Recap

It's been a heck of a week since Father's Day so I thought I'd dedicate a post to some catch-up items of note.

I am finally, thankfully recovered from the nastiest stomach virus I've had in a long time.  I mean, no one enjoys projectile vomiting to begin with but multiply the awful during pregnancy and that will give you an idea of my starting point.

It hit without warning in the small hours of last Thursday morning and lingered...and lingered...terrible stuff.  I don't wish it on my worst enemy, except maybe I do because that would be a perfect way to incapacitate someone for a week if I were plotting their downfall and needed some time to hatch my plan.  I have to laugh, or at least smirk, at the irony that during the final week in my second trimester I felt totally run over by a Mack truck after having dodged the morning sickness bullet earlier.  This was what I call the "both ends" evacuation plan and after that stopped, the bug settled in my guts creating the worst gas (again, from both ends) that I swear I have ever smelled - like, clear Oscar out of the room toxic fumes - no joke.  I did get a preview of what I'll look like at 9 months pregnant, though.  HA!  That was the most uncomfortable I've been since my tubo-ovarian abscess last summer and I'm not even exaggerating in the least.  If I could have safely punctured my abdomen to let it all out, believe me: I would have. 

Meanwhile, life went on as usual as I attempted to get myself together for two major events at week's end: our fetal echocardiogram (ECG) and the much-anticipated triathlon relay.

Friday, June 20:
Bright and early wake-up call to be at Goryeb Children's Hospital at Morristown Medical Center for ECG.  We finally got to see the full extent of that campus and it is massive.  The children's wing is directly behind maternity and it is probably the poshest children's hospital I've ever seen.  I hope we never have to spend any amount of time there.

We met our tech who had such a poker face, I wanted to jolt her into divulging some information but she remained largely silent during the scan which took a total of an hour.  Why an hour?  Well, PB, after being dehydrated and underfed for two days, decided she was having none of this poking about.  She kept arching her back and punching the probe out of the way.  We finally got a smile out of the tech who was basically like, "wow, doing some karate in there, huh?"  Got to see the heart from almost every angle during the extended time we spent watching the screen.  I wish we had gotten to see more of our daughter's face but no such luck.  We'd catch the occasional glimpse of an arm rocketing forward or bending behind her head in contortionist fashion but this was all cardiac business and not for cutes.  

We did find out she's still in breech position, facing out, which is kind of funny because all those kicks I feel around my bikini scar are her feet (where her head should be) and her head and hiccups I can feel just under my navel.  This is going to get mighty uncomfortable the bigger she gets when her head is wedged under my ribs...this also sounds like the placenta has not budged but we'll confirm this in another 4 weeks.  It's kind of freaky that a mini me is literally inside me, looking out at a world she cannot yet see.  Leave it to our child to position herself so precociously. 

The results of the hour-long ultrasound were totally normal.  The cardiologist met with us for literally 90 seconds to deliver this news, apologize for the delay (hey, our kid's fault, not yours) and wish us well.

Mission accomplished.  Time to sit in 2.5 hours of Friday afternoon traffic to get down to Philly and the race expo.

Saturday, June 21:
Welcome, summer, and the Philadelphia Tri-Rock!

It was such a beautiful day and a great reason to celebrate, despite being unwell.  I was happy to cheer on my dad, my baby daddy, and my cousin who rocked their relay to finish in under two hours.

Rhett, who biked 15 miles, was less exhausted that night than I was.  I curled up from the moment we got home until about 6 pm, woke up to have some ginger ale and cheerios, and then went back to bed.  I propped myself up in my inner-tube pillow contraption and slept almost through the night without incident for the first time in four days.  Hallelujah, praise, praise.

Monday, June 23:
First day of summer quarter at Drexel (who wants to order more textbooks?) and the first day of - DRUM ROLL - our hallway bathroom renovations.  Wohoo!

