Put the gun down and back away (Getting trigger happy at Babies R Us)

There is nothing that will evoke fear out of a grown man faster than when his bride-to-be or wife-with-child says, "honey, we need to register."  *Dun-dun-DUNNN*  Upon remember the painfully long 2 hours Jake and I spent at Bed Bath and Beyond to complete our wedding registry, I vowed that I would never do that to him- or myself- ever again.  So when it came time to register for all things baby, I took it upon myself to get the job done.  After all, he wasn't ever going to have an opinion on what color nursing pillow I register for.  And what does he care what kind of nipple we use?  In fact, when I found myself standing n front of the "wall o' nipples" at our local Babies R Us, I started to wonder what do I really care about what kind of nipple goes on our bottles? Nipples are nipples, right?

Wrong.  So wrong.  I have never heard a person talk about these little rubber sucking devices with such fervency as the sales associate did that day.  Holy mother of God.  Apparently it does matter, and there is in fact, something called nipple confusion.  So what did I do?  I got trigger happy.  I scanned anything and everything that looked like it might be "Top Rated" or "The Safest" or "BPA free" or "Less Colic."  I am convinced now more than ever that in America, we are paralyzed by options.  Go down the freakin' toothpaste aisle at your local Target and you'll see what I mean.  And if you think that's bad, go look at nipples at Babies R Us.  It's truly eye opening.

I realized that I had neither the time, energy or comfortable shoes to spend an hour in each aisle over analyzing baby products.  Luckily, I had done some online research of certain baby products and gear ahead of time, so I was able to move rather quickly through the process.  The bigger items like the travel system, pack-n-play and swing were checked off quickly as I had already determined which styles I wanted.  Surprisingly, the smaller items like bibs, washcloths and hooded towels proved to be more time consuming.  All the while, I'm thinking, they're going to get bodily fluids on them, why should I care so much whether they start off being mod or retro inspired?  However, registering for gender neutral items is not as easy as it might have once been, and I was constantly checking myself to make sure my choices didn't provide any clues as to baby's gender.  By the time I made it to toys, I was randomly scanning bugs that played musical tunes, farm animals with mirrors and shapes affixed to their bodies and anything else that looked worthy of drool and baby teeth marks.  It didn't matter.  Check and check.  

I have no idea what shape my registry is in right now and have only gone online since then just to make sure there were no duplicates of anything.  I walked out of Babies R Us that day and had no inclination whatsoever to look back.  I spent a relatively short amount of time with the scan gun, but this is not to say that I didn't put some thought into a lot of the selections.  It's just that at some point insanity encroaches, you find yourself wanting a chocolate chip bagel from the Panera next door and your feet are screaming obscenities at you.  When all is said and done, you leave with a whopping 157 things on your registry and think how the hell did that happen? 

I didn't look closely enough, but I'm guessing that at least 38 of those 157 items are nipples...

"Baby Got Back" (pain)

For the record, I've got more than enough "back" these days...I'm just not "little in the middle" anymore.

I sincerely believe my body is staging a coupe once this baby is in the outside world.  It is going to take back all that once rightfully belonged to it.  My pelvis will no longer be floating, and my hips will decide that they want to fit into my size 4-6 jeans again.  My legs will stop resembling Redwood tree stumps, complete with bulging veins and cellulite that could make an orange peel look smooth. I will have a waist again- perhaps with some extra skin and flab to tone up, but Pilates will take care of that.  I will no longer have the telltale "pregnant face" that leaves people wondering, "is that swelling or does she just like to treat herself to Dairy Queen every night?" (And the answer to the latter is no....I only have it about once a week).  And I will have my back back.  

