Things You Shouldn't Do When You're 6 Months Pregnant

This list will probably vary greatly from one woman to the next. And by the time I reach 7 months, there will be a whole new set of things to add to it. Over the last couple of weeks, I've begun keeping a mental checklist of things that shouldn't be attempted at this stage in my pregnancy (it's becoming quite the long list indeed). I've discovered I can categorize each thing into one of three categories: 1. Shouldn't do. 2. Will never do again. 3. WTF was I thinking?


{It should go without saying that I'm going to fast-forward through the usual no-no's like smoking, drinking, litter-box cleaning, bungee jumping and closing one's self up in a freshly-fumigated room with no windows).


1. Sit down on the floor with Ella. The only way this could work now is if she had the upper body strength of my husband to peel me off of the floor when we're done playing.


2. Attempt to shave parts of myself I can no longer see. (I'm just gonna keep that one as ambiguous as possible, but you get the point). This would fall into category #3...


3. Watch any baby-related TV Show. "Bringing Home Baby" and "A Baby Story" are somewhat manageable, although I find it impossible not to cry every. single. time. when the babies are born. NICU is out of the question. I've watched it only once and nearly gave Jake a heart attack when he walked in our room to find me sobbing and hicupp-ing like a crazy loon. And let's not even talk about the "I'm Pregnant And..." show. I was lucky enough to catch the beginning of an episode featuring a woman who was pregnant and a nudist. There are just no words for how special that was and now I wish I could poke out my mind's eye.

4. Do "Downward Facing Dog" in Yoga. There are a couple of reasons for this one. a) have you actually watched someone do this pose? *Awkward* b) I'm not even sure it's physically possible for me to bend that way anymore. c). Pregnancy farts are in a class by themselves and doing a pose like this is just asking for it. d). All the blood rushes to my head and I almost pass out. So there. Four very good reasons not to stick my hips and butt up in the air above my head.

5. Wear heels two days in a row. It's always a sad, sad day in my pregnancy when I realize that I have to ration my boot or high-heel wearing to only once every other day or every two days. But it's also a sad, sad day when I can't get up from the sofa or lift my daughter out of her crib because my lower back is in knots.

6. Look at the scale. Because really, what's the point? It's not like it's going back down anytime soon. In fact, I don't plan to step onto that guilt-box until I'm 6 weeks post-partum.



There will be more to add to this list in the days to come, I'm sure. But right now, this momma needs some sleep and preggo brain is in full effect. ;-)

"I Don't Think You're Ready for *This* Jelly"

I was running some errands earlier today and one of the featured "Friday Flashback" songs came on- "Bootylicious" from Destiny's Child's Survivor Album (and since when 2004 became a "flashback," I have no idea. 6 whole years ago. What a stretch.) Anyhoo, I was instantly taken back to my single, clubbing days- drink in hand, dancing off the buzz and appreciating a song that made girls with curves feel good about what God gave 'em. There was a time when I knew this song word for word, but those days are long gone, so when I got home, I pulled up the lyrics. (And discovered that there were quite a few lyrics that I never had right to begin with...)

And while I skimmed over them, I thought, "ya know- this is pretty applicable to pregnancy too." So I thought I'd offer some insight into the words sung- ever so eloquently, I might add- by Beyonce, but with a preggo twist.


"I'm about to break you off
(if you ask me if I'm sure I'm not having twins)
Read my hips
(and you'll probably see remnants of the humongo bearclaw I had from Panera this morning)
Slap my thighs
(but be warned, they're big enough to slap you back now)
Swing my hair
(thanks to my prenatal vitamins, it grows at an alarming rate of 1/4 inch per day)
Squint my eyes
(No, I'm not trying to look sexy, I'm actually feeling a little nauseous)
Lookin' hot
(oh Jesus, here comes another hot flash)
Smellin' good
(did someone bring in a pepperoni pizza...*drool*)
Groovin' like I'm from the hood
(yeah, because they haven't even invented a word for my skin's particular shade of white)
Over my shoulder
(there's a strange new pregnancy-induced skin tag that appeared in the last few weeks. Awesome.)
Blow you a kiss
(because I'm really not in the mood to be touched. Or have sex. For like, the next 7 months).
Can you handle, handle this?
(Nope. Not without my yoga pants and a special little friend called Zofran).


