Pregnancy Week 35 - Do They Always Look Like That?

Pregnancy Week: 35
Total Weight Gain: 22 pounds
Baby Position: Head Down, Feet in Ribs

Sadly, this was the best pic I could take. I think I'm done with side view belly shots because now they are just...disturbing. I thought I looked pretty before I headed off to church! *tear*

Anyhoo... I have to say I am so pleased with a 22 pound weight gain! You all know I've been tweaking out about weight for this entire pregnancy, so now that I'm in the final stretch I'm going to take this moment to say, "Yeesssss! Thank you God!"

(Also?  I don't know how I didn't gain more.  I eat junk, and the only exercise I get is walking to the kitchen for more food and drink.  But I'm not going to question it!)

Dr. Loompa managed to subtly insult me at my last visit. While poking at my legs and ankles, he said, "Hmmm. Do they always look like this?"

Gawd! Yes, my legs are thick and cankle-ish, thankyouverymuch! I have The Cunningham Legs, okay?!?! Shut up about it.

(Hawt.)

After poking at me a little bit more, he said, "Okay. No swelling."

Hmpft.

*Note to self: Wear pants until birth. And ask Kevin for pedicure.

The Business of Being Born...with a birth plan?

I watched The Business of Being Born last night, and it reminded me of the bad hospital experience I had with Elizabeth.

I had contractions starting at 11 pm and spent all night rocking back and forth in my bed while Kevin timed them (half asleep). Once those suckers were 3-5 minutes apart (at 4 am) we got in the car and headed for the hospital.

I thought that I could finally just relax and focus on labor, but the night shift nurses were serious bitches. They already had 3 other women in active labor and didn't want to deal with a 4th. Since I was only dilated to a 3, they didn't admit me. They ordered me on the Dead Man Walk around the hospital and talked to each other about how they wanted to send me back home.

I was in misery, and couldn't believe that they wanted to kick me out! I could barely walk! My contractions were hard and coming closer together, and I remember telling Kevin that if they dared to send me home we were going to wait in the parking lot for 15 minutes and walk right back in.

At around 5 am I said, "The hell with this walking," and laid down in the bed. The nurses ignored me, and I turned on my side and ignored them. I was in pain, and if they wanted to send me home they'd have to drag me out of bed to do it.

Minutes later, my water broke and soaked everything. Since I was the Leper of L&D, I asked Kevin to change my pad and the papers underneath me. (By the way, you know your husband loves you when he CHANGES YOUR NASTY PAD.)

So when a nurse finally came in, we told her my water broke and the pads were in the trash. She dug out the pad, wiped it on a test stick, and then screamed to her friends at the nurses station, "Great! Her water broke! Now we have to admit her!" Then she stormed out without even looking at me.

Next thing I knew, I had an IV jammed into my hand and a cocktail of pitocin and stadol running through my veins. The pitocin cranked the contractions up to unbearable levels while the stadol did nothing by make me feel loopy and panicked. I curled up into a fetal position and went into my own little world of moaning and twisting the bed rails through the pain. I didn't want Kevin to touch me and I can't even remember if he was in the room--I retreated into myself.

Nurses came in to check on me and jack the pitocin higher and higher, and by the time I dilated to 7 I couldn't take anymore. I asked for the epidural.

After that, everything was great. I went from 7 to 10 almost instantly. Dr. Loompa was running late so I had to hold Elizabeth in (imagine "holding in" the biggest dump of your life and that's about what it felt like) until he showed up. Then? 6 pushes and it was all over at 12:30.

25 hours of labor, and only 9 of them were spent in the hospital--but damn, those nurses were pissed to have to deal with me for those 9!

Anyway...back to the documentary I watched...

I knew pitocin helped speed labor up, but I didn't realize that it makes contractions harder, longer, and worse! When the nurses crank the pain juice up, it makes women beg for the epidural. The epidural slows labor down, so more pitocin is needed. Then the uterus is contracting around the baby so hard that the baby's heart rate goes down and it goes into distress--so here come the emergency C-section.

So...why use the pitocin? Why not let a woman's labor progress naturally?

