felt like I had failed as a parent. Feelings of inadequacy flooded in and I felt powerless to stop them; I was the straight-A student who had brought home a B, and disappointed them all. Luckily, the Boy let this go on for about 2 minutes before he strolled in and put it a stop to it all by offering me some perspective, and a shin-kicking reality check. (Did I mention I love him madly and can't wait to marry him and have his babies? Oh,...right....)
Despite popular belief (and personal aspirations,) I am not made of stone. In fact, I'm an extremely sensitive individual; one of my worst flaws is that I care too much about what others think of me and my actions, and have been known to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict and please everyone in the process. That, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad attribute to have - BUT, when it is at the expense of my own happiness, my own wishes...well, my friends, that's when it becomes a bit different.
From the moment I first found out about the life growing inside me, I felt a connection to it. The connection to what it was doing, how it was growing, how it was changing and changing me. The first time I verbalized this connection to the Boy, the name just rolled out of my mouth. Without premeditation, or thought. We were discuss dinner plans, or something similar, and I casually told him that the Beast demanded Mexican that night. He stopped, and gave me a look, and we both started laughing. Not just because it was unexpected or funny, but because it was so us. It was as if it already understood what sort of family it was being born into.
We didn't choose "The Beast," the Beast chose for itself.
Lots of expectant gals have their "beans" and their "bumps," and that's just fine. But that's not who I am/who we three are. Does that mean that I'm any less excited about the little one? That I acknowledge the miracle of its existence with any less love and adoration as the mothers who regard their unborn children with conventionally cuter monikers? Hell to the NO. And, by the way, if any of you happen to think otherwise you can do one of the following: a.) keep it to yourself. b.) let me know, and you and I will have a private discussion about the future of our friendship, or c.) don't read this blog :-) I realize that this is just the beginning of the onslaught, and so I'd better get used to it. Because once you're pregnant, everyone - and I mean everyone - starts coming out of the woodwork to offer you a shit ton of unsolicited advice. *And, on an related-but-unrelated-note, many thanks to those mommies who have offered sound advice (Sarah M. and Sara B!) that reaches beyond the cliches of others'!
So I'm steppin' off the pregnant lady pedestal, now. 'Cause, yes, my back hurts... but mainly, there's some Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk calling me from the freezer.
'Night, y'all.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
My Baby's Got a < 3
...And that lil' sucker's ticker was going STRONG at yesterday's prenatal visit! It was even playing a little game of hide-and-seek with the doc, as she had to keep moving the wand around to keep up with it. This little gymnastics show, in combination with it's strong, house music heartbeat, is a fantastic sign that I'm growing a super-healthy kid inside there.
Happy Mother's day to me :-)
Happy Mother's day to me :-)
Thursday, May 6, 2010
There Will Be Blood
16 weeks down, 24 more to go!
It's weird to think I'm almost to that half-way point, because it doesn't feel like it at all. In fact, time seems to be flying by these days - so much so, that I'm freaked out there won't be enough time for everything that goes along with this whole baby thang. There's so much going on these days - what with the big Move on the horizon, job-hunting for the boy, coordinating a yard sale, looking for a ob/gyn near the new digs, deciding on midwife-assisted vs. hospital birth, work work WORK - I almost forgot to schedule my next prenatal visit, and would have had my amazingly perceptive fiance extraordinaire not reminded me. Multiple times.
I'm not usually the type that has to be told something twice, but lately the first trimester symptoms of morning sickness have been replaced by a case of absent-mindedness, aka: the second trimester "dum-dums." This dumb blond phase is something that all those pregnancy books mention, but definitely never something I thought I would experience. I mean, I'm a chronic list-maker. At work, I know the names of mostly all our clients and their pets, and greet them as such (without checking the scheduler to confirm) as they walk up to the desk. Cum laude graduation status aside, I think I pass for a pretty intelligent, "with-it" person. But lately, I can't even remember to tie my own freakin' shoes before I walk out the door (and I CAN still reach them, damnit!)
However, there are other, more shocking, symptoms occuring lately...
For example, during pregnancy one forgets about the little monthly visitor usually bestowed upon us. Other than the occasional glance at the unopened box of tampons under my bathroom sink (purchased a few days before knowledge of the Beast's existence came to light. Oh Creator, you are hilarious,) I had, myself, all but forgotton the terms "period" and "menstral." That is, until one unsuspecting night I lounged on the couch, munching away on some Snyder's honey mustard pretzels bites and watching Modern Family. I reached up to wipe away some crumbs that had, themselves, been lounging on my upper lip...only to stare at my hand in horror as I pulled it away.
I had finally gotten my period.
