That Glow

Organic Pregnancy. Yes, it’s something I strive for, but the further along I get, the more relaxed I get. The second hand smoke we breathe from the neighbor? Hell, most moms smoked through their whole pregnancies before they figured out, hey! Smoking kills! Body lotions full of parabens? Well, I still avoid those, but occasionally I still smear on a pretty smelling one that’s not from the health food store or Dr. Hauschka.

Speaking of the good doctor, I received a face cream for Christmas by him. I started using it when my other moisturizer ran out. I’m pregnant. My skin is crazy (that’s another post). I have moles and skin tags and such all over the place. Glamorous, I know. When my face was red and splotchy, I assumed it was pregnancy.

I was lazy during the first trimester (read exhausted and ready to collapse at 8pm). I stopped washing my face every night and rolled into bed with whatever grease, dirt and make-up was on my face. It made sense I’d be red and splotchy. As winter progressed to spring, and my sensitive pregnant skin was getting sunburned, I decided enough was enough. I needed some chemical sun protection pronto. A few chemicals are better than skin cancer and chemo.

So, I returned to my old, sun block enhanced moisturizer. And guess what? Within a week I no longer had red, splotchy skin. Gone. It disappeared like that. I added back the face washing for an extra measure, and my lord, my face looks like normal again! In fact, you can even see the pregnancy glow now that the splotches are gone.

It’s nice I can look in the mirror and not want to cover my whole face in concealor. I mean, I can’t control my giant boobs or feeling sick (seems to have passed) or the skin tags and moles, but I can at least have nice, sun-protected skin. To hell with natural everything.

Glamour

Pregnancy is not glamorous. The celebrities make it look easy, fashionable and fantastic. In some ways, it is. The fashion part is much easier now that I fit into my vast maternity wardrobe compliments of my failed business. Plus, it’s true that the second trimester is like a jolt of energy. Unless you get the barfy flu – better known as the stomach flu.

Yes, last Thursday, I found myself praying to the porcelain god. That afternoon, my stomach hurt and I felt a little funny, but with pregnancy, that happens from time to time. I decided that getting home to bed would be the best cure, and my friend, who is a mom, agreed. She thought if I sipped some water and got some sleep I’d be fine. Oh how I wish she was right.

I sipped some water and finally retired to bed around 8:00. About an hour later, I ran to the bathroom, hand over my mouth. I thought, “Oh crazy pregnancy. I should feel better now that’s all out.” And I did for about a minute. Then it happened again. And again. And again. And again. Well, you get the point. I accepted defeat and made a camp in the bathroom.

Here’s the thing. I’ve had the barfy flu lots of times over the past few years (thank you, nieces). I can handle it. In some warped way, I think of it as a great ab workout and quick slim down. I mean, not eating for four days tends to take some weight off. But when you have someone riding shotgun in your belly, it takes on a whole, new terrifying identity.

First off, I was worried something would happen to the baby as she took the wild ride of being lifted up with everything else in my stomach. You know how when you throw-up your whole stomach heaves up? Well, it still does it with a baby in there. And then the baby slams down on your bladder. I don’t care how many kegels you do. The pressure is insane. So, not only was I puking my guts out, I lost control of my bladder. Humility at its best.

Luckily, Pete is a man of incredible strength and sweetness. I was sitting on the floor recovering from the first bout of retching, and I looked over at him.

“I pee-peed my pants.”

“That’s okay, Sweetie. It happens to everyone when they get old.”

“But I’m not old.”

“It’s still okay. Drink some water. You have to stay hydrated.”

I’m not sure if he was really trying to hydrate me or just make me so I’d pee my pants more, but I’m taking it as sweet not vengeful.

****************

On a positive note, I am probably closer to the textbook weight gain recommendation since last month I gained nine pounds. Oh, and I can feel the baby kicking so she seems to have made it through unscathed.

Mother's Day Bump

 

For Mother's Day, Pete made us a great picnic, and we drove up the coast to Malibu to one of my favorite beaches. It was chilly, but still beautiful. We also took some belly photos to send to the family. I definitely have something growing in there - and this time it's not beer and burgers.

