Pregnancy Week 26

Pregnancy Week: 26
Weight Gain: 18 pounds
Baby Kicks: Other people can feel them!
Mental Health: Ugh. Don't ask.

Can I tell you something? I am absolutely horrified by my weight. When I climbed on the scale at my appointment, I was half a pound away from Crossing the Bar.*

Speaking of my appointment...not only is Dr. Loompa clueless, but his entire office staff is run by morons. For the 2nd month in a row, the date on my appointment card has been wrong. This time, my card said, "Friday, January 25". Since no such day exists, I assumed the senile receptionist looked crossed-eyed through her bi-focals and really meant "Friday, January 22."

I showed up half dead with a bad cold and wrestling a squirming 4 year old. Then I sat miserable in the waiting room for over an hour** because the stupid old woman meant next Friday. Then everyone on the staff gave me attitude because I dared to be pissed off and ask to see Dr. Loompa anyway. (How dare I?)

I didn't have a voice and I couldn't stop hacking--of course I wanted to see the doctor!!! I thought my cold was turning into walking pneumonia (like it did last year) and since I'm pregnant and can't take anything, I didn't want to screw around with it. So sue me, Oopma Loompa staff. And hire someone who can read a calendar. Gawd.

Dr. Loompa needs to make this button*** and pin it on his lab coat, because he was pretty worthless:

After going through the normal pregnancy well-visit BS of pee sticks, scales, and finding baby's heart beat--he listened to my lungs and said, "Sounds clear. You can take pills like amoxicillin, okay? If gets bad."

"If gets bad"?!? Seriously?!? I have zero energy, I've missed 3 days of work, and it keeps getting worse! Instead of a perscription for something helpful, he handed me the forms for my glucose tolerance test.

Squee.

Meanwhile, I'm still sick. This is ass, you guys.

*Crossing the Bar - verb. Act whereby the nurse reaches across the scale and slides that huge lump of metal up to the next 50 pound incriment, and you gasp in horror and embarassment. See also: I've never weighed that much in my life!, or I'm wearing a REALLY heavy sweater today.
**Boring waiting rooms, 4 year olds, and pregnant moms half dead with colds don't mix. I'm too traumatized to say any more about it.

***I'd like to make this button and mail it to him with my final payment.

I'm Not Fat I'm Pregnant!

Oh, gawd, internets...

Please hold me back! (And cry with me. Because I want to cry. In fact, I may end up crying in the bathroom in 15 minutes.)

An old man came into my office during my lunch break and had something to tell me. A dirty old man who is working on the plumbing.

Okay, first? Some background on my lunch. I had pizza rolls and cookies because holy-hell-it-was-a-busy-weekend-and-I-didn't-make-it-to-the-grocery-store-and-now-I'm-noshing-on-junk.

Now? The stage is set.

Said dirty old man walks into my office and whispers, "Honey..."

*Side note, all dirty old men call you honey, sweetie, or sugar tits. Thus? They are dirty old men.

"Honey, I've got to tell you something. You are a VERY beautiful girl..."

*Side note #2, all dirty old men think you are a girl. Never a woman. Thus? They are dirty old men.

"...so I've got to tell you something. Look at me!" (Spreads dirty old man coat wide open, like a subway flasher.) "I'm 69 years old. I cut out sugar, white breads, all that stuff. It was hard, but I dropped weight."

Wait for it, internets. Wait for it!

"Now, if you were to stop eating those damn cookies and do the same thing, you would be HOT."

Then he winked at me, and walked out.

Holy fuck, you pervy old asshole! I'm six months pregnant!!!

Hold me, internets. Just hold me.

The Truth About Home Party Sales, or, WTF Was I Thinking?

I'm really frustrated right now, peoples.

I agreed to host a PartyLite party for my MIL and help her "launch" her new career as Candle Pusher Extraordinaire. Since I sold the crap myself once upon a time, it should be easy for me to gather 10 people in my living room, right?

Uh. No.

I personally invited over 40 women, and so far? Only 2 are coming tonight. T-W-O.

I understand that it's January and everyone is recovering from Christmas. I understand that most New Year's Resolutions don't include the goal: Piss Money Away on Overpriced Candles at Home Parties. I even get that it's Friday, the start of the weekend oh-my-gawd-do-you-KNOW-how-fast-my-weekends-fly-by-don't-ask-me-to-waste-one-precious-minute-of-it-listening-to-your-MIL-drone-on-about-the-correct-way-to-snuff-a-candle!

I get it.

But I still can't help but take it personally. My mind rushes back to 6th grade and suddenly? I'm alone at my birthday party because it's August and all my friends are on vacation.

