The Top Ten Best Things About Being Pregnant

1. Cravings must be obeyed at all cost, even if it means eating a sundae every day.
2. When deciding on a restaurant, you have final and ultimate say.
3. When restaurants give a loaf of bread cut with one more piece than the party or the appetizer has one more than the party, you get it.
4. If your significant other has something on his plate that you want, you get it.
5. Most of the time you don’t have to worry about your weight and every little thing you put in your mouth.
6. Everyone will tell you how good you look, whether it’s true or not.
7. Nap time is back!  And every one understands.
8. Shopping for baby stuff is quite fun.
9. You have the ultimate conversation starter.
10. Feeling that baby kick you. (Until the last month when you just yell at it to stop.)

So does any one else have anything to add?

Things that bug me

The fact that I couldn’t write because I was spending the day at my parents’ house where my mom is addicted to computer games.  Does she seek help?  Nope.  No matter how many emails I send her about programs.  She just stays on the computer all afternoon, and I can’t write.  I prefer it if she would go back to her nice safe reading addiction.

The fact that I pulled four maternity shirts out of the laundry to find them stained.  This is probably my last pregnancy.  I didn’t want to buy anymore clothes.  It was bad enough most of my maternity clothes are summer based without sleeves, so now I have to buy some more shirts.  Dang.

The fact that when I’m pregnant I have no self-control.  It’s not one cookie; it’s a half a dozen.  It’s not one helping of mashed potatoes; it’s two large portions.  It’s not a scoop of ice cream; it’s nearly the whole carton.  I really need to find some exercise routine.

Comebacks and names

I know.  I know.  Everyone is busy with the holidays.  My stats have plummeted, which is my fault for appealing to moms who are obviously busy right now.  Though I could post another post on crafts, I think I might start getting hate mail, so I’ll save it.

I have a favor to ask you all.  As I mentioned before I’m going to have to deal with my large family learning my third child is a boy and some of you came up with some great comebacks (you know who you are AND you rock).  But I’m working on a preemptive comeback.  So when I say I’m having another boy  . . . .  I’ve been telling people that I always wanted my own Boy Scout troop, but that sounds pretty lame.  So if anyone has some creative juices left over, I could use some. 

Oh, yeah.  I got my I’m-so-sorry look from someone after I told her I was having another boy.  Really?

I’ll try to keep the posts short this week, since we’re all running around.  Godspeed and Good luck.

Another Pregnancy Complaint

Somewhere in the third semester of carrying Sean, I felt a horrible pain around my uterus.  Not a cramping pain, not a labor pain, just a pulled muscle pain.  And it hurt!  But there was no blood.  I figured I might as well wait until my next appointment so I could show my doctor where the pain was. 

Doctor:  Fae, how we doing today?

Me: All right.  But I think my uterus is detaching.

Doctor: Really? 

Me: Yeah, I have pain here and here.

Doctor: (chuckles) Well, your uterus doesn’t detach.  You’ve just pulled the ligaments.

Me: (mumbling) It feels like it has.  (louder) What can I do?

Doctor: You’ll have to get one of those pregnancy belts.  Any other questions?

Me: No.

Doctor: Well, let’s hear the little guy’s heartbeat, shall we?

So I started wearing one of those belts, and guess what.  Babies do not like those things.  They kick and punch at them all the time.  All.  The.  Time.

With this pregnancy, the pulling started a month ago.  I started wearing the belt.  The little dude kicks at it.  All.  The.  Time.  While it took eight months of pregnancy to become stiff in my inner thighs at night, I’m already feeling that bliss.  The pain crawls up both inner sides to meet in a happy reunion just above my crotch.  Which makes it hard to jump out of bed when Evan started having nightmares every night for the last four nights.  Yup.  Someone remind me this in the third guy no longer wants to cuddle, and I start dreaming of holding another sweet smelling baby.

No, I Sean.