Dress Regrets

It’s so wild to think that a year ago I was gearing up for our wedding. I was perusing websites, gathering more ideas, sticking stamps to invitations and fretting over details like escort cards, which we didn’t use. Maybe because I’m a girl and slightly crazy, but occasionally I still think about what I wish I’d done differently or went differently. I loved our wedding so I have no idea why I dwell on the things that I cannot change. Like the dress I wore to the rehearsal dinner.

Sometime last spring, my cousin asked me if I was going crazy and buying new clothes for everything. I prided myself in how simple things were and how I was watching money since we paid for part of the event. I had a bright green dress that I liked a lot, and said, “Nope. I’m going to wear a dress I already have.” And I did.

Before I criticize myself any further, I will remind myself I was super sick, pumped full of antibiotics and praying I felt better for the actual wedding day (I did). All I wanted to do was to lay in bed and have my mom wait on me, but we had a town full of guests and lots of events planned so I had to rally and drag my sick ass self to get my nails done, throw a luncheon and host a pre-wedding barbeque/rehearsal dinner.

I look back on the pictures and think, “Why didn’t I have my hair done for the rehearsal dinner? A simple blow-out would have look TONS better than that frizzy pouff on my head.” Note to self: If an event centers around you (baby shower), spend the time and money on a blow-out! (Yes, I live in LA.)

In the few hours between the luncheon and the rehearsal/barbeque, I lay around on the couch, sipped hot ginger tea in 90 degree weather and wished yet again that I didn’t have to drag myself to a party filled with people I hadn’t seen in years who were coming to see me. I mean, I wanted to see them; I just wanted to feel good.

But what I really wonder is why I let my cousin’s comment stop me from buying an absolutely fabulous dress. I guess I keep thinking about this because wedding season is upon us, and I see great potential rehearsal dinner dresses everywhere. Maybe it has something to do with the fact I can’t buy them now to wear because of the bun in my oven. Maybe I’m just fantasizing because in a year, I’ll probably be covered in baby snot and baby puke and baby diapers and the idea of wearing a stunning dress will be a faint memory or a future fantasy.

We are going to a wedding a two weeks. I found a cute dress at the Gap that I can wear with these strappy silver sandals I already have, and when my pregnant self can’t handle them anymore, I can put on silver flip flops. I think I’ll look fabulous, or at least semi-fabulous.

98% Girl

Yesterday, I had an amnio. I wasn’t too excited about it. In fact, I would have been fine skipping it since out first trimester screens came back looking extremely good. My odds of having a downs baby dropped from my geriatric age of 37 to that of a 20 year old. (I blame that on my healthy lifestyle, regular exercise and love of organics.) Pete wants a guarantee we have a healthy babe growing in my womb. So, after another ultrasound where everything again looked great (normal nuchal fold, beautiful spine, five fingers on at least one hand), I agreed to let the doctor stick a huge needle into my belly and remove amniotic fluid.

It didn’t really hurt. They swabbed my belly with betadine, numbed it and stuck the huge needle in. Like the doctor said, the set-up took longer than the procedure. My tummy felt a little odd last night, and I could only lay on my left side, but today, I feel much better, although not back to my normal self yet (I think that will be in October or November or sometime later in 2009). So, I am resting and waiting for the definitive results, which we will have in a few weeks. More importantly (since I am pretty convinced we have a healthy baby), we’ll know for sure if it is a boy or a girl.

A few years ago, for some reason, I was convinced I was having only boys. I fancy myself a little psychic, and just concluded I would never have a room full of little dresses and soft pink things. I’d have trucks and blues and little man who was a momma’s boy. When we found out I was pregnant, both my mom and I thought, “We’re going to have a little boy.” I even started looking at little boy things.

“Do you see any boy parts?” I asked the doctor yesterday because I didn’t see anything even when we were looking at the butt.

“Nope, I don’t see any boy parts.”

“So it’s a girl?”

“I’d say 90%, no, 98% it’s a girl.”

I looked at Pete. “It better be a girl or our boy has a really little pecker.”