And it was flowing steadily...out of MY NOSE.
I leapt to the bathroom, sending pretzels and sleeping kitties flying, and held my head over the sink while the blood oozed out. At the same time, I'm grasping for any type of tissues and/or washcloth within arms reach and trying my best not to panic. The last time I had gotten a nosebleed was in college: I had just gotten out of the shower, and Sean came over to my place for one of our first dates. I remember vividly the look of horror on his face as he came through the door; me, in my robe, smiling happily and telling him it would just be a minute. His reply of "Um...I think there's...something on your face." My response of a quick mirror glance and immediate mortification. (In truth, I believe that it was, in fact, this exact moment that he fell in love with me and on which our entire present is based.)
Eventually, the bleeding slowed and my anxiety levels dropped. I ended up following up with "What-to-Scare Yourself-Shitless-With-When-You're-Expecting," and found out the second trimester also contains a bevy of other possibilities - one being nosebleeds. Apparently they can happen due to a combination of congestion/dry nasal passages and the surplus of blood my body is now pumping to fuel the Beast, and its placenta (every traveler should have a carry-on, right?)
Looks like I won't have to wait another 6 months to put those tampons to use, after all.
It's weird to think I'm almost to that half-way point, because it doesn't feel like it at all. In fact, time seems to be flying by these days - so much so, that I'm freaked out there won't be enough time for everything that goes along with this whole baby thang. There's so much going on these days - what with the big Move on the horizon, job-hunting for the boy, coordinating a yard sale, looking for a ob/gyn near the new digs, deciding on midwife-assisted vs. hospital birth, work work WORK - I almost forgot to schedule my next prenatal visit, and would have had my amazingly perceptive fiance extraordinaire not reminded me. Multiple times.
I'm not usually the type that has to be told something twice, but lately the first trimester symptoms of morning sickness have been replaced by a case of absent-mindedness, aka: the second trimester "dum-dums." This dumb blond phase is something that all those pregnancy books mention, but definitely never something I thought I would experience. I mean, I'm a chronic list-maker. At work, I know the names of mostly all our clients and their pets, and greet them as such (without checking the scheduler to confirm) as they walk up to the desk. Cum laude graduation status aside, I think I pass for a pretty intelligent, "with-it" person. But lately, I can't even remember to tie my own freakin' shoes before I walk out the door (and I CAN still reach them, damnit!)
However, there are other, more shocking, symptoms occuring lately...
For example, during pregnancy one forgets about the little monthly visitor usually bestowed upon us. Other than the occasional glance at the unopened box of tampons under my bathroom sink (purchased a few days before knowledge of the Beast's existence came to light. Oh Creator, you are hilarious,) I had, myself, all but forgotton the terms "period" and "menstral." That is, until one unsuspecting night I lounged on the couch, munching away on some Snyder's honey mustard pretzels bites and watching Modern Family. I reached up to wipe away some crumbs that had, themselves, been lounging on my upper lip...only to stare at my hand in horror as I pulled it away.
I had finally gotten my period.
And it was flowing steadily...out of MY NOSE.
I leapt to the bathroom, sending pretzels and sleeping kitties flying, and held my head over the sink while the blood oozed out. At the same time, I'm grasping for any type of tissues and/or washcloth within arms reach and trying my best not to panic. The last time I had gotten a nosebleed was in college: I had just gotten out of the shower, and Sean came over to my place for one of our first dates. I remember vividly the look of horror on his face as he came through the door; me, in my robe, smiling happily and telling him it would just be a minute. His reply of "Um...I think there's...something on your face." My response of a quick mirror glance and immediate mortification. (In truth, I believe that it was, in fact, this exact moment that he fell in love with me and on which our entire present is based.)
Eventually, the bleeding slowed and my anxiety levels dropped. I ended up following up with "What-to-Scare Yourself-Shitless-With-When-You're-Expecting," and found out the second trimester also contains a bevy of other possibilities - one being nosebleeds. Apparently they can happen due to a combination of congestion/dry nasal passages and the surplus of blood my body is now pumping to fuel the Beast, and its placenta (every traveler should have a carry-on, right?)
Looks like I won't have to wait another 6 months to put those tampons to use, after all.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sean's 1st post
“I get to coach Little League baseball.” This is all I’ve been able to think about since we found out we’re having a baby. I get to coach Little League baseball, and no one can think I’m weird or creepy because hey - I’ve got a kid on the team.
Okay, that’s not ALL I’ve been thinking about:
I’d like to coach basketball too. Seriously though, whether our child is a boy or a girl…they’re going to play organized sports.
