Sunrise, Sunset

So, generally my days begin as follows: wake up around 7-ish; realize that I'm on my back; freak out over the fact that I went to bed on my side, wrapped around a body pillow that's too big to fit under the covers with me; then bemoan my sore back and rise from bed. This morning, I threw in a bellow of obscenity as a calf cramp crippled me.

I put on one of a few outfits that will fit me - probably a maternity top that obscures the fact that I'm wearing a pre-preg skirt, or maybe those maternity gauchos that make me look like a big fat pirate. Every day, I cringe as I see myself from the side and wish that someone would ask if I'm pregnant, instead of just assuming that I'm sporting a full, taut, belly that grows weekly. Every day = silence. I know the rule...never ask a woman if she's pregnant unless you can literally see the child crowning. But still.

I eat a high-fiber bar around 7-8 a.m., and wonder if today will be the day that I'll poop.

I drive to campus, park the car, and haul myself up the hill to class, complete with calf/thigh/ass cramps, side stitches, etc. As I reach my first class, I'm usually embarrassingly out of breath, since I haven't yet modulated my walking speed to accommodate my new heft.

At about 10:30, I feel hungry again, and Hortense is treating me to some jarring kicking and pounding. Between my first and second classes, I inhale a granola bar, or some peanut butter crackers.

Around 12:30, I have the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that's being squished in my bag. Sometimes, I eat this during my 3-hour class, like a preschooler.

I spend 3-4 hours at work on campus, three days a week. Unfortunately, all of the stool/chairs available for me to sit on are oddly tall, which means I have to fling my bulk upwards and backwards and hope to land at the right place on the stoolairs. Usually, right after I manage to get myself settled (when I get myself on the chair, I then have to pull up my maternity pants in the back and my underpants in the front), someone needs something, and I have to slide off again.

Around 4:30, I become oddly delirious with hunger, and Hortense pummels me.

I get home at 5-6, lie on the couch, and whimper until my husband makes me dinner. I complain about the teeny hairs that are now growing on my stomach and the lack of flattering pregnancy jeans in my life. I choke on my own spit once every 2 or 3 weeks, which is terrifying.

So that's essentially the life of a big fat pregnant grad student. With any luck, it will continue this way, with minimal drama, for the next 18 weeks. Last week, I asked my OB, "Are there things I should be doing at this point in the pregnancy? Not doing?" Her response: "Don't drink, don't smoke crack, and try not to get punched in the gut."

That's all??? I am never reading another baby book AGAIN.

Anatomy 101

Me: "You know how boobs and nipples and whatnot are supposed to get bigger with pregnancy?"

Husband: "Yeah."

Me: "Well, all this time, I've been looking at the big, circular part of my nipple to see if it was getting bigger or darker and it's not."

Husband: "That's not your nipple." 

Me: "But I noticed these little sticky-out bits in the middle..."

Husband: "You mean your nipples."

Me: "Semantics.  But anyways, those parts are getting bigger, just like the books said." 

Husband: "So, essentially, you're telling me that at the age of 29, you have at last discovered your own nipples."

In Which Napoleon Becomes Hortense

Crap salad, I've been lazy.

In my defense, 

1. I've just started grad school, which involved running all over campus, trolling for part-time jobs.

2. My house has been on the market for six months, and I've been pricing kitchen overhauls to see if the investment is worthwhile.

3. I dunno. Other stuff.

No major life changes while trying to get pregnant? That's for the weak.

So the big news is that I had the 18-week ultrasound and learned that Napoleon is more of a Napoleonette. Which is a big surprise, given that I was nearly convinced it was a boy. On the other hand, my mother was convinced it was a boy, and she's always, always wrong at gender-guessing. So that should have been a clue. 

I guess the obvious thing  would be to rename Napoleon Josephine, but that's a name that I could conceivably give to a child someday (husband's grandmother's name), and so it's not nearly as amusing as Hortense. 

Other exciting ultrasound news - I seem to have developed a succenturiate placental lobe, which they claim poses no threat to Hortense (although she seems to be rather snug between those two big lumps of placenta, and I wish she had a bit more room to flail around in) but which will have to be extracted from me after delivery, so as to keep me from hemorrhaging. My mother describes the manual extraction of leftover placenta as "worse than 36 hours of labor" and "oh, God, I wanted to die." So, that's exciting. But - if this is the only complication I encounter between now and January 27th, I'll probably be a pretty lucky girl.   

Off to breakfast - my insane husband is drafting a document in which I release him from responsibility for any future gestational diabetes diagnosis, and aver that I am eating the Krispy Kreme he brought me of my own volition. 

Grandparent Names that are Currently Being Discussed

- Goose and Maverick.

- Mamie and Ike.

- Nub and Digger.

- Biggie and Puffy.

- Captain and Tenille. 

Not currently in the running: Meemaw, Peepaw, Glamma, Granny, "Big" anything, or Gogie. Or, sadly, Toot. 

Words that are Very Unsexy, but in All Fairness, Were Never Intended to Be Sexy

1. Colostrum.

There are women, on this message board that I read from time to time, who say that milky goo has, at one time or another, flown out of their boobs when sneezing, say, or squeezing a nipple. This was shocking to me. When I cough and sneeze, my boobs stay completely sealed. I even tried to squeeze a nipple, to see what would happen (not something I do every day, let's just say). Nothing. 

On one hand, it's always a relief not to inadvertently milk yourself. On the other, I don't want to fall behind developmentally. Hmm.

Good night, then. Off to scrutinize my boobs. 

To Everything There is a Season

I've taken a brief blogging hiatus, as I've been out of town attending my grandfather's funeral, an event that serves as a sobering reminder that everyone in the family tree is about to climb up a branch. The grandparents, as I knew them, are all gone, and the parents are ready to take their places. That, naturally, means that at some point very soon, I will be moving from the ranks of child (metaphorical: clearly a grown-ass married woman with a mortgage is not a child) to parent. If I step directly into my mother's footsteps, I'm looking at years of child-raising followed, possibly, by years of parent-caretaking.  Serious stuff. 

Is it scary? Yeah, a little. Do I feel like a wussbag for making this transition at 29, instead of, say, building a log cabin with my bare hands and raising six children and some cows and chopping cotton all day by age 19 or so? Again - yeah, a tad. 

So, loins must be girded and all that. I do wish my grandparents had gotten to meet the kid, though. 

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.