I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(I just tripped over my cankles on the treadmill)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(is that *another* stretchmark??)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(did someone say "jelly?" Blackberry is my favorite. I want to make biscuits. Oooh, breakfast for dinner sounds good...)


"Cause my body's too bootylicious for ya, babe."

;-)

A God of Small Things

I laid on the exam table yesterday and prayed it would be over soon. The room was muggy and I hated having to lie flat on my back. I felt like I couldn't breathe. A by-product of my anxiety, plus the very real pressure of an enlarging uterus pushing up against my diaphragm and lungs. I eyed the door nervously, reached in my pocket for the reassurance of 2 little pills- one, Zofran and the other Xanax- and the barage of excuses I could use to make an escape pressed their way into my mind, before I even asked them to. I decided to split the Xanax in half in case I needed to take it, since it had been months since I needed one and I really didn't want to take it. Then, as if having it in my pocket wasn't close enough, I decided to hold it in between my thumb and forefinger.

I should have been excited to get my ultrasound, to have a chance to see Milo again. But more than anything, I just wanted out. I suddenly wished I had gone with my gut and declined the AFP test (alphafetoprotein) but instead, let the doctor talk me into having the extra peace of mind. If only it had really been that easy. The nurse called with my test results and said they were "slightly elevated." My risk assessment for having a baby with Spina Bifida rose from .5% to 1%. (Really?? You want me to come in for an extra ultrasound because there's a 99% chance that my baby is fine?) *insert eye roll here* I tried to put the worry of the tiny chance something was wrong out of my mind and instead, consoled myself with the fact that I would get more pictures of my little guy. But wait, I hate doctor's offices. I despise the sterile smell and the big equipment and the bland, oatmeal-colored walls and carpet and the fact that everyone talks in hushed voices. Talk about wanting to make an anxiety-prone person bolt for the door....DAMN them! Now I *had* to go back. I could have turned down the ultrasound, but then I would have had that 1% following me around for the rest of my pregnancy, painting scary images in my head. I knew that I had to put the worst case scenario out of my mind for good.

The lab tech came in and pressed the probe down on my belly, giving me a painful reminder of my full bladder and causing me to draw in a short, sharp breath. And there he was, this one-pound ball of flesh and bone, hiccup-ing and squirming around and otherwise, looking very content. I wondered, could he sense my tension? Could he feel that his Momma was scared? I took steady, deep breaths and focused on the perfection of his little silhouette. She took an extra long time looking at his spine and I started counting the discs and bones, (as if I knew what a perfect spine would look like if it came up and bit me). But at least, it took my mind off of my nerves. Despite having gone through pregnancy once before, I still found myself completely and utterly in awe that a whole entire body had been fused together inside of mine: the four chambers of his heart beating in perfect rhythm, the sections of his brain that had divided where they were supposed to, the curvature of his tiny spine, even the way he balled up his tiny fists and kept them close to his face. All of his tiny organs in place, continuing to grow and develop, but- as the tech reassured us- all working in perfect harmony with each other. I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. There were no obvious markers for Spina Bifida, just as we all had prayed. I momentarily wondered how on earth you could ever give someone news like that and suddenly I felt very grateful for my job as a piano teacher. I would never have to deliver devastating news like that.

But wait, we weren't done and the doctor would be back in to talk with us. What could this be about? Maybe just a follow-up? I groaned and flopped back on the table. My half-pill of Xanax had all but dissolved into a tiny speck in the clammy-ness of my fingers. I discreetly let the white powder and loose crumbles fall to the floor. The doctor came in, seeming very jovial, which put me at ease, and scanned over Milo's body while he asked us questions about what we did for a living. "I'm a piano teacher and my husband is a web-developer," I heard myself say, but I was distracted by the fact that he kept trying to zoom in to Milo's left hand. Come to think of it, the tech did the same thing. The doctor asked if Jake played any instruments too. The conversation faded as I studied the doctor's face. What was that he was counting? Oh God, please let everything be okay. They said everything was fine. Why was he concentrating like that?