I am adjusting to the idea of a little girl. I’d envisioned myself with a little boy for so long. Caring for a little penis and making sure he didn’t pee on me. Most of my friends have little boys – some of them even have two. Of course, I have two nieces with clothes to hand down to my little one, which is awesome. I know about princesses and pink stuff. I can teach her how to put on her make-up and not look like a slut (she will most likely go against me and wear blue eyeliner like I did even though it looks like ass). I am going to have to teach her about periods and personal health and boys and sex, which scares the shit out of me.

Of course, all of that is years away. Right now, I’m just counting down to the day I get to meet her.

Smoke Free CA?

One great thing about living in California is that it is very health conscience. Smoking is banned on beaches in Santa Monica. All restaurants are smoke-free unless you sit outside (and being Los Angeles, this option exists year ‘round). It’s great. I can easily go out for dinner or a drink (pre-pregnancy, of course), and come home smelling exactly as I did when I went out. Needless to say, as a non-smoker, I love it.

Unfortunately, one place you are still allowed to smoke is your home. And guess who lives below us? A smoker. Most of the time, we can’t smell it. And most of the time, we have the windows open (a bonus of living in southern California). But, there are times when he has his friends over or maybe gets depressed or creative or whatever one does when they chain smoke, and the smoke drifts into our apartment.

This happened a few times before I was pregnant, and it grossed my pristine lungs out. I would open the window, swear a few times and go back to bed. But now that I’m growing a baby, I know that the crap the asshole smokes downstairs isn’t only staining my lungs, it’s fucking with my baby.

Anyway, my whole point of writing this is that there are these ads that run on TV by tobaccofreeca.com. Some of the ads talk about second hand smoke, and how it travels through the vents to get to your neighbors. In one in particular, they show the smoke entering a kid’s room. What I don’t understand is this: clearly, the kid’s parents don’t smoke but the asshole neighbor does. If the asshole neighbor doesn’t care enough about his own health (it’s a guy in the ad), why would he stop smoking for the health of a neighbor’s kid? Who are the ads aimed at exactly?

If anything, the ads freak me out MORE about the second hand smoke. Maybe they are done in conjunction with the real estate association to get more people to buy single family homes to escape the smoke? Short of him moving out, I think the only other solution is for us to move into our own home and pray our next neighbors don’t smoke. If anyone has a more realistic solution, please let me know because the real estate market still hasn't crashed to normal yet.

The First Photos

One of the first pictures of the baby. Don't let the nice, calm demeanor fool you. That baby was moving all over the place. It's about the size of a lemon in this photo. Six more months until we meet...

PS: It has legs but those didn't show up in this photo, and man, those legs were kicking up a storm. Thankfully, I can't feel them yet.

The Selfish Mama

Even though I’ve always wanted to be a mama, sometimes I get completely freaked out. Yesterday, we had lunch with my distant cousin, his wife and their 10 month old son. They live in a nice condo in the Valley, which is why we don’t see them more often (too far away). They say it’s rather small, but they have 3 bedrooms so in my world, it’s a decent size. As with most urban families, they are creative with space and aren’t accumulating tons of toys for the baby. We took notes.

Their son is wonderful, good-natured and smiley – despite that he was sleep deprived and had a cold. I can only imagine him on a “good” day. Since most of my friends don’t have kids in LA, it’s been ages since I’ve hung out with people with kids. When I lived in Boulder, it was part of life (of course these kids are driving and swearing now – okay, maybe not quite, but you get the idea). I’d forgotten how much EVERYTHING centers around the kid. We’d start a conversation about oh, eating gourmet meals, and then the baby would crawl off to something he wasn’t supposed to and the conversation veered back to the baby. This happened over and over and over and over and over again. On one hand it was completely fine. He’s sweet and they are good parents. But my lord, will I never be able to have a full conversation again?

Okay, I know at some point, I will leave the kid with Pete and get a respite with a girlfriend. I’m sure we will talk about mundane girl stuff and dating and food and, oh yeah, the baby. Because, let’s face it, the baby will be my life. Breast milk soaked shirts, throw-up on my shoulder. Yes, this is my future.