Sean doesn’t like picking Evan up from school.  I think he thinks we can just leave him there.  It’s a nice thought some days.  As I convinced Sean into a jacket, out of the house, and into his car seat, I chatted.

Me: Now, we’ll get Evan, baby.

Sean: I not baby!  I a big boy!

Me: Yes, you are!  And soon you’ll be a big brother too.  Would you like to be a big brother?

Sean: I no big brother!  I Sean!

Well, put.

But how do they know?

Evan: But I want a baby girl!

Me: Why?

Evan: Because I want to dance with her when she gets older!

Awww!

Me: Well, it’s probably going to be a baby boy.

Evan: How can you tell?

Me: Well, the doctor took a special camera and looked.  She’s pretty sure it’s a boy.

The Husband: Probably?  Pretty sure?

Me: Shut up.  They make mistakes.

Ok, maybe I’m not as resigned to this boy thing as I pretend to be.

But the next person to ask if I’m disappointed, I’ll punch in the face.  Luckily they have only asked my mom, who waves them off with a “Of course not, she’s having a baby.”  But then Christmas is coming with all that family.  This may be an interesting family get-together.

The News

If I had known what the ultra sound room looked like, I would have insisted on a time in which my mom and the boys could have come.  It was roomy with chairs for six with a big flat screen hanging on the wall, hooked to the ultra sound machine.  It was impressive.  Baby delivering was lucrative.

As we started it, the doc asked, “So what do we want?”

The Husband: A Girl!

The Doc:  Then I’ll call her a she until we know.

I rolled my eyes and concentrated on the blurb that turned out to be my baby.  And the little stinker was kneeling.  The med student engaged us in conversation where we mentioned we had two boys already.

Med student: What do they think?

Me: Well, the two year old has no idea what train wreck is going to hit him.  The four year old is pretty excited.  First he wanted a girl.  But then he wanted a bald baby.  So if it’s a bald baby, it has to be a boy.  He decided we’ll name him Kevin.  Or Elephant.

Med Student: Kevin?  Like from Up?!

Me: I guess so.

Doc:  It looks like Kevin is going to be a good name.  More socially acceptable than Elephant.

The Husband: Are you sure?

We stared at the screen as she moved the instrument around for a good picture of the boy parts.

Doc: Well, I checked several times to make sure that wasn’t the umbilical cord.  But that defiantly looks like boy parts. 

Yup.  They sure did.

We watched in silent as she studied the heart and head, explaining what we saw.  Tears formed in my eyes, but I forced them back.

As we left the office with all the pictures, The Husband turned to me.

The Husband: I’m really disappointed.  I totally thought this was a girl.  What are the odds?  Don’t worry, babe, we can always adopt or try again.

Me: I think this will be the last pregnancy.  I don’t know if I can take more vomiting and peeing my pants.  I’m a little disappointed too.  But we really have to rush because I have to make chicken and dumplings at my mom’s.

I told my family as I prepared dinner.  Then when everything was cooking, I called my BFF, who rambled on about her day until I mentioned I went to the doctor.

BFF: Damnit.  I should have called you.  It’s on my calendar!  Well?!

Me: It’s a boy.

BFF: Oh, honey!

Me: I know.  It’s ok.  I only wanted to cry a little bit.

And then I cried.  I cried for five minutes straight.  As my BFF told me it was ok to be disappointed, that it didn’t mean I was a bad mom or that I wouldn’t love the baby any less, it was ok.   I stopped.

Me: So I’m a mom of a troop of boys.

BFF: Yup.

Me: It’s going to be fun.

BFF: Yup.

And I felt better as we talked.