Well, look at my birth story! Either your labor is progressing quickly or the hospital wants you to get the hell out of there! They don't have the time, staff, or funding to sit around holding a laboring woman's hand for 20 hours.

After watching that, I googled "refusing pitocin" and found a few nursing boards full of L&D nurses complaining. They roll their eyes at the women who want natural birth and left comments like, "If that's what they want, then they need to go to a birthing center or do a home birth!" or "I hate it when these couples walk in with labor balls and birth plans and don't know anything!" and "If she refuses pitocin, send her home."

Wow. Just...wow.

I guess I need to write a birth plan that states NO PITOCIN, but I feel like birth plans are pointless. Who reads it? Does anyone at the hospital give a shit? Or do the nurses just roll their eyes, file the lame birth plan in your chart, and then do whatever they want/need to do anyway? I wrote one for Elizabeth, and guess what? It sat in my bags--out in the car--because we were always one step away from being kicked out! No one ever asked for my opinion or cared if I had one.

I hate that I'm ready to start my 9th month and I'm tensing up for a fight at the hospital.

What's your opinion about birth plans? Did you use one? Did it do any good?

Twice In One Morning? What Are You, 16 and Pregnant?

People on pregnancy boards lie.

There. I said it.

I lurk on a couple boards that never fail to make me roll my eyes. There's always at least one thread about "How Much Weight Have YOU Gained?!?" with a few ladies stressing, "ZOMG! I weigh less than my pre-pregnancy weight!" beside ginormous belly pics that make me shudder and say, "Daaaammmmn!" in my best Martin Lawrence voice.

Girl, why you got to lie????

If you haven't been hospitalized for puking 5 times a day every day, OR, if your starting weight didn't rival a Biggest Loser contestant, there's no way you should be wrapping up your 8th month with ZERO weight gain.

Shut the hell up.

My next favorite thread? "How Long Ago Did You Have Sex?" I love my fo' realz sistas who flat out say, "I can't remember. I've been too uncomfortable for months now." But, those responses are few and far between. Usually, the thread is stuffed full of "Mmmm...twice this morning! LOL!"*

Oh, please! I guess a side effect of gaining nothing is to turn into a horny pregnant toad.

I'm not saying sex in the 9th month doesn't exist, but I don't believe anyone is writhing her penguin shaped body in ecstasy.

Anyone see Knocked Up?** And the scene where they're trying to have sex and can't find any position that will work, so they give up and cuddle?

That about sums it up.

You want more proof? Try to find Maternity Lingerie. Go on. Google it. I'll wait.

Not much there, huh? Just granny panties and nursing bras.

Hmmm. You'd think, with all this wild twice in one morning crazy pregnant sex going on, Victoria's Secret would want to cash in on that.




*When I read that line (which is 100% real, by the way) I choked on my coffee. And then laughed so hard the baby kicked me in the ribs.

**It's a good movie. Seriously. It's one those you see a preview for and say, "Gawd, that's going to blow," but it surprised me.

Pregnancy Week 34 - Wow! I feel much better!

I dropped by Dr. Loompa's office on Friday and caught him in the hallway before his lunch break. I walked right up to him, chattering 4 year old in tow, and said, "Hi! I don't have an appointment! Anyway, I'm feeling a lot of movement down really low and it's freaking me out."

And? Dr. Loompa smiled and said, "Come back. I'll check you."

I was expecting eye rolls and sighs, so I have to say Dr. Loompa made me feel all warm and fuzzy about him again.
So. The baby is hanging out very low, and when I described the creepy movements I was feeling Dr. Loompa put his little hand on top of his little gray head and said, "You probably feel scratching. Baby's hand up here, reaching and scratching you."

Ewww! So the baby is just hanging out, upside down, reaching toward the light?!? GROSS!

I'm not in labor, I'm not dilated, I'm not...anything. I'm just a pregnant gal carrying way low.

The good news is that something changed over the weekend, and I'M NOT IN PAIN! I don't know if the baby moved lower and took some pressure off a bad area or what, but I'm doing so much better! I can walk! I can move around the house! I have a life again!