Then, in a very matter-of-fact voice, he said "Well, he's stone cold normal, except that he only has 3 fingers and a thumb on his left hand. He's missing his pinky." As if he was telling me the weather forecast, or that the color of my shirt was light pink.

What??

Perhaps he missed the irony, but it wasn't lost on me: A piano teacher and a guitar player, having a baby with only 9 fingers. I thought, surely he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a bad angle, or a misplaced shadow. But no. He was, in his own words, 100% sure that Milo's left pinky was gone- most likely due to something called an "amniotic band," in which tissue wraps around a developing fetus's limbs or digits, creating a type of tourniquet by cutting off blood flow and ultimately resulting in a freaky kind of self-amputation.

I let it sink in for a minute. So our son wouldn't have a finger, and honestly, of all fingers- heck, of all body parts- to be missing when you're born- second only to your pinky toe- the pinky finger would be the one someone would miss the least, right? If we walked in worried about something as devastating as Spina Bifida and walked out minus one pinky, life was still good. Yes, life was still good. But the mommy in me struggled to accept a potential disability- no matter how small. A flood of questions and doubts entered my mind: Will he get picked on? Will he be embarrassed? Will he be able to throw a ball, play sports, play instruments, tie his shoes? I thought about how much I really use my pinky. I would obviously miss mine now, but he won't ever know the difference, so that makes it okay, right?

But it's not okay. I had to finally let myself admit it as I drove home. I felt ungrateful as the tears stung my eyes and fell silently onto my round belly. Of course, he was going to be a normal kid and live a good life if we had anything to do with it. He didn't have something devastating like a hole in his heart or a misplaced organ. His spine is perfect. He's beautiful and he's ours. But my conscience was heavy with a thought I wanted to destroy and never think again: He isn't as perfect as I wanted him to be. Not as perfect as he seemed before the doctor came in. And then, the harder pill for me to swallow came a few minutes later- that my idea of "perfection" is about as small as the box I try to make God fit inside. All I could think was that my son would be coming into this world at a small- however, instant- disadvantage, because not everything is where it should be. I wanted to mourn that little finger because it would be one less finger I get to kiss and hold when he's born. I have no doubt that I'll be too wrapped up in holding him and marveling at him once he gets here, but I don't- for one second- think that I won't want to wave a magic wand in the months and years down the road and make that pinky reappear for him, just so things might be that much easier, if only in a minuscule way. It seems so little. But I'm reminded that maybe that's what God wants me to see- that He's a God of the little things, just as much as He is a God of huge things. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing is to ever be taken for granted, on any scale. The first time Milo drops a block into the shape sorter with his left hand, the first time he ties his shoes, the first song he learns on whatever instrument he chooses to play- they all become victories in a way they might never have been. Small things made spectacular. Or rather, spectacular things revealed to me in a brand new light, and one that asks me to throw my pre-conceived ideas out the window.


Milo isn't even here yet and already, he's teaching his Momma how to let go. I like this kid. <3

It's Not What You Think

I've put off writing about this topic because it's a tough one to even know how to articulate. I always try to find the humor in every day circumstances, but sometimes, there isn't any to be found. Musicians play, dancers dance, babies cry and writers write. Even when it hurts. Even when there's no clear way to end the words. As with anything in life, I've learned that it's about the process- and even more about the discipline- than it is the finished product, although the artist in me still strives for perfection every single time. And every single time, I will fall short. It happens.

There's a quote from a song I like that says, "Life perfect, ain't perfect if you don't know what the struggle's for." For four years, my struggle has been against anxiety. It's true that life wouldn't be nearly as precious to me now if I hadn't had to fight to find my identity and my own degree of normalcy since 2006. Since then, there has rarely been a day that I don't wake up on the front line of a continual war against- well, me. My own body. My racing mind. The subconscious circuit of lies and "what ifs" that are on constant replay. I liken it to being tuned into a bad radio station with a bunch of negative talk and static. Often, there is no volume knob or dial to tune into something different. Not too long ago, I had a painful realization that I had begun to accept this as "the way of life" from here on out. This revelation scared me more than the panic attacks themselves. But having already spent thousands of dollars on counseling, psychotherapy, and refills of Klonopin and Xanax (which, thankfully, I don't need to take anymore), I had begun to have expectations of little more than obtaining a mute button for my own back-stabbing mind. Realistically, I still don't expect the negative voice to go away. I can only hope to muffle it until one day, it just quits trying.