Now we're about caught up, I think.  Reno is ongoing with a few snags here and there - ya don't say - but hey, I'm not stressing.  It's underway and looking a heck of a lot better than it did before so I can't complain.  We have to wait another two weeks for the vanity top to be installed so it won't be done before my July 1 deadline.  Oh well.  I'll have the hardwood floors in July 2nd and then wait around for the quartz to be laser cut.  Everything else will be complete except hooking up the faucet to the counter top. 

Well, this was an essay-length update.  Congrats for hanging in there and reading it.  Time for a nap.

V-day

I almost missed the big milestone of the week: we're officially viable!

At 24 weeks, a baby who is born prematurely has up to a 70% chance of survival outside the womb.  That's an incredible stat, given that this was unheard of just 30 years ago. 

This also means that I am 2/3 of the way through my pregnancy and as of July 1, I'll be in my third trimester and 7th month. 

Some good things: I'm used to the boob jokes, the comments about how small my bump is, the "are you sure there's a baby in there?" -- all of it because it doesn't bug me anymore.  I'm like a sea lion coated in oil, letting it all roll off.  (Well, except when Cigna Healthy Babies calls and the first question from the survey lady is "how much do you weigh now?"  Gotta love it but whatever, I get a free hospital-grade breast pump.  Thanks, Obama!) 

I'm about to see some big changes to my maternal profile and I can't wait to waddle into yoga class and prove that yes, I have been prenatal for the past three months and not just lazy.  My uterus is supposedly the size of a soccer ball (yeah, ok) and this baby is approaching acorn squash status.  I don't think she's going to be exceptionally large but I absolutely know she's going to be long...and active.  Our car seat says it fits an infant up to 30 inches and given that I was over 22 inches long at birth and so was my husband, I bet she lasts 6 months max in her carrier.

Father's Day

A bit of a belated post because, well, I don't really have an excuse except this weather makes me feel slower than a fly caught in molasses.  That's right: summer officially sucks when you're pregnant.  Can't wait for the next 2.5 months!  I thought I sweated a ton before but I had no idea how bad it could get - like soaking through sports bras at 7:00 AM at the dog park bad.  There ain't a clinical strength antiperspirant on the market that can help this mama now.  Grin and bear it, we shall, right, Oscar/?

Enough about that.  Let's focus on the pleasant aspects of anticipating this little bundle of punches and kicks.

We received our first baby gift from dear Aunt Liz last week.  It was PB's car seat/carrier: flame orange and gray, nicely coordinated with her nursery.  The box was enormous.  We opened it after returning from the wedding where I realized that no, I can no longer stand for seven hours in heels and hope to feel great at the end of the evening.  After the 4 hour drive home, I just wanted to sit on the floor and supervise Rhett's reading of the instructions.  It was pretty amusing trying to find the English side of the booklet.   

 

I thought it best to give Punky Brewster a trial run so I could figure out the strap situation.  It was relatively easy but I understand why they make those neck rings and strap guards for newborns.  We have a set ready to go for the hospital bag.  

The actual installation was a piece of cake.  However, it made us both realize that my midget clown car is perhaps not the ideal family vehicle when you figure in two adults, a gigantic infant seat, a 29 lb Wheatie, plus the gear for both dependents (minus any luggage for us.)  It just wouldn't happen for any trip over an hour without someone crying.

Observe:

I'd have to drive, as my seat is as far forward as it can safely and comfortably go.  No Stretch Armstrong is going to squeeze behind the wheel with this thing in it.  Default Rhett's car for the trip to/from the hospital.  We have yet to try the base in there but his backseat is larger than mine, at least.

I get it now, the whole SUV/minivan trend once you start your family.  You kind of need one.  Some day...house first, then maybe a new vehicle so Oscar isn't on top of his sister breathing stank breath in her face. 

The carrier is currently sitting in the basement where Oscar can walk up and sniff it.  He wasn't too sure at first, especially when he discovered that it rocks, and spent a good minute-and-a-half barking at it.  Then he trotted over and gave Punky kisses.  Now he checks on it occasionally but mostly just accepts its presence in his domain.  Good boy! 