I also feel a little...deflated. The top of my preggers belly is starting to resemble Elizabeth's limp Valentine's Day balloon that she refuses to give up and let me trash. I could care less, though, because my heart burn has disappeared and I can hook my bras on the right row again.

1 month left!

Labor? Maybe?

You'd think that with Baby #2 I will know labor when it hits me. Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm tweaking out over every twinge like last time.

*hangs head in shame*

Just last week I smugly told myself that I was going to be that Super Mom who calmly times contractions while whipping up the last of her Post Baby Freezer Meals, organizes the baby's closet, and goes to the hospital in full hair and makeup.

All it takes is several disturbing pokes from Mystery Fetus (I should probably change "fetus" to "baby", huh?) in a bizarre area (think hair) to make me throw my plans out the window and scream, "Oh my god! How can it be poking me THERE?!?! That's like, inches away from falling out! WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!"

Last week Dr. Loompa muttered to himself--as usual--and I could have sworn he said the baby was at +1. Now that I'm having Pregnant Woman Late Night Freak Outs, I looked it up and learned that 0 is fully engaged and +5 is crowning. And? This crap isn't supposed to happen in 2nd pregnancies until labor.

So...is the baby in the birth canal? Is labor far off? Or am I just a freak who feels like she's straddling the head for no reason? I swear, I can feel it locked in position...and I can feel when it turns it's head.

Creepers.

I'm 100% cramp and contraction free, so I guess this is yet another "symptom of pregnancy". Whatever it is, I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. In 33 weeks I haven't bothered him, so he can just suck it up now and give me some peace of mind.

And maybe the heavens will open and he'll actually order another ultrasound. And then? I'll win the lottery, drop 50 pounds in the delivery room, and go home with a professional nanny.

Pregnancy Week 33 - Let's Get Real

Week 33.

At this point, I'm completely fed up.  (Just look at my face in that picture.)  I am absolutely miserable.

When I say "miserable", I don't want you to picture the typical pregnant woman who flops down the couch and says, with a little smile, "Whew!  I can't wait to get this baby out," and can still do everything she always has--just a little slower.  That's not miserable.  That's...uncomfortable.

I can deal with uncomfortable.

I'm in pain.  Pain that on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being a sore muscle, 10 being "give me the epidural" contractions) I'm calling it a 7.  It's a constant, steady, crushing pressure in my pelvis that gnaws at me until I'm holding my breath and oozing out weak tears.  I can't get relief no matter how I'm positioned--sitting, standing, laying--it doesn't change anything.

I can't walk.  My pelvis locks, and at times I can't spread my legs enough to have a proper stride.  I'm shuffling around the house, holding my breath, holding on to walls, grimacing and groaning with every step.  I move so slowly that I can't answer the phone before voice mail picks up.  I can't bend over to pick anything up.  I have to take breaks and sit on a stool while making Hamburger Helper or washing dishes.  I'm struggling to drive because I can't pick my leg up enough to get into the SUV, or lift my foot from gas to brake.

I'm angry.  Anyone ever try to help a dog that's in pain and have the thing snarl and snap at you?  That's me.  It's either cry or get pissed, and since I'm never one to cry, I always fall on the pissed side.  When I'm starting to snap, I have to stop and tell myself that it's not my family that's pissing me off, it's the pain talking.  I'm spending more and more time like Thumper ("If you can't say sumpin' nice, don't say nutin' at all.") quietly seething in the corner and spitting out, "Nothing!" to all questions of "What's wrong?" 


I'm depressed.  See this little girl?

She just wants Mommy to get on the floor and play with her.  Or take her to a friend's house.  Or walk down to the park.  Or go to Target and eat popcorn while looking at the toys.

What's Mommy doing?  Mommy is on the couch, or on really bad days, laying in bed with pillows jammed between her knees.  Mommy is constantly saying, "I can't take you there.  I can't play that with you."  Mommy is hurting and angry and so short tempered.  And at the end of the day, when Daddy is fighting with a totally frustrated and tired little girl, Mommy sits in the bedroom and tries not to cry because it's not fair for that little girl to be stuck in the house with Shitty Mommy all day long.

I don't really know what else to say.  I'm crying, and feeling like a big failure.