It's not what you think.

I don't need to go and sit in my car by myself and do deep breathing. But sometimes, it's the only way I feel safe. It may never have crossed your mind while standing in the Kroger check-out lane that you have. to. get. out. But I think it every single time I'm putting groceries on the belt. It takes everything I have in me to make myself stay because for so many years, I've trained my body to simply run.

It's not what you think.

I may try to look put together, but don't be fooled. Each time a panic attack hits, I turn into the woman who weighed 120 lbs and was a few steps away from being hospitalized. For a few minutes, I become the wife who almost lost her husband before she ever made it to her first anniversary because the stress was almost too much for either person to handle. People find it funny that I don't leave to take the trash out without a dab of concealer and some lip gloss (and it's true), but it's less because I'm a girly girl and more because I've learned to hide behind the makeup.


It's not what you think.

An introvert I may be, but I still want to hang out with my friends. But if I begin to feel anxious, I'll make up reasons to not be able to see them. I know I have a choice, but it never feels that way to me at the time.


It's not what you think.

Whatever excuse I gave you for needing to leave, it's probably a lie. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've made a habit out of lying to the people I love so that this "thing" is never what they think it is. It's never the truth. Even when I know that the only person it truly hurts is me. Sometimes, I hope I'll start to believe the things that I make up because those realities seem easier to live with.

What is it about saying, "I'm scared" that's so hard? So many times I've wished I were afraid of heights or planes or spiders. I tell myself if I could only see it, just put my finger on it, I could kill it and move on.



But then I think, this thing that has a grip on me- perhaps it's not what I think it is either. Perhaps it's actually nothing but a bully, sucking all of it's energy and ego by preying on all my truths and twisting them around until they're unrecognizable. I watch my daughter's reaction when she doesn't get her way. Her face turns a reddish-purple, the inevitable high pitched wail that could peel the paint from the wall follows, something is usually thrown and then she crumples into a dramatic ball on the floor. A tantrum, in it's most classic form. (I can't wait for that to happen in Target one day). So it seems that my mind has become quite adept at throwing it's own tantrums, vying for my attention, which I've been all too willing to give it over the years.

It's not what you think.
"How will your daughter ever know what strength looks like if she always sees her mommy run?"
It's not what you think.
"And you thought you should have another baby? How will you be strong enough for them both?"
It's not what you think.
You're never safe.
It's not what you think.
The ending is already written. You can't change it.
It's not what you think.



Maybe, just maybe, It's not what I think, either.

What's in a name?

I have decided, there are few things that can leave a marriage as divided as the process of naming your unborn child, probably ranking second only to finances. Some couples get lucky and come away unscathed, landing on a name almost immediately (and although this was the case when we picked Ella's name, I think it more of the exception). Some couples know they will use certain family names, and whether they particularly like the name is of no matter; it's a family name, it's a done deal, and there are no qualms.

Thankfully, we had a boy name already left over from when I had first gotten pregnant with Ella and we wanted to have both options. So, I have to admit, I prayed that this child would be a boy. Not because I was against having another girl- I could see Ella having a sister and always thought two little girls would be so much fun. As a matter of fact, I was pretty convinced that we were, in fact, having another girl, from the very beginning. But I prayed for a boy because I knew there was a good chance that if it was another girl, our daughter would be nameless. As in, "Nameless Seward." Because her mother and father couldn't actually agree on any name. "Nameless" would at least be unique.

Thank God that he put a stem on this apple and saved us from what was sure to be another several months of struggle and debate. And although I have no idea what to do with little penises (a topic for which I'll need a few separate posts to cover), I'm sure I'll adjust and at least my son has a name. So Milo Ryan will be joining us in the first week of February. :-) We get a few eyebrow raises every now and then when we mention his name, but we like that it's unique (and yes, I do know that was the name of the cat in the movie "Milo and Otis" and hell no, that is not where we got the name from). Seriously, people.