(You have no idea how jealous I was of girls who had birthdays during the school year. Those bitches.)

I'm feeling all rejected. No one loves me.

And? On top of all that?

My MIL is expecting me to come up with some incredible sales and dozens of friends all hot and bothered over hosting their own Candle Fun Time Blow Out. She's already reminded me of exactly how much she sold for me and how many people were at her party way back in 2005, because obviously? Guilt motivates.

Head? Meet desk. Bang repeatedly.

In case any of my beloved readers are ever dumb enough to get sucked into hosting one of these shit parties, let me tell you exactly what is involved:

1. You'll think it's easy! Free stuff with little to no work!

2. You'll invite people about a week before, and then wonder why everyone is saying, "Thanks...but..."

3. You'll freak out when NO ONE has agreed to come and start sending frantic invitations to people you hardly ever talk to--like Aunt Enid or your neighbor with the hairy mole.

4. You'll get really desperate and start dragging catalogs and order forms everywhere you go. You whip books out and beg people to take a look, feeling like some Dicken's character begging for loose change in the streets of London.

5. You scrape together $100 worth of orders, and then think about canceling the party.

6. In a burst of optimism, you clean your house feeling quite sure that those 10 people who wouldn't return your phone calls with show up.

7. No one shows up but Aunt Enid and your neighbor with the hairy mole.

8. The sales rep glares at you all evening and warns you darkly that you didn't sell enough to earn ANYTHING. All of your work was for nothing, and she thinks you're a worthless POS.

9. Aunt Enid and your neighbor with the hairy mole linger. You start hitting the wine box in the fridge.

10. It finally ends, and you vow NEVER to do this again.

See? Loads of fun.

One bright spot in all of this--I am now firmly reminded that I want no part of direct sales ever again. Post baby, I'm going to say, "Buh-bye Wildtree. Hello part-time office slave!"

No way am I getting sucked into this mess again.

I wish I had a squirrel tail. I'd wrap it around myself like a Snuggie.

Today is Kevin's birthday, so here's my little gift to him:

Happy 38th birthday, sweetie!!!!

....

....

....

What?

Oh, you're expecting a real gift, aren't you? Yeah, ummm...about that...

It's Thursday, and I'm freaking tired. You've seen me dragging my pregnant butt around, barely functional. Did you really think that I heaved myself in the car and made a special trip to the mall? Pfft!

Your gift is the life growing inside of me, okay?

And Jedi squirrels. Because obviously.

Maybe...if you're really special...and I actually have energy past 8:15 pm...

But I doubt I will, so don't get your hopes up.

Love ya!

*Edited to add* I hit 450 Google subscribers! Sweet. And just for all of you guys...

Pregnancy Delusion - I'm Hawt

We're starting the 6th month, and my belly is hanging out there. (I'll post a belly pic later tonight. Mmm-kay?)

Remember this post? The one where I talked about Heidi Klum's 9-months-pregnant-skin-tight Ursula costume? Back then I was *a little bit pregnant* and hiding my bloated tummy under a hoodie while sporting wild hair and glasses.

Now? I'm afraid I've hit the Pregnancy Delusion Stage.

I'm breaking out the skin tight maternity tops! I'm feeling hawt and sexy! I'm flat ironing my hair and putting on full eyeshadow! Even lip gloss! LOOK AT ME AND MY AWESOME CURVES!

Meanwhile, I'm snapping belly pic after belly pic wondering why I look so big on camera when CLEARLY the pregnant chic in the mirror is adooooorable. Why can't I capture this on film? (Yeah...that's the reason why I don't have a pic ready for this post yet.)

Pregnancy Delusion.

I wish I had maternity lingerie. No, no, hun, I don't want to actually have sex. I just want to go to sleep in a satin nightie because look at how cute I am!

Pregnancy Delusion.

I'm running my fingers over pre-knocked-up outfits and muttering, "Hmmm...I'll bet I could still pull this off..."

Pregnancy Delusion.

Why does this stage hit? I mean, I'm glad I'm not sitting around moaning, "Ugh, I'm so FAT. I hate my body!" but why this weird boost in self-esteem? Is this Mother Nature's way of keeping moms-to-be from jamming toothbrushes down their throats or turning pregorexic?

I'm terrified that my sense of reality is so warped that I'll sprawl across the bed purring, "You know you want me," thinking I look like this:

When I really look more like this:

The horror.

Dropping Anonymous?

(No, this isn't a post about anonymous comments and trolls. It's been beaten to death by millions of bloggers.)

I'm trying to decide if I want to drop anonymous from ME.