There are some days when it simply does not matter what position I sit or lie in, how much prenatal yoga I have done or how much I plead with Junebug to please move to a different position, my back just hurts.  I was able to alleviate some of the lower back pain by sadly packing away my heels *sniff-sniff* for the Summer.  I now wear flats, but mostly flip flops (regardless if the weather is 40 degrees).  The pain from my lower back, however, began to radiate up to the middle of my back- almost between the shoulder blades.  I know my ribs have been spreading, which I'm sure doesn't help, but I was also told by my doctor that the pain I was feeling was due to my posture and overcompensating as my belly grows and shifts my weight from the back to the front.  That's good to know, considering he has a uterus and has done this before.  I love my doctor, really I do.  But I also love that doctors will tell you why something hurts, and then stop there, as if that in and of itself is enough to make the patient feel better.  It's not like I was going to hop up from the examining table, all cheers, and immediately be able to correct my posture.  Believe me, I've tried "sucking it in."  It takes me from looking 8 months pregnant to about 7 1/2.  At this stage in the pregnancy, nothing short of crawling out of the exam room on all fours would have helped the pain (and for a split second, I considered it, but more because I thought it would just be funny to see peoples' looks).  I guess that was just his kind way of saying, "I'm sorry your in pain, but your sh**t out of luck."  I found this has been a recurring theme when you're pregnant...

Driving is the absolute worst.  Just sitting in the car is bad enough as a passenger, but lately I'm the one driving because I find I'm still pretty sensitive to motion sickness, even this late in the game.  I figure I'd rather have my back kill me, than have my back kill me and be nauseous.  If Jake is with me, no more than 15 minutes will go by before I'm begging him to please rub my back as I hunch over the steering wheel (as much as I can "hunch" these days).   Some days I open my car door and I'm just not sure I have it in me to hoist myself up and out onto the pavement...so instead, I stare out at the open air and sort of "will" myself to levitate out of the car.  I used to laugh and poke fun at those commercials with the old people riding around on their motorized "Little Rascals" or whatever the hell those things are called.   That has never sounded more appealing to me.  I have all but considered taking a few items of baby gear off of my registry and replacing it with one of those....I wonder if people would notice?  

I'm not the kind of person who likes to ask for help but getting to this stage of pregnancy has required me to do so at times, and I'm having to learn to be okay with it.  Preggo sympathy is not an entirely bad thing, after all.  Generally, people have offered to help me without me having to ask: loading and taking my groceries to the car, letting me go in front of them in line at a store or fast food restaurant (maybe I look that hungry?) and overall just seeming to pay special attention.  It's really not all that bad.  I just hate feeling like an invalid and have to come to terms with my own limitations on a daily basis.  I cannot clean the entire house in one afternoon like I used to or move slightly heavier objects and I can expect to be out of breath if I try to.   I can't shop for baby clothes and other fun items with the same gusto and enthusiasm that I used to and there needs to be a comfy bench or chair nearby.  After 2 Easter services, a big family lunch and too much time in the car on Sunday, I was in tears at the end of the day as Jake worked out the knots and kinks in my back.  My lesson: I can still function with achy feet, throbbing varicose veins, heck- even small bouts of nausea and heartburn, but my back will not negotiate.  So I may be shuffling around for the next 6 weeks, but I'm trying to look on the bright side.  At least I'm not shuffling around and wearing a muumuu.  

The "B" Word...

Jake and I returned home yesterday from a relaxing weekend trip to Virginia beach.  We left Friday morning, stopped for lunch at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg and made it to our hotel in time to still enjoy some good daylight on the beach.  The weather hovered in the mid-70's for the entire time we were there- absolutely beautiful.  We knew we would splurge on a couple of nice meals, but packed some snacks, wine, chocolates and other indulgences "just in case."  There was no agenda except total relaxation.  This was our last trip as the two of us- to celebrate just that: the two of us will very soon be the three of us.  It will never be *just* the two of us again, so why not take full advantage.  If the term "babymoon" has popped into your head, bravo!  That's what most people these days would call it.  Jake, however, thinks the term sounds pretentious and almost refused to go if that's what I insisted on calling it.  Whatever.  You want a long weekend getaway to celebrate the impending birth of our child and the closing chapter of our life as a two-some?  You got it.  Just don't call it what it really is.  Therefore, the only "B" word you will hear me refer to in this post is the beach. *wink wink*

And not only is the beach fun, but I also found it to be very educational.  There were a few things I took away from it, besides unwanted sand in my bra and a little sunburn.  Here are a couple of little nuggets:

1.  Sand hurts.

Bad.  Especially when it gets into crevices that, as an 8 month pregnant person, I can no longer see or reach.  Despite the 70 degree weather and sun, the wind gusts were pretty strong down on the beach.  Which meant sand in my mouth, sand in my shirt and bra (my boobs are going through enough as it is, thank you very much), sand in other fun and surprising places.  Some of this might have been avoided had I actually packed beach towels.  (See #2).