Already I fear the loss of me. The loss of my time (snickers from the moms reading this). As one friend already told me, the birth of our child will change me – in good ways. In ways I can’t even imagine. I have no doubt about it. No more 3 hour naps on Saturday for me, no more sex whenever we want (although the first trimester has been a libido killer), no more impromptu dinners or late walks to get tacos (late being 9pm… which might still work with an infant in a front pack).

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m selfish. I like laying around on the weekend for hours and reading a book. I like sleeping in late or having quiet time in the morning while I make a surprise breakfast for Pete (given, I can do this with a kid… I think). I’m SELFISH! MOMS CAN’T BE SELFISH!

Okay, a breath. I’m better now. I’ll admit, in between hugging and kissing their son, my cousin and his wife told us how they had no idea how much they could love someone else. She said her heart hurt with the amount of love she felt for her son. To say they gushed about their son would be an understatement. They are clearly the poster parents for parenthood. And happy? If you could can happiness and sell it, they’d be the ones to get some from.

I’m sure I’ll miss the sleep. I’m sure I’ll miss my alone time with Pete, but I’m banking on the heart swell, the overwhelming love and of course, the way my kid’s face will light up when s/he sees me. It’s the reason people keep procreating, right? It can’t just be the tax deduction.

The First Glimpse

We just spent the past 3 hours at the perinatalogists office. We had a genetic counseling appointment at noon, followed by a nuchal fold ultrasound and blood work. We didn’t quite understand why we had to meet with the genetic counselor, but we did. Basically, they scare the shit out of you by telling you all the ways the chromosomes in your kid could be messed up. They even have pictures of the chromosomes just in case you needed a visual aid. I was feeling pretty confident about the baby being healthy prior to seeing the extra chromosomes, but then I was thinking. “Oh my god. What if we have one of the kids with Klinefelts syndrome with an extra X chromosome?” They told us that the boys are thin and don’t have mental retardation, but they are infertile. Um, okay.

After being barraged by all of this information, but reassured that our chances for a non-Downs baby was 84% (I think), we were left to wait for the ultrasound, which would tell us more – like whether or not there are two babies. Pete was convinced there were, but alas, there is only one baby kicking around in my womb. (Praise Jesus!)

The ultrasound was so cool! I’ve seen the still pictures before of my nieces, but I’d never seen one moving. The baby was squirming all over the place. Kicking his/her legs, reaching arms up, flipping over. I got a good look at the ribs in one shot. But in some, the kid looked purely alien. It’s kind of freaky. Like, are you sure this one is mine? It’s not looking so cute at that angle.

The sonongrapher, who was so nice, said he thought the baby, who I am convinced is a boy, has a high probability of being a girl because of how his/her bits are angled right now. He said if it went straight, it “could” be a girl, but if it went up, it “could” be a boy. It went straight. The doctor told us at this point, it’s too hard to tell so it’s 50/50. We just have to wait either 5 more weeks for the amnio or 6 more for the major ultrasound where they check the organs. So, all ya’ll who want to get pink or blue things, you have to hold off for a little longer.

I’ll work on getting the ultrasound pictures scanned so I can post them and also send them out to all the relatives who want to see the baby. My mom told me I had to send a copy because she has my niece’s so she has to have this one, too. She’s not very excited for another grandkid. Nope, not at all. I think the blanket she and my Nana are working on is almost done. Seriously.

A Taste of Summer

Los Angeles broke heat wave records this past weekend. I was starting to think this is going to be one super long summer if this is what it feels like in 85 degrees (apparently it was 96 in Santa Monica). Saturday, Pete and I packed our beach bag and wandered out to the sand. I decided I couldn’t sit out there without an umbrella, so I procured one on the boardwalk for $30, which I thought was fair since it is MUCH better than the one I bought at Rite-Aid for $12 a few years ago and, most importantly, I didn’t have to get in a car to buy it.

Anyway, we finally set-up camp on the beach. Got the umbrella up. The blanket and towels arranged. The chair positioned just so. But you know what? It is cold in the shade at the beach – even in 95 degrees! So, I stuck my feet in the sun, then put my back in the sun – anything to keep a little warm. After about 2 hours of adjusting body parts to get warm, I decided I’d had enough and went back up to the apartment. When I left Pete sprawled on the beach, I was a comfortable temperature. By the time I reached the cool of our apartment, I felt like I was on fire I was so hot. This was about a 5 minute walk at MOST.