Hope Chest

I crack up a little every time I read about this mysterious concept of the "layette" and the 57 items you should register for - or...not.  Automatically, my mind goes to Scarlett O'Hara thrilled by the prospect of Rhett bringing her some fancy undies from Paris for her trousseau.  This is more or less the same thing we're talking about here, except with an infant, right?  Some antiquated, once-served-it's-purpose ritual of stuffing a woman's hope chest with fabric? 

Speaking of, I have always wanted a hope chest of my own since watching the beloved Canadian Anne of Green Gables spin-off, "The Road to Avonlea," where there was an entire episode devoted to uncovering some elderly woman's secret past via the love letters she kept locked away in there.  Also, 1994's "Little Women" featured some excellent decoupage by the March sisters in their chests.  How hopelessly romantic!  It served as a safe space for young women to store their hopes and dreams for an uncertain future, as well as family heirlooms handed down from generations past.  Hope chests saw women from birth to girlhood, bride to mother.  Though the tradition has its root in the worth-her-weight-in-gold dowry bids of he Italian Renaissance, I prefer to take from it the symbolism of a girl's sacred space where no one else can pry into her private world.  Besides, we could all use a dose of romanticism in this digital age and I'm for feminist reclaiming of outmoded practices.

I guess I do have a cedar chest that currently houses all of my American Girl Doll clothes and accessories.  It's stashed in the guest room at New Hope, waiting for tiny hands to go searching through the entire Felicity wardrobe and realize that it would have been terrible to be a colonial girl.  So many layers!  In Williamsburg!  In the summer!  But that cardinal red cape was quite the statement piece and I coveted the me-sized version.  Instead, I wore the "Meet Felicity" bodice and skirt proudly to all manner of school presentations and in several plays, complete with two different styles of bonnets.  I think I also had the nightgown which I recall was flannel and excessively thermal, even in winter (bed warmer not included.)

Maybe one day PB will be permitted to choose the color she wishes to paint or stain the chest and she can practice her decoupage skills - or...not.  I'm guessing a daughter of mine will have some grand ideas but totally lack the craftiness to see them through.  It's ok, kid.  Leave the crafting to others.  You'll discover some special gift of your own and then you can make enough money to pay someone to make things for you.  Then again, she could totally surprise use with her artisan skills and set up and Etsy shop by the age of 10. 

As I'm building our baby registry - which I must admit, I have general mixed feelings about, much as I did the notion of a wedding registry (I'm not one for asking for material items from others but I can see that people love to buy baby things) - I suppose I am treating the entire nursery as a type of hope chest for our daughter who may be nothing like the tiny person we have individually crafted in our brains.  She may resemble one of us, or neither, or mix the best of both.  She may have a calm, collected temperament or she could be a tempestuous force of nature.  We have no idea.  It's quite fun to imagine an immediate future where we strip away some of these variables and allow our figment daughter's personality to take shape through the items we purchase for her and for her future bedroom. 

Rational me knows that babies can only see up to 10 inches in front of their faces after birth.  She  isn't going to notice the color scheme or the thematic chevron pattern which was painstakingly selected to be neutral and graphic.  She won't know if she's wearing pink or gray or orange.  Heck, she won't even sleep in her crib for the first month or more, but it's all here, waiting for her.  So much of who she will be has yet to be discovered and I can enjoy the next 3 months leading up to her birth making guesses to pass the time but expecting nothing but to love her.  And also that she is crafty - please, please be crafty. 

The name game

Curse you, Lil' Kim!  You stole our top choice for PB's name so we can cross that off the list.

JUST KIDDING.

While I applaud the individuality and delightful alliteration of "Royal Reign," I don't think I could name my daughter after a future Triple Crown competitor. 

It is Lil' Kim's right to name her baby whatever she chooses, naturally.  Besides, there's a long-standing celebutard tradition of the odd and obscure so she's keeping trend in good company (I'm looking at you, Sage Moonblood, Moxie Crimefighter, and Jermajesty.  Seriously.  Jermajesty? -- Royal Reign is kind compared to many.)  