*insert witty closing line*

I Think I Suck as a SAHM

Not to go back into the SAHM vs. WOHM debate...but I'm undecided about which is the life for me.

When I worked, I had to deal with getting me and Elizabeth up, dressed, fed, and out the door by 7:30. I hated the rushed mornings, mushy crock pot dinners, tight schedules, half-assed chores, and endless Mommy guilt.

As a SAHM, I've already had three screaming matches with Elizabeth today over 1.) eating scrambled eggs, 2.) wearing play clothes, and 3.) putting clothes on Polly Pocket by herself. (It isn't even 10 am yet, people.) I'm lonely for adult conversations and miss the uninterrupted quiet of work--and no one demanding a snack every 15 minutes. I feel like I needed to major in Elementary Ed just to be a good mom, and since I didn't I'm overwhelmed and under qualified for SAHMdom. And in the back of my mind, a little demon whispers, "Grandma has more patience and would raise your kids better than you. You didn't even like kids, remember? You didn't even like to play with baby dolls when you were 7. Go back to work and be useful."

Both sides have perks, too. (See? I'm not a total pessimist.)

While working, I broke out of the SAHM uniform of messy ponytail and Sea Breezed bare face. Hell, I wore heels. I felt like Jaci again, not just Mommy, and the time I spent with Elizabeth was precious. Plus? We had money. BIG PERK.

As a SAHM, my time and my agenda are my own. I can spend all day in my pj's...or repaint a bedroom...or wander around Target...or cuddle Elizabeth and play with her. It's all up to me, and I don't have to answer to anyone. My days are starting to feel like on big, endless weekend. BIG PERK.

I think the problem for me is that I'm not disciplined enough to do the SAHM gig justice. I fall into the ruts of not getting dressed before 10 am, skipping hair and makeup, and letting the isolation get to me. Before I know it, I'm depressed in yoga pants and trying to talk myself into leaving the house at least once this week.

Other women are able to keep themselves to their own schedule and thrive on the SAHM freedom, but I can't seem to get my shit together. Maybe I'm one of those freaks that thrives under the pressure of having too much on her plate? Maybe I need to be held accountable to someone other than myself?

Either way, when I close my eyes and try to picture what I want my life to look like in the next 2 years, I'm not dreaming of coloring pages, fun snacks, and PTA meetings. I can only see myself heading off to work!

I guess I have my answer. The SAHM life is not for me.

Week 32: Pain with a Side of Cranberry Juice

Pregnancy Week:  32
Total Weight Gain:  21 pounds
Baby Kicks:  Oh, lawd!  It's in my ribs!
Pubis:  Still dysfunctional, thank you.
Mental Health:  Is this shit over yet?

I think I have a hernia.  (On top of the SPD.  Nice, huh?)  I say "think" because Dr. Loompa can't tell if it's a hernia or not since...wait for it...I'M PREGNANT.  So, my only option is to wait and give birth.

Sorry, I just had deja vu.  I could have sworn I've heard that before...oh, yeah.  I HAVE.  That's what they say every time I have a complaint. 

Does anyone else get annoyed by the lack of medical care available to a pregnant woman?  They hesitate to even give you Tylenol!  It's 2010, and any time I have an issue I feel like I should go in a cave and just lick my own wounds like a feral dog.

While Dr. Loompa is in no way able to help with my pain issues (and my questionable hernia hurts like a MoFo) he is all hot and bothered over my pee.  Apparently, I have a urinary tract infection.  (Really?  'Cause the only part of me that doesn't hurt is my pee hole.)  I'm on strict orders to guzzle cranberry juice and lots of water--because a pregnant woman doesn't spend enough time in the bathroom as it is. 

This is ass, you guys.  I want the kid out.  NOW.

Hail, Glorious Ceasar!

Is it just me, or does blogging in 2010 feel exhausting to anyone else?

Don't get me wrong--I love to write my ridiculous little posts. It isn't hard for me to sit down at the computer and come up with something to slap up here. (I'm all about QUALITY, people. I'm sure you've noticed.)