I gratefully opened the door to the apartment only to find it was hot inside. We don’t have AC but the ocean breezes usually keep our place comfortable if you aren’t already a million degrees. I opened every window I could, I ate ice cream. I sat on the couch panting. It took me about 30 minutes before I felt normal again.

Needless to say, I opted out of the beach yesterday. Somehow, I’m going to have to figure this out or it is going to be long, boring summer trapped in my apartment LOOKING at the beach rather than sitting on it.

Only For the Rich and Crazy

Last year, when I started reading The Complete Organic Pregnancy, I thought that I would be an organic mama. I’d only eat organic. I’d swath the baby in organic blankets. Dress the baby in cute organic clothes from Under the Nile or Kate Quinn. I’d buy a hardwood crib and an organic mattress. I changed my beauty products to chemical-free ones, which has not been an inexpensive endeavor. I was committed. Oh, the foolishness….

I’m still clinging to the idea of an organic mattress and hardwood crib, which will come in just under $1000. We plan on having two kids so the crib will get another round of use with number two. I figure the kid’s face will be smashed against the mattress a lot so that is probably important.

As far as clothes, I’m quickly jumping off the organic bandwagon. One organic onesie costs approximately $11. A pack of onesies from Old Navy? $7. The kid will wear it for a month, maybe three. We aren’t made of money. At that rate, I’ll have to potty train the baby at three months just to save on diapers so I can buy organic clothing. And yes, I’ve thought about cloth, but realistically, I know it won’t work. The washer and dryer are in the garage of our building, and I doubt I’m going to lug the baby and stinky diapers down two flights of stairs every day. Seriously. I’d have to be hard-core to do that, and clearly I’m not.

My normal, healthy, organic eating is on hiatus. Now that I am pregnant and dealing with nausea, I put whatever seems to taste good into my mouth. Today (and yesterday) this included a sausage, egg and processed cheese sandwich from my company cafeteria. I’ve eaten frozen dinners, which I hadn’t done since college (they’re disgusting). The other day, I ordered a side of fries with my chicken quesadilla. What? The 1000 calories quesadilla wasn't enough? In fact, I've renewed my friendship with French fries. Pre-pregnancy, I ate them once a month or so. Pregnant? Minimum once a week. MINIMUM. I keep telling myself my cousin lived on saltines for the first three months of her pregnancy and her daughter is a thriving 4.5 year old. My mom said she ate peanut butter crackers for three months with my brother. He’s intelligent, well-adjusted and not allergic to peanuts. As another friend said, “French fries from McDonald's made my kids, strong like bull!” So, there it is. Definitive evidence I am not screwing up my baby.

I’m doing the best I can for this little one. My roots are grey, my toes are unpolished, my beauty closet is stocked with natural, not-quite-as-good-as-chemicals-but-cost-twice-as-much products and I’m full of French fries. At this rate, my lack of looks combined with my bitchy demeanor, the kid will be lucky I’m still married by the time s/he arrives. But dammit, s/he will be healthy! The kid is thriving in my belly. I know it. It has to be, right?

Martha Knows Her Eggs

I’m not a huge Martha fan, but I love flipping through her magazine and seeing the luscious images of immaculate cupboards, perfectly iced cakes and all of the floral arrangements. So, when one of her magazines falls in my lap, I always appreciate it.

Pregnancy carries with it an obvious need for added nutrition. I’ve been told everything from 65 to 100 grams of protein a day. This, my friends, is no easy task – especially when you only crave carbs. I’ve taken a bit of a laissez-faire attitude to eating this first trimester since my mother survived on peanut butter crackers with my brother, and my brother’s really smart. I figure when I feel better, I’ll eat better. (Please let that day be soon!) In the mean time, I eat a lot of scrambled eggs.

So, when I was flipping through Martha’s Spring egg edition (don’t recall the month – maybe March?), and there was a whole section on cooking eggs, I read it. First rule, never use a non-stick pan. Um, I always use a non-stick pan (I know, chemical party, but it’s easier). Use butter to coat the pan. Hmmm… I use a little olive oil.