2.  Beach towels and sunscreen are *kinda* important.

Why this wasn't on my radar, I have no idea, other than to blame my stupid preggo brain.  I'm the only person I know who packs for the beach and leaves behind sunscreen and something on which to actually sit at the beach.  *Picture me and Jake toting our small, inadequate bath towels from the hotel down to the dunes.*  Obviously, I'm not one for keeping up with appearances when it comes to "necessities."  Sure, I packed 2 cute maternity sundresses, 5 tops, 3 pairs of pants. 4 pairs of shoes (we were there for 2 days total) and 3 different hair styling products, but no beach towel.  I still hold my head up high.

3.   Once you sit down on the sand, you should plan to stay there for a while.

This was only complicated by the missing beach towel problem from #2.  Obviously, if towels weren't on my packing radar, then any kind of foldable beach chair certainly wasn't either.  (We're gluttons for punishment, what can I say?)  So I plopped down on the sand and then proceeded to flop around like a fish out of water (or more like the kid brother Randy from the movie A Christmas Story) until I found a somewhat comfortable position.  Jake continued to read and write in his journal, clearly deep in thought and completely tuned out to my grunts and groans.  I kept my mind off of my aching hips and pelvic region by feeding the local seagulls, much to his annoyance.  Had Jake not been there to ultimately help me to my feet, I would probably still be lying there on the beach, doing what I consider to be a great impersonation of a beached whale.

4.  It's good to slow down (and not just because of my lower back).

It's finally begun to sink in that the days of just being the two of us are numbered, which brings about some mixed feelings on my part.  Although I'm anxiously counting down the days until we meet our Junebug, I sometimes want to be able to freeze moments of our lives together right now, so that we can always remember them for what they are right now: lazy mornings in bed, going to dinner at the drop of a hat, a leisurely weekend trip to the beach before packing up the stroller and diaper bag...

I'm more aware than ever of how quickly the time is moving now, and although I'm at the point where I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore, I don't want to wish away this time either.  We will never get it back and we will never be expecting our first again either.  Truly a time to slow down and cherish all that's good...

A "Relaxing" Day at the Spa?

Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner?  Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it,  shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat.  And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table.  Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.  

First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat.  I will be talking about the latter of those three.  Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant.  It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).   

I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on.   I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage.  After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using.  *Bliss.*  (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done).   She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same.  The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing.  For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck.  She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation.  She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet.  At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some.  Perfect.  I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out.  I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down.  I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin.  I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room.  The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck.  I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way.  *No good.*  So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.  

I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well.  Lovely.  This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages.  And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa.  But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."  

*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.*  To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face.  In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit.  Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor.  The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...

"Me" Day

I am a birthday freak.  I like to make a fuss over people on their birthdays because I think that's how it should be.  Everyone gets their own special day, so it stands to reason they ought to be made to feel special on that day. This isn't like Christmas (don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing Jesus' birthday by any means), when everyone tends to feel special on Christmas morning- perhaps even a bit entitled-  (flashback: 10 years old sitting by the Christmas tree and counting gifts to make sure I wasn't getting "gypped."  Sad, I know).  Jesus had a birthday, and we all run out to the malls spending hundreds of dollars on gifts to give each other.  Some gifts are thoughtful and others are "pressure" gifts- you know, the ones you have to have on standby because inevitably someone that wasn't on your shopping list will give you a gift (*dang-it!*) and you will feel guilty for not giving them one, so you either scrap something together last second (re-gift, maybe?) or have the "standby stash" ready....absolute absurdity.  

