Sensitive Musings

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I want a turkey sandwich.

I have told my husband that come January 27th, he needs to be prepared to run to the Subway outpost in our hospital and hook me up with a six-inch turkey sub with lettuce, tomato, cheese, pickles, and copious amounts of oil and vinegar, possibly on my way out of the delivery room. 

What Not to Wear

I have seen the enemy, and she is a pair of maternity jeans. Yesterday, I went with my mother and aunt to look for maternity clothes. Truly, the stash I came home with is not bad-looking and quite reasonably priced (big ups to JC Penney and Old Navy), but let me tell you - if this baby's a girl, I may end up naming her Polly Esther, because that is apparently the official fabric sponsor (TM) of gestation. I will be rocking polyester pants (with giant stretchy belly band) and polyester tops soon...and for many months, apparently. 

Of course, since I was with two pregnancy veterans, I got to hear ALLLLLLL about how huge I was going to be, how huge I would stay afterwards, how I should probably go ahead and buy everything in the biggest size possible because I would surely need it...you get the picture. I freely admit that prior to getting knocked up, I was size 10 on top and 12 on the bottom. So I'm not the sveltest svelte that ever svelted, but I don't think I'm quite at the level of having my own show on TLC. 

I had thought I'd get some stuff to get me from here deep into trimester 2, rather than immediately buying the roomiest stuff and waiting to grow into it. On the spectrum of pregnant clothes, though, these two women see no middle ground between "not quite being able to button my jeans" and "Welcome to Caftan City." They urged me to consider wearing stretchy black pants and a black shirt that reaches to my knees for starting school in the fall. (When I am carrying a visible lump of child in the front, I'm sure the long shirt will be handy, but right now, I look like a fool.) 

"But black is slimming!" they cry.

I can't wait to show up for my first day of class looking like a high school stagehand. 

Other excellent pieces I tried on included: a pair of embroidered Ren-Faire-ish shirts, with sleeves that would have caused a pre-teen Anne Shirley to pee her pantalettes; an Empire-cut top that already appeared to have a rounded puff sewn in, awaiting my burgeoning gut and making me look seven months along at 13 weeks; and a sleeveless top with a smocked panel across my bosom. I didn't really have too much objection to this third option - smocking is likely more flattering for my gradually broadening boobs than just allowing them to continue on their current path, drifting apart like two halves of Pangaea.

I get where my mother and aunt are coming from - they don't like the whole concept of walking around in tight midriff tops, pregnancy-innies on full display. Despite basically agreeing with them, I still got to hear lots of "When I was your age, I made do with a polka-dot muumuu and a denim jumper! For five months! As God intended!"  You'd think I was planning on hanging out in a bikini top and denim cutoffs (as I did that one time at Carowinds, summer of '97. I'm not proud, but if you're going to sport that look anywhere, that was the place.) 

I think I'm going to pull a Lohan and invest in some leggings. If I pair them with a good ol' fashioned, Mama-endorsed muumuu, I might be able to claim it's cutting-edge fashion, y'all. 

Ugh Moments of the Week

1. Boobs not getting bigger in an attractive way, but may be spreading sideways in a fat-ish, glandy way.

2. Trying not to roll eyes over story of a friend who accidentally got knocked up from one night of unprotected sex with husband (just! one! night!), because they're apparently overflowing with fertility. 

3. Small roll of fat beginning to tiptoe over waistband of underpants. Hott.

4. Being told that I'm not acting "excited" enough about my just-shy-of-13-week fetus...you know, not announcing the occasion to enough people I barely know. In fact, the person who inflicted this opinion on me told me that I was "acting like this was an unwanted pregnancy."

Yeah - I've been trying for eighteen months to get pregnant, dealing with tubal pregnancies, sperm issues, needles,  and stimulation meds because I'm COMPLETELY NONCHALANT. Maybe I'll go smoke some crack, drink some tequila, and toss myself down the stairs.

What a Difference a Year Makes.

Yesterday, I was pretty anxious over my first OB appt, especially the FFW (first f*cking weigh-in) and the DSDSS (desperately serious Down Syndrome screening). Both turned out to be pleasant surprises. 

The OB (who I've seen before, and like pretty well) did not bring up my weight or what it should or shouldn't be. We talked briefly about exercise, and about how it was okay to dial it back if I found spotting afterwards. I was also reassured that a sweaty-palmed 23-year-old med student would definitely not be delivering my child.

The ultrasound tech who did the screening was very friendly and chipper - I was expecting her to measure in silence, then tell me grimly to wait for the results, but she was chatty and encouraging, told me that things looked generally normal, and had a nice bright flat-screen on which I watched Napoleon flap around like a fish, then settle on his/her back and wave a fist, which was odd and amusing. 

In other news, I quickly consulted the pregnancy book my friend loaned me (which seems to be a recruitment piece for the Natural Childbirth Brigade) yesterday and learned that it's still TOTALLY OKAY to go skydiving at 12 weeks. Yeah. That's great news. I was really worried about not being able to skydive for nine months. Let me go book that airplane right now.

Waiting.

Life has improved somewhat since I stopped shoving unnecessary progesterone-jectiles into my business, but the cramps (or are they muscle pains?) still linger a bit. Sneezing, coughing, laughing hard, and stretching all produce a pleasant sensation akin to having nails driven into my pubic bone. I don't know what to make of it - two urinalysis tests came back clean, and when I called the "resident on call" the other night at the hospital, he informed me that "Uh, that might be, like round ligament pain. If you start bleeding a lot, you should, you know, come into the ER." Yeah, homes, I don't really need to be told to seek help for "bleeding a lot." If I can stick it out until Wednesday, I'll finally get to see the OB, who will hopefully have more answers and will hopefully verify that Napoleon continues to hang on to his small tract o'land.

Prior to discontinuing my use of progesterone, I was reflecting on the idea that using those messy suppositories reminded me of Ye Olde Dayse of Tryinge to Get Pregnante Naturallie. Remember those? When you thought that a little unprotected sex was all it took to get knocked up? 

...okay, I'm done laughing hysterically now. You?

And then, after the Deed was Done, you'd put your feet in the air for twenty minutes, clenching muscles you didn't know you had, because no one ever told you that unprotected sex was so MESSY and aside from not wanting to wash the sheets again already, you wanted to make sure that the Junior Einstein sperm didn't ooze back out, leaving you with the Wee Jeffrey Dahmer ones? 

Yeah, those days. 

Neato, part 2.

And the dumbest. I noticed last night, whilst putting yet another bullet of creamy hormonal goodness into my junk, that it HURT LIKE A MOFO to do so. This prompted my tiny reptilian brain to direct my fingers to email the RE and ask if I was supposed to have stopped using the progesterone supps at week 10? Or keep going until 12? Could this be contributing to my abdominal pains?

Her response: Yuh. You were meant to stop them at 10 weeks. How constipated are you right now?

Me: Very. 

Neato.

After a brief vacation/internet hiatus, I can report that at (allegedly) 10.5 weeks, my uterus feels like a balloon with a Rubik's cube inside. No morning sickness, no lovely clear skin and heaving bosoms, just gas pains. Lots and lots of crippling gas. I am probably the most desirable pregnant woman ever.