The hard part is the freaking Empire I'm supposed to be building! I should have an active Twitter account and a bajillion followers. (My last Twitter post is from over a year ago and says, "Am I the only one who thinks Twitter is gay?" Fail.) I should have a fan page on Facebook. (Isn't the actual...I don't know...BLOG...enough of a fan page?) I should also be investing thousands of dollars into plane fares and hotels to make sure I'm at Blog Conferences across the US, passing out business cards and networking.

Since when did blogging become all about selling yourself as a brand? What happened to simply writing?

I started in late 2007 with a post about how much I hate Stouffer's frozen lasagna and it's 3 hour bake time. (Look for it no more, fair reader. It was lost in the Great Deletion.) I wanted to blog because a How to Find an Agent and Get Published book recommended having some published work to go along with your manuscript--even if it was "just a blog". (Insert artistic sneer.)

In 2010, it seems like bloggers are working backwards. Rather than polishing a manuscript and trying to publish it ye olde fashion way, they are devoting all that time to becoming popular bloggers and hoping for good things (like a book deal) to come their way. Maybe I'm weird, but I don't see how Twittering, "OMG, I got diarrhea at Barnes and Noble! LOL! LOVE THE CLEANSE!" is going to help me become the next Margaret Mitchell.

Shouldn't I be writing my book?

Maybe later down the road I'll see the importance of branding my blog, but right now? You better believe my butt will not be at any Blogging Conferences with cheesy business cards.

And my blog posts are likely to be filled with the same pointless drivel as usual. You're welcome.

Pregnancy Week 31--Just Call Me Mrs. Taft.

Q: Elizabeth, do you think I'm getting bigger?
A: You look like a penguin, Mommy.

Ah, well. They say children and fools tell the truth.

These pictures are taken in my bathroom. (In case you are a mental midget and couldn't figure out why I had bath puffs and shampoo bottles dangling behind my head.) My bathroom is special. Know why?

I have a claw foot bathtub.

Before you sigh with romantic jealousy, let me tell you that my claw foot bathtub? Sucks hairy balls. This isn't one of those gorgeous, new, spacious claw foot tubs at Lowes. This is the original. Antique.

MADE FOR SMALL PEOPLE.

So with my pregnant butt, I feel like Taft. Anyone remember him? He was our fattest President. (How fat was he?) He was so fat, they had to put a special tub in The White House just for him.

So, not only does my fat runneth over...but the inside of my antique looks like this:

That's paint. Or enamel. Actually, I don't know what it is. All I know is the white, shiny layer is flaking off and it scrapes my butt. And? It will cost over $1,000 to have the bathtub refinished--or only $700 if I can find a way to heft 10 tons of cast iron out of my bathroom, carry it down two flights of steps, hoist it into a truck, and drop it off at the shop to be refinished there.

(I propose a Bathtub Fund PayPal button for my blog. Mmm-kay?)

The sad thing is that my house isn't even old enough to have an original claw foot tub. The dumb ass former owners "remolded" the bathroom and installed this worn-out antique that they probably dug out of some redneck's barn.

"Why didn't they refinish it before they installed it?" That's the million dollar question I'd like to ask them while ripping off their toenails one by one. Then I'd wrap them up in the godawful wallpaper they stuck in every. room. of. the. house.

9 more weeks to go. Until then, my nightly soaks will just have to give me even more of a fat complex.

I feel you, buddy. I feel you.

Your Kid Must Be a Genius!!!

I've noticed a trend of moms with babies (oh gawd, the babies) all the way up to just before Kindergarten. Their kids? They are advanced.

The babies I can sort of understand. Rufus manages to drool and roll over a few weeks early, and poor mom, nearly insane with baby boredom and lack of sleep, whips out her developmental milestones and screams, "Argh! He's advanced!" From then on, Rufus is 10 kinds of awesome and mom is on a mission to create a genius.

It's annoying to have one of those mothers grab you and gnaw your ear off with stories of The Incredible Rufus--especially when Rufus is the ugliest kid you've ever seen and secretly you think there's something wrong with him--but, hey. We all go through that stage.

Usually it ends when you find Rice Crispies poured down the registers of your kid's bedroom and you wake up your husband by screaming, "What the fuck?!?!"