And then it occurred to me this morning that I had absolutely no idea what my son's name means. Not that it matters. If I looked it up and discovered that it meant, "a homely child; one that possesses a single, lonely eye in the middle of the forehead," we would still roll with it (and pray that he isn't born a cyclops) because we are not, under any circumstances, reconsidering another name. Done deal. Fortunately for us, although the exact derivation is unclear, his name is most likely derived from Germanic origin meaning, "mild, peaceful and calm." Hah. Jake's kid?? I think not. As a little boy, my sweet husband was tested for ADHD, however, it was instead determined that he was just "hyper." He was not allowed to have any soda, but apparently, his Dad liked to give him a Coke every now and then just to watch his reaction (think Tazmanian devil-like antics). Of course, you would never know this about him- now, he's the most chilled out and laid back guy you would ever meet. Regardless, something tells me our kids are most likely destined to run the same course. However, Ella was already delivering some swift sucker-punches at this stage in my pregnancy with her, so it does seem to me that little Milo is already a tiny bit more calm in there. Fine with me. I'll take whatever little bit of peace and serenity I can get before February.

It's a.......Gut Feeling

Friday is the big day. THE day. I can hardly believe it's here already.

It is time, at long last, to know the flavor of this little bean. I didn't give it much thought in the very beginning, probably because much more of my focus was centered on trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. I could've given a rat's patootie what the little belly-dweller's gender was, so long as it wasn't two of them and so long as I didn't become any sicker than I was with Ella.

But of course, I compared notes between my two pregnancies. I noted when the morning sickness started, when it peaked, when it ended, what I craved, what I had aversions to, etc etc. I also eventually succumbed to the gender quizzes on various baby sites and consulted the Chinese Gender chart on several occasions. Every woman who becomes pregnant is secretly (or maybe not-so-secretly) desperate to know whether she's carrying a girl or a boy. And it's usually the second question out of people's mouths too, right after they notice your protruding bump.

"When's the baby due?" - The middle of February.
"Do you know what you're having?"- _________?

A word of warning: Especially nosy people may proceed to ask you, then, if this was a planned pregnancy, if you're planning to have anymore, what the name is, and some truly special people might indulge you with the story of their child's birth or how they knew so-and-so who crapped on the table when they were pushing the baby out. No, I'm not kidding. That happens (the crapping part AND the fact that someone I had known for 40 seconds was willing to share that tidbit with me). I felt special.

Anyway, when I was pregnant with Ella, I wasn't technically supposed to know that I was pregnant with a girl, but in an unfortunate turn of events (that proved to be fortunate for me), it was revealed to me during one of my appointments when Jake wasn't there. He insisted on being kept in the dark for the next 5 months, and so I kept it from him, trying to preserve the surprise he so desperately wanted on delivery day. And I must have done a good job masking it, because he and several of his family members swore up and down that we were going to be meeting Milo Ryan that day, not Ella Claire. It was a truly beautiful- yet almost comic- moment when they pulled her out and said, "okay Dad, take a look- what do you see?"

A girl?!?!

I had the last laugh on that one. ;)

This time, I pretty much insisted we find out as soon as humanly possible. There would be no more secret shopping and hiding clothes, no slip-ups to give anything away. No waiting until Christmas morning to open the shiny package. (It wouldn't come as a shock to anyone that I was the child that would crawl up under the Christmas tree to more thoroughly examine and shake the packages with my name on them. I'm pretty sure I was caught doing it last year too). So yes, we are going to "ruin" the surprise (as some people *cough-JAKE-cough-cough*say) and go right for the crotch on Friday.

But, even with the mounting excitement, I feel that I could already tell you what we're having and that I'm 95% sure about it. And of course, I could be wrong. But I don't think I am this time. I've been surprised at how many of our friends feel very strongly that we're gonna be buying blue this time around. I had a few friends call it right from the beginning. Jake also believes Ella will be getting a brother, but I'm not sure if it's because he just wants a boy so badly or because he actually has a feeling in his gut.