Alas, I digress.   Birthdays are different.  In my opinion, it's the one day out of the year a person should feel a bit of entitlement- it is, after all, the day your fabulous self made an entrance into the world.   It calls for a bit of celebration: cake (and let's not leave out candles!), perhaps a lunch or dinner at a favorite restaurant, a little guilt-free shopping spree (if you're the shopping type), a last minute decision to stop for that favorite latte,  maybe a manicure or pedicure or some other form of pampering...(can you tell that I'm the indulgent type?)  A few years ago, I started joking that my birthday should be called "Me Day" (much to my husband's chagrin), and it just kinda stuck.  I still call it "Me Day"- more because I like to watch Jake roll his eyes in disgust.  Jake is at the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to birthdays.  He wants no special attention whatsoever, could probably care less if there's a cake waiting for him and heaven forbid you put candles on it and actually sing to him (his face becomes a deep shade of burgundy).  He always tells me he doesn't need or want anything for his birthday, but I'll have none of that.  Meanwhile, if I tell him I don't really want anything for my birthday, he knows that I'm lying through my teeth and that there's actually this pair of shoes/handbag/spa day I've been thinking about.  But I will not let him get away with the "my-birthday-is just-like-any other-day" attitude.  I will make a fuss over people- even more so for my husband.  He just has to deal with it.  (A little birthday embarrassment never hurt anyone).

That being said, my birthday was a bit anti-climactic this year- but not because I didn't feel loved or celebrated.  I had so many birthday wishes from family and friends, an afternoon without teaching lessons and going wherever the wind blew me, lunch with a good friend, a special visit to the hospital to meet our good friends' baby boy who decided he wanted to share "Me Day," a birthday dinner with Jake and his family....it really was a fabulous day.  I'm even going to have a spa day this Friday with a good friend of mine for a little third trimester pampering (my birthday gift from Jake).  But even all of that seems to pale in comparison to the *other* birthday I'm counting down to.  Heck, screw my birthday- I'm ready to celebrate this little bug's arrival!  Yeah, you think I make a big fuss over people now...just wait 'til it's my own baby's turn.  It would probably surprise no one if I even insisted on having some celebratory cake in the room after the baby is born (this Momma's got to eat too)!   So the countdown is on...my birthday, Jake's birthday....Junebug's birthday.  

I am very aware of the fact that I will soon be holding the purpose for which I was born and I can't wait...

IKEA and some well-deserved brownie points

Jake and I kicked off this weekend with a trip to one of my favorite stores.  *Ever.*  It's the hard-to-miss blue and yellow monstrosity directly off of I-95 that I like to call IKEA.  I was super psyched to go, not only for the great finds, but also to be able to see some good friends of ours.  The four of us got there around 2 on Saturday afternoon, fueled ourselves up with some IKEA cafeteria food (Swedish meatballs and lingenberries anyone?) and began our excursion.  Being the incredible multi-level money-pit that it is, we didn't emerge into daylight again until about 5:15.  I almost felt like I had been in some sort of time continuum as I blinked into the bright sun.  I might have actually been in there for days and not been the wiser.

First of all, I must dole out brownie points.  The first set goes to Jake.  My sweet husband is normally the pillar of patience in just about any circumstance, but- probably like most guys- his attention span morphs into that of a 2 year-old upon entering into any retail facility.  (After one particular experience in Kohls, I thought we might need to consider counseling).   I recognized that this was not his ideal way to spend a Saturday, but figured since we were able to share the trip with Chris and Becca, he would at least have another guy there with which to commiserate.  As we wound through the maze of mod furniture and knick-knacks with such names like Vaker, Vorkelstopffen, Ekby Hensvik and Malma (to name only a few), I had to control the amount of drool seeping out the corners of my mouth while his eyes glazed over and he became particularly interested in any sign that pointed us in the direction of the checkout.   Unfortunately for him, the checkout was located at the very end of a maze of showrooms, which lead to the marketplace, which in turn lead to the gargantuan warehouse.  Even if you know *exactly* what you're going in there for, the idiotic (or perhaps smart?) design people made it so that you HAVE to wind through every little nook and cranny before you reach the long awaited shrine of checkout registers.  Big brownie points to him.   He's officially maxed out his shopping quota for the year now.  

And major brownie points also go to my right hip, which decided to start aching about a third of the way into our trek.  Being nearly 8 months pregnant, easily fatigued and somewhat achy isn't exactly *ideal* for big shopping excursions, but I felt ready to tackle the challenge (twist my arm, right?)  I arrived armed with Tylenol, comfy (but stylish) shoes, snack baggies and drink in my purse and nothing was going to stop me.  Except my hip.  After navigating tight aisle spaces, guarding my belly against shopping carts driven by people running on pure IKEA adrenaline and sitting in a few too many low-lying Swedish futons- only to discover that I couldn't get up- my right hip was clearly angry with me for putting it through such agony.   On the car ride home, I felt as though I had been hit by a semi.  *Sigh*  I can't wait to have my body back again.