Most of us blog under our first names or (if we're creative) a pseudonym. Some bloggers break out nicknames for their children and are absolutely terrified to put anything too specific about their families on their blog. (Stars above! What about the crazy stalkers?!?!)

Me? Well, I fall somewhere at the open end of anonymity. I write under my real first name, I use real names when talking about family, and honestly? I doubt any psycho is drooling for my last name so he can plan an abduction with his rusted out cargo van. Face it. If someone really wanted to, they could figure out who I am with a creative Google search.

There's a huge plus side to opening up and saying, "This blog? Yeah, it's mine. I wrote it. Pretty awesome, huh?" I'm proud of my blog, and thrilled with my numbers and stats and subscribers. I want to sign my real name to it, and claim it as my own work.

Let's pretend that Parents magazine, or an agent, or a publisher (yeah, I know I'm reaching for the stars but bear with me) saw my blog and loved it. Let's pretend that they want to see more of my work. Who are they more likely to contact? Anonymous Jaci? (Who, by the way, still publishes on the Blogging 101 website blogspot.com? I need my own dot.com, but that's another subject...) Or a real, professional name?

A real name just looks more...credible. Besides, the bigger bloggers who have published books or local newspaper articles or give media interviews all use their names. My goal is to be a published writer--so dropping anonymous seems like an important step.

Then there is the downside: everyone will know who I am, including family, neighbors, the little old lady 2 pews behind me in church...

When real life acquaintances find out I blog and then mention it to me, it always catches me off guard. I do separate Jaci from "The Mad Housewife", and it usually causes me a few seconds of panic wondering, "Oh God! I wonder what they think of me?!?" By blogging under my real name, I'm saying, "Hello world! Read me AND JUDGE ME if ye dare! Oh, you too, Grandma. Sorry about the time I said "fuck"."

I also have to watch what I say--or be damn sure I'm willing to back every word and accept the consequences. I won't be able to vent about people (which honestly? is a pretty shitty to do anyway) and any stance I take can be thrown back in my face and held against me by real life people. *Eeek!* Am I ready for that? Am I strong enough for real life criticism?

What do you think about blogging under your real name? Would you ever do it?

Don't Put Your Hand in my Fry-Fries. I Will Bite It Off.

Guess what I do all the time now?

EAT.

Num, num, num, mwah!

I know a total pregnancy weight gain of 11 pounds equals jack squat, but it eats at me. (Ha! Pun.) I wasn't some teeny, dainty cheerleader to begin with. In fact, I don't think anything about me has ever been described as teeny or dainty.

Once upon a time, when I was single and thin(ish) and living on half a bagle, a cereal bowl full of green beans, and two glasses of skim milk a day (hey, that diet WORKS, people) my 6 foot co-worker Deborah bonded with me and said, "Us big girls have to stick together against all these little people." *

"Us big girls." Pfft.

It stung, particuarly because I was living on air and green beans and STILL looked booty-licious.

That reminds me of another story...

I went to good ol' Akron U and dormed with a whole floor full of black girls. I don't know if the registrar thought "Jacqueline" meant I was really this woman:

...or if they shoved me in there for the sake of cultural diversity. Either way, it was awesome. And? I didn't have to listen to depressed white girls blaring whiny grunge music while wrapped in flannel and twidling with their eyebrow piercing. Bonus!

Anyway, while sitting around laughing over Cisco's Thong Song (that thong, th-thong, thong, thong) Dionna screamed out, "Girl, look at you! You have a big ol' black girl booty! You're one of us!"

Ummm...I'm white. I'm not supposed to have a big ol' black girl booty. I'm supposed to have a flat white girl ass.**

Thanks, Dionna! Now I have butt issues.

Anyway...back to the whole point of this post...if it had one...

I'm watching the scale, but I can't stop jamming food in my mouth! A couple days ago I came home from work ravenous and noticed I forgot to plug the crock pot in--so while I waited for Kevin to bring home McDonald's fry-fries-right-now-I'm-freaking-STARVING! I ate half a bag of chips with salsa and a package of Ho-Hos. Then? I ate my entire quarter-pounder value meal.

I was comfortably full, internets. That's just wrong.

Right now, I weigh exactly what I did when I walked into labor and delivery with Elizabeth...and I haven't hit the 3rd trimester pack on! I'm horrified. Absolutely horrified.

So I'm stocking up on healthy snacks like fruit, cottage cheese, and part-skim cheese sticks. (Ho hos? Not so much.) My lunch bag cannont contain all of the fruit I'm eating in 8 hours, so it looks like I'm lugging bags of groceries into work every morning.

That's totally me. Only I'm sitting on the floor of my office surrounded by apple cores and shredded Smart Ones boxes while licking the inside of an Activia container like a DOG.