I always pictured having a daughter, even as a child.  But what do I need a girl for?  Someone who would bake and cook with me.  I never wanted to be in the kitchen when I was a kid, unless it was baking.  My brother learned to cook at my mother’s side.  I learned after I left the house.  Did you know there’s a wrong way to eat a tomato?  Someone to shop with me?  I hate shopping, except with certain people.  In college someone would drag me to the mall, and I would sit with the boyfriends (with a backward nod and How’s it going) as I nearly died of boredom as the girl tried on thing after thing.  Play faeries with?  Actually the boys love Tinker Bell.  They love my little pocket toys and my faeries.  I guess I’ll be buying the Tinker Bell movies for Christmas.  Doing a little girl’s hair?  I hate doing hair.  As a little girl, I would cringe as my mom put the dead hair she pulled out of the brush in my hands, and that was after begging and sobbing not to make me hold it.  To teach someone to wear make-up?  I only wear make-up at grown up events.

As I talked to the BFF, I told her what I (and she) believed.  God gives us what we need; not what we want.  How easy would it be to raise a feminist girl?  A tomboy and princess all rolled into one?  Easy.  (So says the woman without daughters.)  But I have to raise feminist boys.  Boys that will go through a stage that girls are yucky, a stage where girls are stupid, a stage when girls are just to mess around with.  I get to crack heads and teach manners.  I have to be stronger to prove women are strong.  I also have to bone up on my sports skills so they know exactly how a girl throws.  (In my peak, I could throw a softball with one bounce from the back of centerfield to home plate.)  I have my work cut out for me, but I plan on raising the good guys that any mother would be proud to call son one day.

I think I cursed myself.  I said on some radical feminist blog that it’s an adult that makes a toy gender specific.  What makes a car a boy toy?  What makes a doll a girl toy?  Then I turned around and told my pen pal that I couldn’t find any craft kits for boys because they were all about making jewelry and spa stuff.  My pen pal asked, “Wouldn’t your boys love making sparkly jewelry?”  Damnit.  Yes, they would.  Just like Evan would be thrilled with a Tinker Bell doll.  And wings. 

As my BFF and I began to end our conversation, she giggled.

Me: What?

BFF: The Husband was sweet to be disappointed.  But I think he wanted you to have a girl because he thinks the boys are for him.  (pause for breath)  What he doesn’t realize is they are all for you.  Besides boys are closer to their mothers.

I smiled.  She was right, as usual.  Didn’t I just read a book about this?

That night as The Husband crawled into bed, he tried to cheer me up because he hadn’t realized I was so over being sad.

The Husband: Babe, you’re going to one protected woman.

I smiled as I pictured myself surrounded by three strapping boys.

Me: Don’t you forget it.

The Husband: Hey, I’m one of them!

Sure, you are.

Thank you to all the wonderful people who commented on A Dark Secret.  You rock my world and made me feel so much better.  I’ll answer everyone later today, but I thought I would get this up for my East coast readers.

A Dark Secret

I have a secret.  It’s buried deep within me.  I don’t want it out.  But I think you’ll understand.

When I decided to get pregnant, I spent months agonizing over the decision.  I weighed the pros and cons.  I knew I wanted another child.  But was it practical?  Was it a need?  Was it a smart decision?  We’re in a rental home, and The Husband is rebuilding his business in a time of economic down turn.  I had my hands full with the boys.  I had other issues that I should be deal with.  But I still wanted that child.  It didn’t seem logical.  In fact, it was quite illogical.  Stupid as I made my list of cons.  I hate doing something stupid.  But there it was a calling to have another child.  A strong desire that I had only felt once when working towards college and picking the unpractical degree of Creative Writing.

So then I asked the really hard question.  Did I want another child or just a daughter?  If it was a daughter, then I might as well start saving for adoption.  I began research over adoption, foreign and domestic.  I continued to analyze my want.  In the end, I realized I wanted another child.  I be perfectly happy with another son.

So after months of praying, thinking, meditating, I told The Husband, who had no idea I was going through such a mental crisis, that I truly wanted another child.  He was already on board.  But since I couldn’t deny a little girl would be nice, I decided to naturally switch the odds in my favor.

Tomorrow I’ll find out if I did.

And I’m nervous.