The reason for this trip?  I swear I'm not a masochist- I just love to shop.  And of course, I love my friends even more, so it was a successful trip all the way around.  What's even more exciting?  The set of closet organization gadgets I now get to put to good use (nesting much?) Forget clothes.  If you need me, I'll be in our walk-in closet until all is as it should be.

Noise Aversion

We've all heard that pregnancy hormones can send a woman in her first trimester running for the toilet over the smell of certain foods or even the scent of aftershave her husband has been wearing for their entire married life.  Smell aversion is nothing to be messed with, my friends.  I lucked out on this one though, as I only recall a very few times where I actually ended up walking (or practically running) through the meat section of the grocery store, breathing only through my mouth so as not to start gagging.  I was sensitive to certain aromas, but not enough to bring on the dry heaves, thank God.  Instead, these lovely hormones decided to skip my nose to have a little fun with my ears.

That's right folks, due to a heightened sense of sound, I believe that I have developed certain noise aversions.  Just as smell aversions can often lead to gagging, dry heaving and sometimes ultimately puking, these noise aversions often cause me to have what I like to call *word vomit. This could be as mundane as my dog (I tend to think of him more like a rabbit on crack) barking incessantly at a squirrel outside.  This is an aversion to sounds in a higher decibel range that I simply can't tolerate right now.   It could also be the times when Jake calls me from work, and some days he just doesn't sound quite "right" to me.  Perhaps, I had thought, he should be sounding a little happier to be talking to me.   This is a different type of noise aversion- a heightened sense of tone quality.  *Look out, more word vomit.*   

But there is another form of noise aversion I'd like to address: aversions to noises that are completely and utterly unnecessary.  The other day, Jake and I were brunching at one of our favorite spots in Richmond- a small, eclectic diner situated in the heart of the city.  Like most diners, it's filled with various, and oftentimes loud, sounds: the clanking of dishes and silverware, chefs calling out short orders, the sound of the cash register drawer slamming shut, people talking and laughing.  But these sounds are only to be expected in such a place, so my noise radar had remained unaffected.  That is, until two men walked in and seated themselves at the table directly behind us.  At some point, each of them must have asked the waitress for an iced tea.  I know this not because I heard them place the order, nor did I see the waitress bring it out to them.  I know that they ordered two very large iced teas that must have arrived unsweetened because for the next 10 minutes (really, I'm not exaggerating), all I heard was the swishing of spoons, ice and plastic cups as these two grown men apparently worked feverishly to ensure that every tiny granule of sugar had dissolved into their teas.  Yes, above the talking and shouting, above the clinks of plates being cleared by the busboy, my ears could hear nothing but incessant swishing and stirring of ice.  At one point, I even turned around to look- not because I was aggravated so much as I was completely amused that two people were obviously so intrigued by the process of dissolving solids into liquid (let's go back to 5th grade, shall we?)- and I saw, to my relief, that the ice had actually melted in their cups and they were finally laying their spoons to rest.  Ah, sweet peace at last!  (Even Jake, in all his patience and understanding, was laughing at the antics of the apparently oblivious duo behind us).  I turned back around to Jake to try to finish our conversation but my attention was caught by a waitress walking past our table carrying two large glasses of ice.  Please God, no. No no no no no noooooooo.  And before I can think another "noooo," the swishing resumes.  There's fresh ice in their glasses again and it's not disappearing anytime soon.  I'm in serious disbelief over these people, who I determine must be obsessive compulsive- and mute- because neither one of them is talking to the other.  Not one word.  They just continued to stir the hell out of their iced tea, making mindless and unnecessary noise....and that's when I felt it coming up....more word vomit....and there was no stopping it. 

Needless to say, we left our waitress a good tip for having to clean up after all of that...

 

*word vomit (wurd VAH-mit) v. the vigorous expulsion of a string of obscenities and complaints (which may or may not include name calling) often preceded by thoughtless acts, words or noises on the part of an unsuspecting individual. Warning signs include but are not limited to: facial contortion, bulging eyes and/or veins, gritted teeth, flushed cheeks and white knuckles.