Okay, okay, I’m done joking around…for now. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be a father. Whatever its gender, this beast is going to be SO loved it’s ridiculous. Jess & I are extremely excited to be starting this new chapter of our lives together, and the support and encouragement we've received has been amazing. We seriously can't thank everyone enough for their good vibes and well wishes.
Now, the first time all of this really “hit” me was during the first ultrasound. Even the previous visit in which we heard its little heartbeat for the first time, it didn’t really set it. When I saw this…THING for the first time though…blurry like Sasquatch, sleeping inside my fiancé’s uterus – it was beautiful. I allowed myself to really get excited for the first time.
That excitement lasted for about thirty seconds. At which point, the doctor started rattling off all of the terrible diseases it could be born with. Don’t get me wrong; Jess & I are going to love this baby even it’s nothing but stumps and a wad of hair. Still, there are SO many things to stress out about, my mind hasn’t stopped racing. Part of me welcomes the worry of medical issues, if only because it distracts from the financial issues.
These first couple months have been weirdly rough for me. So much of the focus is on Jessica (as it should be, and probably will be ‘til it pops out) that I feel helpless most of the time. I mean, what can I really do at this point? Make sure she’s comfortable, try not to irritate her (any more than I usually do), and remind her that she’s going to be a fantastic mother. Oh, and read LOTS of books. Sometimes I feel guilty about everything – like I’ve infected her with this alien organism, and now I just get to sit back and wait until it bursts from between her legs, probably wearing a top hat and whirling a cane. How those got into Jessica’s uterus…I’ll never tell. “Well now wait a second, Sean, what if it pops out wearing a dress and tiara?” Glad you asked, Sean. If that happens, it probably means he’s gay.
Truth be told, I’ve never really thought too hard about whether or not it’s going to be a boy or a girl. I meant what I said earlier about stumps and hair. Really, at this point it’s completely out of our control. Dwight from The Office would disagree:
“It’s simple. For the first hour after conception, apply extreme heat to the uterus. For the next three months, extreme cold.”
Tell you what though – for all the stress and worry and fear and uncertainty that creeps into my head hourly...for all the terrible and disturbing things I’ve never even thought to think about until now…I know that whenever things get tough, no matter what fears creep in – “I get to coach Little League baseball.”
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Hold on to your butts...
Because we're about to be parents. Us.
Jessica May. Sean Keller.
"Whoa," you're thinking. " There's a God who allowed those two to genetically reproduce?"
"I don't envy the schnoz that kid'll have," you're thinking.
"Well...I'll be damned."
We know these comments only stem from the place where your jealousy resides. You wish you were us, is all. Hell, you wish you were our ridiculously talented and good looking, genius unborn CHILD!
All joking aside though, folks...at 14 weeks and 4 days already passed, the amount of support and cheerleading we've received from both family and friends alike has been phenomenal. Overwhelming.
And oh-so-needed.
In fact, we plan on greedily stocking up on all your well-wishes and huzzahs to feast upon through the next 36 weeks...so keep 'em coming. (Yum.)
Those of you that know us well (meaning as individuals, as well as the collective "us,") would probably agree that there's nothing particularly traditional there.
And thank God for that, eh?
Well, we hope to capture that spirit in this blog and examine this nine (ten) month long journey, one that humans have traversed for ages, from a little bit different of a perspective. And we hope those of you who can't be there in body with us through a lot of this craziness will follow along here, and holler back at us with your comments and advice.
Because making babies is sooo much more than we originally thought it was.
Jessica May. Sean Keller.
"Whoa," you're thinking. " There's a God who allowed those two to genetically reproduce?"
"I don't envy the schnoz that kid'll have," you're thinking.
"Well...I'll be damned."
We know these comments only stem from the place where your jealousy resides. You wish you were us, is all. Hell, you wish you were our ridiculously talented and good looking, genius unborn CHILD!
All joking aside though, folks...at 14 weeks and 4 days already passed, the amount of support and cheerleading we've received from both family and friends alike has been phenomenal. Overwhelming.
And oh-so-needed.
In fact, we plan on greedily stocking up on all your well-wishes and huzzahs to feast upon through the next 36 weeks...so keep 'em coming. (Yum.)
Those of you that know us well (meaning as individuals, as well as the collective "us,") would probably agree that there's nothing particularly traditional there.
And thank God for that, eh?
Well, we hope to capture that spirit in this blog and examine this nine (ten) month long journey, one that humans have traversed for ages, from a little bit different of a perspective. And we hope those of you who can't be there in body with us through a lot of this craziness will follow along here, and holler back at us with your comments and advice.
Because making babies is sooo much more than we originally thought it was.
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