What if I wasn’t really honest with myself after all that soul searching?  What if I truly wanted a daughter so bad my heart bled with want?  What if I’m disappointed that it’s a boy? 

I wasn’t disappointed with the first two pregnancies.  I thought I could always have another.  With Evan, we found out the moment he entered the world and the doctor checked.  My mom and The Husband were so sure he would be a girl, but he was a boy.  I was so excited that I kept saying “it’s a boy” over and over again.  With Sean we decided to find out just so we could have everything ready.  The Husband, Evan, and I stared at the screen as the technician rolled the instrument over my belly.  She announced, “It’s a boy.”  The Husband asked if she was sure.  She was very sure.  I said, “We’re still buying a play kitchen.”  The Husband was worried I would be disappointed, kept watching for signs that I didn’t love the baby enough.

Any mother would find that preposterous.  How could I not love my baby to the fullest extent of my heart and beyond?  Boy, girl, it doesn’t matter.  It’s my baby.  So I know that if the little bean is a boy, I will love him to the point of breaking my heart.  And thanks to Raising Boys Without Men, I feel more comfortable with the thought of raising men who won’t run off and forget their mom. 

But what if tomorrow there is just a moment of disappointment?  Just a slight part of a second where I realize I won’t have a daughter.  I think I will cry for that moment of doubt.  But to make it worse, what if The Husband sees that flicker of disappointment across my face?  Because he won’t understand.  He’ll always wonder if I don’t love my third son as much as the other two because he was another boy. 

This is why I hate opening up presents in front of people.  Sure, there are things I truly want, sometimes expect to get.   But there’s that brief moment of empty disappointment over realizing you didn’t get what you want.  Sure, you’re extremely ecstatic that you got this awesome present from people who thought about you and love you, but it wasn’t really what you wanted.  Your voice sounds fake to your own ears as you thank them.  The disappointment fades off as you brag about the gift to other people, but you always wonder if the givers ever knew you weren’t really excited those first few minutes.

Part of me doesn’t want to know tomorrow.  There’s a chance hope will die.  But in its place will be love and excitement.  I wish I could know without anyone there, without worrying about what I feel or say or think or look like.  I just want to absorb the fact.  If I thought The Husband would understand, I would ask if they could just put it in an envelope for us to look at later, and then I could open it without anyone there.  But The Husband is super excited.  He hated waiting to find out Evan was.  I don’t think I could sell him on the envelope idea.

Doubt about God, Heaven and Hell, the brilliance of Shakespeare, I can handle.  I don’t know if I can handle doubting myself.

 

Berry Pie

Let’s go over this again.  How many pregnancies have we been through together?

Two.

So really you should know by now when I ask with a manic glint in my eyes for something specific, like a berry pie.  I mean a berry pie.  I would settle for a cobbler or a tart.  But I NEED the berries and the crust and NOTHING else.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not usually like this.  Sure, when I send you out for dessert, I expect something with chocolate, but you don’t understand that because you’re not a big chocolate guy.  I settle for what you bring.  Except when I’m pregnant.

So when you rush out to bring me my berry pie, I’m grateful.

But don’t get hurt when I look crushed, when I start to cry, when I see that you brought me a fresh fruit tart . . . with kiwi with the berries . . . with cream . . . with a crust that isn’t quite like a pie crust.  I know you tried.  I know you searched.  But I also know when I mentioned the frozen dessert section as a second resort that you waved me off saying you’ll just go to the pie section.

Don’t laugh when I start to cry in disappointment.  I’m emotional and irrational, and I cry at the drop of a hat.  I’m pregnant!  You try growing a baby, having your body morph in strange ways, be a washed in a sea of hormones.  See how normal you are.

Yes, you did the right thing bringing me a slice of tart to try since I ran away in tears, softly closing the bedroom door when I wanted to slam it (but the boys were sleeping). 