What? I'm having trouble pooping, okay? I need the Activia. I told you, I have butt issues.

*Deborah and I were working in the cut throat world of Mall Cosmetics, otherwise known as Devil Wears Prada-Knockoff. No one wore anything more than a size 6, except for us, the Amazon Queens porking out in 10's and 12's.

** Or, I should look exotic like Kim Kardashian. To be booty-licious and be plain ol' white bread makes me look stupid, like Kendra Wilkinson.***

***Who, by the way, gained over 50 pounds with her baby. That girl is probably crying and puking while her trainer beats the crap out of her as we speak. Or blog. Or whatever. I had coffee for the first time in 2 months today. It hasn't affected me AT. ALL.

DAMN IT!

There's just one baby.  (Whew!)

I do have an anterior placenta.  I can't feel much kicking because that big hunk of...whatever...is attached right to the front of my uterus and shoving the baby towards my back.  Instead of kicking me, the baby is using that thing as a punching bag.

And the million dollar question....IT'S A....

Surprise.

Baby decided to play Victorian Prude and kept it's ankles locked and feet curled under it's butt the entire time.

I tried, people.  I really tried.  I ate dinner before we went in hopes of waking the baby up.  I drank all the water.  And, as an added bonus, I ate a handful of Hershey's Kisses to give it a sugar rush.  The baby flipped and rolled, but no matter what, it kept tightly curled in the fetal position.  I shifted, and rolled, and went to the bathroom, and jumped around in the bathrooom slapping my belly and muttering, "Move!"--all for nothing.  It refused to uncurl.  The tech even said, "Ugh, I have never had a more stubborn baby!" 

I should have chugged Mountain Dew, but I figured it was more important to get the proper measurements and make sure the baby was healthy rather than figure out whether I needed to stock up on blue or pink Baby Gap outfits.

Stupid me.

Towards the end, the baby uncurled for literally ONE SECOND and the tech almost screamed, "I think it's a girl!  Oh!  It shut back up again.  I only saw a flash, but I didn't see any boy bits.  I can't be sure without a better look.  I can't say what it is.  Awwwe, and this is the only ultrasound you get, isn't it?  I'm sorry.  But maybe your doctor will send you back and you'll get a second shot at it."

Dr. Loompa will not send me back.  Dr. Loompa can barely stumble through my well visits.  Dr. Loompa is an oompa loompa.

"Oompa Loompa Doompadee Doo
I've got a perfect puzzle for you"

Damn it.   

Dance, Fetus, DANCE!

Okay, internets, I need your help.  My ultrasound appointment is at 6:30 tonight.  The mysteries of my uterus will finally be revealed.  It's a big day, people. 

I googled "ultrasound appointment" because I'm at work...and, uh...I don't feel like working but instead google stupid things to kill time.  (Don't judge.  You do it, too.)  I found a bunch of suggestions to down Moutain Dew or fruit juice to make sure that the baby moves around a lot and I can walk out of there avoiding a newborn wardrobe full of yellow ducky onsies.

Should I go in there with a dance master fetus hopped up on crank?  I get one shot at this.  If the baby doesn't cooperate, I'm screwed until I squeeze the thing out.

Sorry, but it's 2010, and I refuse to play the Little House on the Prairie wait-n-see game.  I've got a nursery to paint!

What's Behind Door Number One?

Pregnancy Week:  23
Total Weight Gain:  11 pounds
Baby Kicks:  Few and far between
Sex:  Still unknown
Mental Health:  Depressed.  Pregnancy sucks.

After another stellar appointment with Dr. Loompa, I know nothing more than I did 5 months ago.  I'm pregnant.  There is a heartbeat.  I gained weight.  Clearly, all I need to be an OBGYN is a bunch of pee sticks and a scale.

Dr. Loompa always sticks the doppler on the right side of my fat roll abdomen to pick up the heartbeat, totally ignoring the left side.  Since I'm not feeling kicking--more like squirming--and moms of twins are scaring me with "I didn't feel kicking either because THEY WERE TWINS!"--I asked jokingly, "There's just one in there, right?"

"Uhhhhhh......" wanders over to chart and stares at it.  "Yes.  Did you have sonar?"

"No.  You scheduled it for the 4th."

"Huh?"

"You scheduled it for JANUARY FOURTH."

"Oh.  Uhhh...  Let me check something..."

He strolled out of the room and never came back.  Instead the nurse came in and jabbed me with the H1N1 vaccine and said, "See you in four weeks!"

Apparently, my uterus contains a mystery prize.  Is it a new car?  A living room set?  Twins?  A funky placenta?  Boy?  Girl?  No one knows!

I'm getting pissed.