But it does bring up an excellent point about how judgy people can be about names.  This is one of several reasons why we're absolutely under no circumstances pre-announcing her name.  We've had almost two years to choose it and fall in love with it and no one will rain on that parade.  Good things do come to those who wait and we've waited, and waited, and so can everyone else.  There are too few surprises in this IVF bag of tricks anyway so it's kind of nice having something sacred and private to utter like an oath when she kicks me in moments of stillness.  I get to say her name out loud and it sounds real.  I talk to Oscar about his little sister and he just cocks his head and says, "thank goodness you didn't choose Virginia Woolf, mummy."

Will there be private critics?  Of course there will be.  That's human nature and the nature of family v. free-will.  We're all guilty of raising an eyebrow at someone else's choice from time to time and I freely admit to wondering what some of my own cousins were thinking.  But guess what?  Children tend to grow into their names and over time, the names start to suit their personalities.  Look at Prince George Alexander Louis: such a name to saddle on a chubby munchkin but that chubby munchkin will one day be King of England so here's to forward thinking, Kate and Wills.

When people ask, as most do, if we have a name picked out since we know it's a girl, I smile and say "yes, we do."  Unless they continue the conversation, I don't volunteer a thing and most get the message.  I enjoy having such a sweet secret.  You'll have to meet her to fall in love with the name like we did but until then, mum's the word. 

First pregnancy insult

This is a milestone, of sorts, for me and PB.  I'm laughing now but believe me, I was NOT laughing yesterday. 

I went to acupuncture for the first time since transfer day just to clear some qi and help me sleep a bit better between the heartburn and the lower back pain.  Haven't seen the woman in nearly 6 months and the first words after "hello, how are you?" are "where's your belly?"  She looks me up and down and then says "Oh, you're carrying all over.  That's ok.  Every body is different."

GEE, THANKS.  Why not go ahead and call me a heffalump straight out?

Begin rant.

Seriously, woman, you're an Eastern medicine practitioner who should know that between the 20 extra pounds of fluid I'm carrying and the pomegranate-sized baby, of course I'm going to be a bit, um, swollen.  I swear, this fluid has evenly distributed all over my body, increasing my rib cage in proportion with both sets of cheeks, but has it filled out my belly?  NOPE.  I own several mirrors that confirm this so thank you for helpfully pointing it out to me.  My D cups are grateful for your observations. 

I definitely haven't wasted too much time or energy taking it to heart but I admit, it did sting a little considering the source!  Apparently I have dairy and starches to blame for my back inflammation.  No shit, Sherlock.  But if I'm choosing to eat extra calcium in the form of yogurt/cheese/frozen treats - all for the baby, naturally :cough:cough - I probably will continue to do so, in moderation, and get on with the next three months as I have thus far: just fine. 

While we're on the subject, it also bugs me that people who are relative strangers or even worse, former colleagues, feel so free to comment on my body, whether it's to say "oh, you don't look pregnant except for your boobs" or "now you can enjoy not looking just fat."  HA!  Who says this?  (Well, that last one is a competitive snot with no social filter so she doesn't count for much.)

Why is it that a woman's rapidly changing body is a magnet for verbal diarrhea and unsolicited anecdotes/advice?  It baffles me.  Would the same people ever dream of telling a man to his face, "whoa, you're getting HUGE?"  Wouldn't happen.  You don't see it in the tabloids (well, unless you're poor Val Kilmer) and you don't hear it in life.  Hello, double standard.  Thus speaketh I for all the Kim Kardashians and Jessica Simpsons who endured months of public scrutiny about their size and pregnancies.  Everyone: STFU.  If you're growing a human, snarky comments should be off-limits. 

End rant.