This weekend, when I made eggs, I decided to put the rules to the test. I buttered up our All-Clad fry pan (it’s good to get married), scrambled my eggs and poured them in. I did everything exactly the same as the non-stick pan except for using the stick pan. And wow! Those eggs were the best eggs I’ve had in a long, long time. Fluffy, light, tasty. I can’t explain it. I can’t imagine a non-stick pan makes that much of a difference, but apparently it does.

I am spreading the gospel of sticky-pan eggs. (If you use enough butter they aren’t supposed to stick. I couldn’t do that. It just seemed wrong.) After putting the eggs on my plate, I immediately soaked the pan in the sink, and you know what? It wasn’t that hard to clean. Plus, the elbow grease was worth the better tasting eggs.

Be Careful What You Wish For

For years, I’ve said, “I like my breasts, but it’d be great if they were just a little bigger.” So I thought. I was happily cruising along as a B/C (the sales people say C, but most tend to be gappy, but Bs are too tight). Now I’m a full C and growing. I think I’ll even crest into D before it’s all said and done.

At first, it was kind of cool minus the aching growing pains. They became a curiosity for Pete and me.

“Wow! Those are big boobs!”

“I know! And they just keep growing!”

And they do. I was sleeping on my side/stomach last night, but the position smashed my new big boobs so I had to move completely to my side. I thought I’d have to change my sleeping position eventually to make the belly happy, but nope, it’s the boobs.

Small boobs stay out of your way. Clothes button easily over them. Size small t-shirts cover my stomach. Not so with these knockers. My small t-shirts pull up, exposing my chubby, not-yet-pregnant-looking belly. The buttons on my blouses strain to cover the bigger girls. And reaching for things? The darn things block my arm all the time. I had to readjust my shampooing posture to accommodate these globes of growing flesh.

I admit that I am starting to get used to them. They fill out some of my tops a little nicer than the small ones, and the look of astonishment on Pete’s face when I’m standing naked after a shower? Priceless. Just wait until the milk comes in and they’re all for baby….

The Big Cave-In

I did it. I caved. After a few weeks of unbearable pressure on the gut, I started wearing maternity clothes. I know, it’s completely and utterly premature, but this kid does not like ANY pressure on it. I did the rubber band trick, the bella band, the unbuttoning my pants when I sat and covertly buttoning them when I stood. Everything was unflattering and frumpy, plus uncomfortable.

So, I raided the maternity store closet and broke out some jeans. I thought those would hold me over for a little while. (They’re totally too big and falling off, but better than strangling baby.) And then to add to the collection, I got an email that Liz Lange is closing her Beverly Hills store. Everything in the store is $20. TWENTY DOLLARS!! Those are Old Navy prices! (Just in case you aren’t clear, this is the real Liz Lange, not Liz Lange for Target.)

I grabbed my purse and made a mad dash through spring break traffic to get to Beverly Hills over lunch yesterday. Beverly Hills is usually 15 to 20 minutes away during the week. Parking is generally not too difficult because there are plenty of public lots. The emphasis is on USUALLY. Add spring break, and it took me half an hour to get there only to find my favorite lot full. (Damn spring breakers!)

Finally, I found a spot and dashed over to the Queen of Maternity’s store. I was a tad disappointed, but not surprised, to find all the fun, colorful pieces gone. On the plus side, there were lots of great basics and friendly sales people to help find the pieces.

I managed to find 2 pairs of pants, a skirt, a blazer, a dress and a shirt ALL for under $100. That’s not too impressive at Old Navy, but the pants are regularly $175 and the jacket was $275!! I thought, “Do I really need a jacket?” And the sales lady pointed out, “For $20 you can’t lose.” So, I now own a maternity blazer.

Pete almost had a heart attack when I told him I spent $100 on maternity clothes until he saw me this morning. I feel pretty today. I have a cute outfit on that fits properly. The baby can breathe and so can I.