But don’t act hurt that I’m crying.  Of course, I’m going to yell at you.  I just vomited a bit because I started coughing because I was crying.  I can’t even have a good refreshing cry without that stupid cough making me more miserable.  I’m trying not to lose my dinner here with all those healthy vegetables and milk.   

Yes, I’m a big enough person to admit that I’m emotional and appreciative and that I shouldn’t have snapped at you.

But don’t act like I’m a basket case as I whip up a small berry crumble.  I would have done it before if I had the almonds I like using to make a bottom crust.  Yes, I’ll stay up late enjoying it.  Yes, the tart was fine.  You can have as much as you like.  You know what would go great with this crumble?  Vanilla ice cream.  No, we don’t have any.  But I know the stores aren’t closed yet.

I promise you it’s not the plague; it’s allergies

I need to go on a rant here, and it might just be too much information for some of you.  So if you want to slink away now, I won’t hold it against you.  I’ve been thinking about this rant for some time because I’ve got no one in real life that can truly understand, and I figured since I know so many moms online, maybe someone will understand out there.  Besides some of my most favorite bloggers are open and honest about their TMI stuff and their embarrassing shit.  And I want to be like them.

About six weeks ago, Evan came down with a cold.  A nasty little thing that knocked him down for almost a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose.   You might remember me mentioning I had it before committing radio silence for a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose, and a cough that sounded uncomfortably close to a smoker’s cough.  Sweet.  Not only did I feel like crap, people looked at me like I had the plague.  All I needed was a couple of boils, a hood, and a bell to ring and call out “Bring out your dead.”  Since I’m a responsible pregnant mom, I didn’t down a bottle of Nyquil like I would have and been done with it.  No, I suffered for a week before my OB/GYN appointment, where my doc told me what I could take and that there was a list of medicines on the website if I ever needed to look anything up.  Sweet!  I was on the mend.

Except the cough.  Which lingered.  And lingered.  And by God, it’s been five f-ing weeks.  About three weeks in, I searched, scoured the website, and you know what.  There was no list of medicines.  So after a day or so, I called.  And low and behold, they told me what to take for a cough.  Sweet!  Now I was on the mend.

Except my allergies hit.  After going eighteen years without allergies, moving to CA for another ten, and returning home, I have allergies in my home town.  Are you kidding me?!  Now my nose runs like a faucet because I can’t take the good stuff.  And I still have that damn cough as I try to hack out a lung.

I was probably out of morning sickness danger for over a week before it dawned on me the only time I vomited was when I had a real bad coughing attack after lying down.  Just yesterday a coughing fit sent me running to the toilet where I dry heaved for five minutes as I pissed my pants because that’s what I do when I’m pregnant and vomiting.  I piss my pants.

Oh, and it gets better.  If it’s a powerful coughing spell, I piss my pants.  Sometimes it’s just a little; sometimes it actually does wet my pants.  Then I can’t make up my mind whether I feel like a four-year-old learning to potty train or a ninety-four year-old losing my faculties.  Either way it’s extremely embarrassing.  In the beginning it was so bad that I wore a heavy day pad (Thank you to whatever blogger mentioned that) so I wouldn’t pee in public.

Now I know this is partially my fault.  I should have been doing my kegel exercises.  I did push out Sean without contractions, so that was bound to loosen things up.  But I never remember to do them.  It’s on my list of things I should do, but tend to forget.  It’s pages after file all the old business papers and organize Evan’s school work, but it is before the-husband-feels-neglected-because-of-the-morning-sickness-I –should-really-give-him-a-bj.  Yeah, I don’t think I’ll get around to that either.

So I figure I should just keep drinking cough syrup and popping allergy pills until it is all gone away, not (my original plan of) stopping as soon as I start feeling better, leaving the rest up to the immune system.  Because hey, they’re losing the battle there.  I hope the little bean can forgive me if there are some side effects, like a lower IQ, the need to watch professional wrestling, or sixth finger. 

Wish me luck.  And thanks for listening.                                 Um . . . any one there?