Friends and family members said this phenomenon of unintentionally rude remarks would happened so I was forewarned but now that it's occurring, seemingly daily, it is irksome to me.  I can appreciate honesty and even occasional bluntness, provided I'm not stuffing my face with a sandwich or something.  I don't need to hear how your daughter only gained 25 pounds total (yeah, right) or how I should be enjoying this one because the second time around, you get really big, really early.  Assume much?  This is a not a new subject of discussion but I realize that maybe Hilary Mantel was onto something in her LRB treatise on female bodies (specifically pregnant and royal ones) and the public gaze: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v35/n04/hilary-mantel/royal-bodies

Worth a read!

Am I being a tad dramatic?  Probably.  It is an extremely difficult thing to watch your body changing before your very eyes, regardless of how much you move it and bend it and try to be healthy.  I'm learning to be humble in the face of genetic predestination and my own unique gestating physiology. It's not easy.  I'd say this is the most difficult part of pregnancy, now that we're over the halfway hump, accepting that what was once yours - a point of pride, perhaps too much so - is now wholly responsible for growing another human being and that vanity no longer matters.

I am strong.  I am fit.  I am retaining ungodly amounts of water.  Whatever.  I am more of a physical presence now than I was in previous iterations because I am a mother now.  I need space to grow this baby girl so back off, haters, and while you're at it, keep your comments to yourselves.

Hiccups v. Martial Arts Practice

This little girl continues to complete her Jedi training in utero during yoga and the hours previously devoted to "sleeping."  Anytime I'm slightly reclined or still for more than a few minutes, her little brain fires up the "let's move!" neurons and away she goes.  I can finally feel a good, strong poke from the outside but we're still waiting to see visual evidence.  I'm sure when my bump finally emerges from hovering over my scar that it will be easier.  Supposedly the uterus is going to be the size of a soccer ball by the end of next week.  Where I am stashing that, I do not know, but PB is the length of a carrot and weighs almost 11 oz in my 21st week. 

Now that I've been feeling movement consistently for 9 weeks (!) I think I've got a pretty good handle on her internal rhythms.  She's not food or music responsive but she does react to touch and my movement.  I think I can also distinguish between kicks/punches/jabs and hiccups now.  I was sitting in the class-that-wouldn't-end yesterday, lotus position on the floor, and felt a series of pops in my lower pelvis.  Pretty confident those were hiccups.  Hey, I did have an iced latte so maybe it was too much for her.  Or perhaps she was as bored as her mother.  Come on!  If you're going to talk up the C-Section Video, it probably should have been filmed in the last decade with, ya know, modern technology.  I learned more about 1990's maternity wear than I did about birth.  Where can I get one of those delightful looking parachute jumpsuits?

Here's my baby code:

Hiccups = rhythmic, typically right below my belly button 

Movement = prolonged bubble-like sensation like she's stretching (or frankly, like there's gas built up in my intestines) OR a powerful "thwack" like an internal fart 

It's kind of cool that she and I are finally getting used to a mutual daily cycle in our sixth month together.  It won't be long before this contained nocturnal activity becomes a crying, wet, nipple-dependent presence in our bedroom.   Maybe she's just prepping me for months of 3-hour-max REM cycles but seriously, kid, I could do without the accompanying heartburn and the 12:00 and 3:00 AM wake-up calls.  It's a good night if I only wake up twice and last night?  Not so good.  Knock it off and go play with your umbilical cord or something. 


In other news, Oscar believes our new glider exists solely for his amusement. 

He didn't wait for an invitation - just hopped up on my lap like, "so, what does this thing do?"  When I began rocking and swiveling, he dug those paws into my thighs and held on for dear life.  It was pretty funny.  You are such a big baby, Oscar! Now he waits for me to situate myself at night and takes a ride or two on the Big Fun Chair.  At least this way it will be broken in for PB, even if it's another 10 week wait for the ottoman.  Scary to think that we could have a birthday scheduled for her by the time it arrives.

I'm practicing supplementing my lack of actual nighttime sleep with naps and it's almost that time again.  Thought we were over this geriatric business but I guess not.  Oh well.  Pregnancy is full of surprises!  And dreams of peanut busters.  Mmm...peanut buster...raw oysters...spicy tuna roll...zzzzzz.