36 Weeks / 1 Year

17 08 2011

Jason and I have been married for one year now.  Considering that I’ve pretty much been pregnant for that entire year, that we still don’t have a baby, and I have another four weeks left of being pregnant, I think that it’s pretty damn impressive that we’re still on speaking terms.  Most of the time.




Baby, You’re Getting On My Nerves

27 07 2011

My sciatic nerve, specifically.  You seem to have mistaken it for a drum or some other object you can abuse at will.  Don’t get me wrong: I am happy to have you right where you are; I just want you to understand that I might not be quite so well rested as I would like if something doesn’t change.

Speaking of change… My honeymoon with pregnancy ended dramatically as week 32 came to a close.  I am still thrilled to feel you move around, I still spend plenty of time staring at my belly in the mirror because I want to see  you move.  I am still frantically preparing for your arrival, and daydreaming about who you will be, and eating very expensive nitrate-free lunch meat so as not to expose you to cancer-causing preservatives.  But, Baby, things did get tough this week.

Here’s how the week is shaping up:

– pick up packages from the post office

– attend yoga to deal with sciatica/carpal tunnel

– shop at Target

– attend water fitness to deal with sciatica/carpal tunnel

have wedding ring cut off of finger

– midwife appointment

– schedule chiro appointment to deal with sciatica/carpal tunnel

You see how things have gotten a little tough.  I would totally stay 30 weeks pregnant for 9 months.  33 weeks pregnant?  Nope, not a chance.


First I did this to my wedding ring. Then I told Jason I had to move to a different bed because my sciatica is so painful at night. Oh, sacrificing our marriage for our child began in earnest this week...

But, Baby?  While this hasn’t been the best week of my pregnancy?  You still make me happier than I’ve ever been.

They Say the Darndest Things…

13 03 2011

For a long time, the funniest comment Jason had made regarding parenthood was during a conversation in which he was trying to convince me that he could work from home and care for an infant.

Me: What happens when you’re on a conference call and the baby is screaming?

Jason: I’ll just wheel it into the other room.

Me: They don’t come with wheels.


Equally amusing was his suggestion that I shouldn’t pump at work: “It’s a 45 minute drive each way,” he explained.  “Just pump while you drive.”


Last night, Jason asked what I was doing.  I told him I was researching baby carriers, and he wanted to know what a baby carrier was.

“You know,” I told him.  “Like a backpack but for carrying a baby.”

“We have plenty of backpacks,” he said.  “We really don’t need another one.”

“Well, baby carriers are meant for carrying an infant.”

“Oh, it’s silly to buy one when we have so many packs,” he insisted.  “We can just put it in one of those with some blankets around it to keep it from falling out.”


Today, I had been practicing with the wrap my sister-in-law sent me (along with the recommendation that I practice with the cat – clearly not understanding the half-feral nature of my resident feline).

Jason saw the yards of material and asked what it was.

So I demonstrated.

Wolverine seemed confused as I attempted to get him into the baby wrap...

...but there was no confusion when I tried to make adjustments - he was out for blood.

Okay, so here’s the deal: I totally make fun of my husband for the seemingly crazy and un-parent-like comments he makes regarding the care of our future offspring.

But the thing is?  I’m the one putting a cat into a baby carrier.

Snow Baby

24 02 2011

Honestly, I’m not much of a skier.  But I married a skier.  And now I am apparently growing a skier.



Jason scoffed at the general wisdom that pregnant women have no business skiing.

But he skied behind me for three and half hours, just to be sure nobody ran into me.  Or our future ski team member.

My Longest Post Ever, With Lots of Words In ALL CAPS

8 02 2011

So… My post-miscarriage mood was admittedly rather depressed and not very blog-worthy.  Added to this, I lost the charger for my camera around the same time.  With my creativity dampened and new photos difficult to obtain, I was rather uninspired to work on daily (or weekly or monthly) posts.

Then this happened:

New Year’s Eve morning, I got up to pee on a stick.  I’m getting awfully good at peeing on sticks, and this was a particularly good one, since it actually spelled out the results for me.  I kept the secret for nearly 18 hours and told Jason at midnight.  Awwww…

And the next 5 weeks were absolute hell.  It was a time of pure, unmitigated anxiety.  My thoughts, when looking at the little digital word, were “Hooray!” but quickly turned to “What if something goes wrong again?  What if I start spotting again?  Should I call the doctor?  Go to the ER?  Do I have to wait a year if I have another miscarriage?  Should I… OH MY GOD DID I JUST FEEL A CRAMP IN MY UTERUS?  WHY IS THIS HAPPENING… Oh, it went away… What if…”

We decided to go back to our hippie midwives.  Having just recently gone through early pregnancy with them, I held off on scheduling an appointment until 10 weeks, when we would have a good chance of hearing a heartbeat.  That 10 weeks would actually be this coming Monday (“Well, at least you’ll finally have a date for Valentine’s Day,” Jason pointed out, typically romantic).

Nothing ever does go according to plan.

Last week, I got a pain in one side.  It wasn’t unbearable, nor was it constant.  But it was consistent, and worrisome.  So I thought I’d just make a quick call to the doctor, maybe see her for an appointment, maybe, maybe qualify for one of those elusive early ultrasounds.  SEVENTEEN CALLS to the doctor later, as well as TWO BLOOD TESTS and FIVE DAYS LATER, I finally got an appointment – but only after my first true I’m-Pregnant-and-I’m-Psycho-Mad-Fit-of-Rage.  Really, the receptionist didn’t know what to do with me except have me come in.