** Hopefully this will be the lasts of my posts regarding clothes because even I’m getting bored of them.

Oh the Vanity

I completely understand the fat not cute stage now – and I am barely showing. To the untrained eye, I just look like I’ve been eating too much pasta and fried chicken. As suspected, a lot of my clothes don’t fit correctly anymore. My fitted t-shirts are now too short because of the new rack I’ve got, not to mention they highlight the bulging belly. My pants don’t really button, and the ones that do, I need a rubber band to make fit comfortably. My bras are too tight – including the one I just bought in an effort to have one bra that fits. Needless to say, getting dressed for work has become something I dread.

We planned this pregnancy, so I knew last fall that I wouldn’t fit into a lot of the clothes I admired. I solved that by limiting my spending to things I knew I would wear (jeans). In fact, in the past few years I haven’t bought many clothes. I had the website so my extra money went to buy clothes for that instead of clothes for me (the payoff is weeks away). But in the meantime, this means that my selection on clothing is limited. Incredibly limited.

I went shopping last weekend in hopes of buying a few pairs of pants to hold me over until I fit into maternity pants. The websites and books say that I’ll fit into them after the baby so not to worry about spending the money. And honestly, this time, I wasn’t that worried. But all the big pants look sloppy. Generally, I like my clothes fitted and tailored. I like body skimming clothes. Since I sew, I’ve even taken in blouses so they have a more fitted look. I spend money on expensive pants because the fit is better than the basic Gap pair (although, occasionally I’ve gotten lucky). Which leads me to my current dilemma: how do I dress cute, accommodate the baby that doesn’t like any pressure on it and not look frumpy?

I have no answer. Today, I have on a pair of cute jeans, a white blouse and pale green cardigan. I thought I looked preppy-cute when I left my house this morning. A trip to the bathroom at work proved otherwise. The rubber-banded button of my jeans is completely visible when I walk and my jeans are a little too tight, if you know what I mean. Did I mention the buttons on my blouse are pulling from the gigantic ta-tas I’m sporting? So much for concealing the pregnancy. Here’s the thing: I’m over it. I am at the point where I HAVE to wear clothes that are comfortable. I’m still not saying anything about the bun in the oven, and so far, no one has been rude enough to ask. I think my boss is on to me because he didn’t say anything to me as I inhaled a breakfast burrito at my desk this morning, which I never do (did).

And I wonder why my pants are tight.

Riding the Wave

No one can prepare you for morning sickness. We’ve all heard friends complain about it. Noticed when they dropped out of society until the triumphant first trimester ended. I had sympathy. I offered bland foods. I stepped out of delicious smelling coffee houses because they no longer smelled delicious to my pregnant friends. I even left a great show because the bar smelled like beer and Melissa thought she might barf. But my lord, nothing could have prepared me for the real experience.

The nausea comes and goes. Sneaks up on me and clobbers me over the head. And just as I begin to accept my fate of riding the invisible curvy road with no end, it ends. I’m still complaining internally, woe-is-me-ing myself when all of a sudden, I realize I feel fine. Then, I get excited that I beat the sickness. I start gloating and just as suddenly as it stops, it comes back. It’s worse than my brother’s most evil torture when I was a kid.

And here’s the thing: I know my morning sickness is mild. Oh, and in case none of your friends have enlightened you, morning sickness is a bunch of bullshit. The crap lasts all day, sometimes lulls you to sleep, sometimes wakes you up. It knows no boundaries.

When I found out I was pregnant, all 2.5 weeks ago (time is moving slllloooowwwwwllllyyy), I felt great. I felt great minus a few nauseous rumblings that were quickly quelled with food. I stupidly thought THAT was morning sickness. No sirree, morning sickness is turning green at your desk and wondering if you can make it to the bathroom to puke. Then looking around the copy room outside of the bathroom for a can to puke in just in case someone is in the bathroom, and in case you can't make it there, eyeing the recycle bin under your desk as a perfect puke receptacle. Yes, my friend, that is morning sickness.

I looked up “morning sickness cures” online, and found that there are a few things one can do: eat small meals regularly, eat protein, stay hydrated and rest. Okay, let’s look at this list. You want to puke. Spend just a moment thinking how much you want eat when you want to puke. Yep. Not at all. But here’s the thing: it really is salvation.