The feeling in my gut has been girl, almost since the beginning. I've had nothing but girl dreams, some of which even revealed girl names that we've considered. I've even had a few people tell me I must be having a girl. And on that note, I've learned that you should never, ever ask them why, or else you could end up hearing them reference some crazy old wives tales like the unevenness of your breasts, or the fine hairs on your upper lip or how your right butt cheek sags more than your left, so therefore, it must be a girl. I just don't ask anymore.

I haven't really checked out all of the crazy old wives tales this time around. To be honest, if I were going by some of the more well-known (and slightly less insane) tales, I'd actually have every reason to think this is a boy as well. Which is why it's all the more intriguing to me that the closer we get to the big reveal, the more I feel like we're going to have two little princesses on our hands. I would love to be proved wrong, but then again, I always like to hear the words, "you were right." ;)

My next favorite words to hear: "Let's go shopping." And no doubt, there will be plenty of that in the coming weeks. ;-)

A Work of Art

My parents have this picture I made for them when I was about ten years old. It's a picture of Santa Claus and a Christmas tree with toys under it. And, just to show that I was versatile in various mediums, I went all out and used puff paint for this particular masterpiece. Yep, I was cool. Anyway, every year at Christmas time, they pull this picture out and put it up on their refrigerator. They even had it laminated for good measure, making it next to impossible to tear or cut up, as I had tried to do so many times years later. Now, it's become sort of a standing joke, that when I come to visit and go to open the refrigerator, I am stopped dead in my tracks by the deformed looking Santa (and is that his sack on his back or is he somehow related to Quasi Moto?) I always roll my eyes and make a crack about taking the picture somewhere very far away and putting it out of it's misery, to which my mom exclaims, " NOOooo- you leave that picture right where it is! Someday you'll have children and they'll make pictures for you and you'll think they're the most beautiful things in the world and you'll want to keep them too."

Now, let me be brutally honest: I've worked in several nurseries and done my fair share of babysitting enough to know that most of the pictures I've seen kids draw have been, well, the word ugly springs to mind. Some have even been downright insulting. A few years ago, I was in church and a little girl I used to babysit walked up at the end of the service and told me she had drawn a picture of me for me to have as a gift. And there I was: a long torso, midget legs, and fins for arms. I had a few strands of hair that were styled into a mullet and my forehead showed indications of a thalidomide birth defect. Yeah, real nice, kid. I'm glad to know that's what you think I look like. Somehow, I was able to mask my look of horror, forced a "thank you," and managed to take it all the way home with me, where Jake and I had a good laugh over it and it was then promptly placed in the trash can.

Instances like that, plus my disdain toward my mom's sentimentality over the Santa Claus/Hunchback picture fueled my belief that I would probably poke fun at my own kid's artwork someday too, (but not to their face, obviously). Ah, but parenthood seems to have a way of making us eat our words or pre-conceived notions. Ella picked up some crayons yesterday, so I got a piece of paper and taped it to the table and let her go to town. I was a little leary of leaving her with a box of crayons at her disposal, as only 2 months ago, I had tried to show her how to hold a crayon and scribble and she had instead found them more enticing to eat rather than to draw with. This time, however, she had figured out how to hold the crayons and had seemingly forgotten that they had ever tasted good. I watched her look of concentration as she figured out exactly the right angle to hold the crayon and saw how her eyes lit up as she began to make marks on the page. A few minutes later, I walked back over to find that she had even used several different colors and there were scribbles, zig-zags and curvy lines scrawled all across the paper- her first official piece of artwork. I almost had to stop myself from tearing up, but I suspect the pregnancy hormones were mostly to blame for that. Either way, it was beautiful and it was a part of her. And in that moment, I understood why my fugly Santa picture still adorns my parents refrigerator at Christmastime. Probably for the same reason that my mom has kept my baby dolls and barbies. They are reminders of her little girl as well.

So, I now resign myself to having my refrigerator and walls overtaken by my daughter's creative musings. The house is already covered in Fisher Price and Leap Frog toys, so why not go all out, right? Another milestone is reached and I am both the proud and sentimental Mama I swore I would never be. But I'm totally okay with that. :-)