Luckily, the receptionist didn’t have time to warn the doctor, or else the doctor is just very used to women pumped full of hormones, because he was very polite.  He said the word I most wanted to hear at the moment (ultrasound), which made me happy even though it was preceded by two words I’d really rather not hear ever (pelvic exam).  Jason earned the right to watch the ultrasound by first being present while another man prodded my hoo-ha.

Here is what we saw:

Well, maybe I’m pregnant or maybe I swallowed a Cinnamon Bear whole.  The doctor wasn’t entirely sure.  Okay, that was supposed to be our ultrasound picture, but I couldn’t get the scanner to work, so the CB is standing in until Jason has time to help me.  Jason was relieved, probably happy too, but his first comment on it was “I didn’t know what I was going to do if they told us you had squished another one.”  (Just so there’s no confusion, I didn’t really squish the first one, either.  I assume Jason knows that, but it’s hard to tell, really.)

Here’s the thing: I have been SO READY to be a mother.  I have spent so much of my life waiting to fulfill this calling.  And practicing.  Oh, lord, how I practiced.  Mother’s helper, babysitter, nanny, camp counselor-in-training… Years and years of experience, of chasing little kids and changing diapers and endless crying and I loved it all.  I even had eleven weeks of practice pregnancy, and only, like, 25% of women get to do that.  SO READY.

Here’s another thing: I’ve seen a lot of ultrasound pictures.  Thank you, facebook, I’ve seen dozens now, but I’d seen quite a few even before everyone posted theirs as their profile picture.  And it seemed sweet, a little snapshot of a baby growing in some woman’s womb.  Awww… But nothing more than that.

But let me tell you this: nothing, NOTHING prepared me for seeing my own baby’s heartbeat on that ultrasound machine.  NOTHING.  First, I felt relief as the shape of my little Cinnamon Bear showed up, and then I saw the flutter of the heart beating twice a second and I felt further relief because I knew my little Gummi Bear was alive and well, and then OH MY GOD THAT’S A WHOLE FUCKING PERSON RIGHT THERE.  HOLY SHIT, THAT’S SOME NEW PERSON.  And then more relief.  And then, OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?  And then joy.  And then, I’M NOT READY!!!  Et cetera, et cetera, for several hours.

So I’m humble now.  And no longer any more or less prepared to be a mother than any other mortal, whether she planned the pregnancy for twenty years or got knocked up her first time.


Here is a picture of my cat, because posts with lots of pictures are more interesting:


Also humbling: I never understood women who said they couldn’t help gaining too much weight during pregnancy.  Then, three weeks ago, my sweet little Cinnamon Bear took over my mind and made me want to vomit when I tried to eat broccoli.  Or any source of lean protein.  But the Cinnamon Bear was perfectly fine with me eating TWELVE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES A DAY… FOR A WEEK.  In case that doesn’t sound so extreme, let me point out that A) chocolate chip cookies are about 150 calories each, and B) oh, I did manage to eat some pizza each day, too.

Anyway, with all this on my mind, plus the reappearance of my lopsidedly-enlarging breasts (last heard of here), it was hard for me to blog about anything else.  And while I have no regrets about blogging through my previous pregnancy and my miscarriage, I wasn’t willing to announce this newest adventure until we had that fierce, fast, independent little heartbeat.  Which was going to be next week.  But is today instead.

Happy Heartbeat, Little Cinnamon Bear.




Oh, and here’s picture of the dog, so he doesn’t feel left out:

To My Husband…

13 10 2010

Yes, I’m excited about one day having a baby with you, and I really hope that happens.  But I didn’t marry you because I wanted a baby.  I married you because I love you, and I love us together.  You never know what’s going to happen.  Maybe we’ll have kids together, maybe we won’t.  Maybe we’ll live to be a hundred together, maybe we won’t.  Maybe my retirement package will pay out, probably not.  But I do know this:

whatever happens, I married the right man when I married you.*


*Unless you weren’t kidding about picking up a hooker tonight.  In that case, please disregard the message above.

Signs and Superstitions

3 10 2010

I spend my Sunday mornings cracking over a dozen eggs and making enough breakfast burritos to get me through the work week.  This has been my solution to an overly long commute.  I have a cup of tea before I hit the road and a warm breakfast once I make it to my desk.

This morning, I cracked four eggs to finish off eggs leftover from last week and started in on a fresh dozen.  The first egg went as usual.  The second egg was a double yolk.  I laughed to myself, and hoped this didn’t signify a double yolk of my own.  But the third egg had a double yolk, too, and then the fourth – a total of three double-yolked eggs.  I was sufficiently creeped out to take this photo:

Three paired yolks amidst five single yolks - very strange...

As I continued cracking eggs, it got even weirder.  One after another, the eggs produced twins.  I regretted that I was home alone, as this was surely something that required a witness of some sort.  Out of the dozen eggs, ten held two yolks each.

Since this was some sort of sign on a significant level, I decided to research double yolks in folklore.  I expected something to do with fertility.  Boy was I wrong.  Turns out that modern mythology sees double egg yolks as predictors marriage (yay!) or harbingers of a death in the family (shit).  I was unable to find out if so many signs meant that I would see multiple marriages or deaths in my family, or that Life really, really, really wanted to make her plans clear for a single wedding or funeral.  Given that I found no less than ten of these things, it seems like that number of either event would be rather excessive.

I think I read about a city in China that is known for producing twin-yolked duck eggs, and that people flock there for fertility luck.  Or maybe just good luck.  In my head, at least, it is a good sort of luck that has nothing to do with death, and people consider themselves lucky to be able to visit and partake of the double yolks.

Who knows?  Maybe my local Trader Joe’s will soon be the Fertility Mecca of the Northwest.

TEN double yolks amidst the regular ones - sixteen eggs produced all these yolks, some of which are broken.

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