Err...wait. Maybe that's just me?

What annoys me is that every toddler/preschooler's weird behavior suddenly becomes clues about his inner genius. For example, when Elizabeth is arguing with me like a lawyer and I'm losing it by venting to my Mom...all she can say is, "Oh, Jaci, it's just that she's so bright!" So bright? Really? Wow, let me grab that Mensa application and check the "Smart Mouth" box--she's sure to get right in!

Bobby spends all day crawling around on the floor and growling like a dog (and mom is ready to punt him across the room)? Don't worry, he's just exceptionally imaginative! Emma sneaks and colors on the wall if mom misses a crayon during clean up? Oh, she's very artistic--sign her up for classes! Cameron is 5 and still clings to mom and screams when she tries to drop him off...uh...anywhere? He is so sensitive and intelligent!

The worst part is these Genius Stories usually come from well-meaning friends and family. Mom is stressed out and venting because she's at her limit, and her best friend comes up with some super optimistic excuse for her kid's behavior--and Mom gratefully swallows it. My kid's not weird...she's gifted! Suddenly, the dog growling, crayon scribbling, and cling-on behavior is a little more bearable.

My question is, when do Moms let go of the pretty little lies and start to realize that no, my kid isn't Einstein, he's just bad?

I have an aunt who's in her 70's and still makes excuses for her 40 year old son. He really is a genius, but that's about all he's got going for him. He's never had a job...he refuses to get a job...he's spent 20 years doing research on an obscure historical subject no one gives a shit about...and he's totally embracing the life of a hermit. No matter what crazy shit he gets into, my poor aunt takes a few days to create some optimistic lie to make herself feel better about it. No, he's not insane for knitting socks out of dog hair--he's just super economical!

Oy.

Okay. Let's just say strange behaviors really are signs of budding genius. So what? Even a genius has to be a functional member of society! It's still my responsibility to make my genius child understand that her behavior is not appropriate. It's still my responsibility to make sure that my child grows from quirky kid into a mature adult. It's still my responsibility to warn her that her mouth is going to get her beat up on the playground in 4th grade.

So while it's incredibly flattering to have people say, "Wow! I'm amazed at her vocabulary!" it doesn't mean I can excuse her behavior. I can't just shrug my shoulders during her next episode and say, "Well, you know, she is bright."

And to any other moms buying into the Genius Lie: I really hope that you'll do more for your kid than just create flattering excuses.

Be a parent.

Pregnancy...and Depression?

After 1 month back at home as a SAHM, life looks--like shit.

Maybe "life" is too general. Let's start out by saying my house looks like shit.

It's been 1 month of constant sickness, doctors' visits, and misery in this house. We've had colds, bronchitis, sinus infections, walking pneumonia, AND pink eye. February? You were a bitch, and I'm glad you're dead.

Laugh if you want to, but I planned on starting SAHM life with a bang. I wanted to be up, showered, and dressed by 8 am--just like a normal work day. I wanted to keep the house pristine, become The Queen of Meal Planning, and dedicate a couple of hours each day to Home School Preschool with Elizabeth. I wanted to look at SAHMdom as a job, and keep myself accountable for everything that needed done.

Reality? I've been so sick, miserable, and (let's face it) depressed that I've only done the bare minimums around here. My house is covered in dirty laundry, crusty counters, hairy bathrooms, and the fallout from Toy Explosion 2010. As for being up and dressed--HA! Which of my two pairs of GINORMOUS MATERNITY YOGA PANTS should I put on today?

Ugh.

Something is just...WRONG with me. I'm depressed like I was last summer, only this time anti-depressants aren't an option. And since I'm depressed AND pregnant, I feel like the most god-awful mom on the planet. What pregnant woman is in a funk 2 months before the baby comes, and sits around wishing the pregnancy was over but dreading the idea of bringing a screaming newborn home? What pregnant woman has nightmares--not about the baby!--but about being locked in a house and trying to figure out how to pack her shit and escape so she can finish up college?

I'm also scared. If I'm in a funk now, what's going to happen to me in May when I'm sleep deprived and have a baby hanging off of me?