Yesterday, as I lay my head on my desk, groaning quietly, I ate a few pistachios, then an almond. I thought I would be making the run to the bathroom, but I managed to keep them down, and then about twenty minutes later, I could actually function. How novel! (And all of this while trying to keep it from the boss. Oy.)

Today, I am carefully watching the clock and eating a few nuts or peanut butter crackers every hour or so. Not a lot. Just a couple to keep the nausea at bay. I’m sipping Pellegrino, mint tea and water. And I feel…. okay. I’m not saying great, but better. If only I had a cot in my office to rest on...

I keep telling myself about all the women who have gone through this before me, and the beautiful baby I’ll get in the end, and I feel better. I feel bonded to both of them. I keep telling myself that morning sickness means there is a healthy baby growing in me. I am working on gratitude that this pregnancy came so easily to me, that I am joining the billions of women who are mothers. I’m trying to figure out how to accept it and stop fighting it. To finally cede control over to parenthood. This, I know, is just the first of many times I’ll need to let go. I just hope I don’t “let go” in the recycle bin.

Joining the Tribe

We have all heard the quote about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes before you really know them. It sucks when I find out these old quotes “hold water.” (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) When I planned our wedding, I found myself looking back on events around other peoples’ weddings, and wishing I had acted differently. I wished I’d sent a better gift or offered to help more. I understood why my friends were stressed, but also calm. Even though I think of myself as a supportive friend, like the saying goes, until you’ve been there, you can’t fully understand it.

So it goes with pregnancy. In the late 90s, I started studying to be a doula, which meant that I read lots of books about pregnancy. I quizzed friends about their pregnancies and births. I even attended a birth, which included almost every intervention except a c-section. Stupidly, I thought I knew what pregnancy was all about.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! The joke is completely on me. My friend Lisa once told me about the “fat phase,” where you look fat not pregnant. I sort of knew what she meant, but I thought this phase happened around month three or even four before the belly popped out and looked cute. I hardly look fat now, but there is a definite bloat to my stomach. There is no holding it in anymore. And my favorite skinny jeans? Sayonara. They are history until next spring at the earliest. (Let’s be honest – summer - I’m no Heidi Klum.) Already, they push into my sweet, bloated belly, causing me to feel like utter hell and want to puke.

Last Friday, I wore them to work cleverly unbuttoned with a belly band. I sold the bella band when I had my online store, and thought how great! Wear my favorite pants longer? Of course! Brilliant! I still thought that Friday morning when I got dressed. By Friday afternoon, after indulging in a light lunch of quiche and salad, my stomach pushed out further and I swear, even further. By 6pm, I was almost in tears. When I got home, I raced to the bedroom, took off my jeans and slid the evil constrictor off. I groaned with pleasure. I moaned. I praised the heavens. Pete asked if he should come in and help me.

Today I am wearing a little black dress that is completely overkill for my casual office. After the bella band episode, I couldn’t bring myself to put on a waistband. I’m still trying to figure out how to make yoga pants look cute enough for work.

I won’t even start the tirade on my boobs yet. That’s another entry. And the nausea. I keep wondering how I can get off this ride that is making me so sick, until I realize I have to ride it to get the baby. A whole tribe of women before me knows exactly what I’m talking about. The tribe behind, be warned. It’s exciting, but nothing can prepare you for the experience. With all of that said, and a little trepidation, I am proud to be joining the Momma Tribe.

BFP (Big Fat Positive)

On Valentine’s Day, I peed on a stick for the first time in my life. How I made it to 36 without doing it before, I have no idea. Blame it on my regular cycle combined with my "No babies, no babies" mantra. This time, I patiently left it on the bathroom sink for the allotted three minutes and laid back down with Pete while we waited. After about a minute, I sprang back up and went to the bathroom. I squinted and prayed for a second line. Faintly, a second line appeared. Pete and I looked at each other.

“Do you think that’s a line?” I asked Pete.

“I can barely see it,” he said.

“I don’t know. I think that’s a second line. I’ll do it again tomorrow morning and see what it says.”

It was all very calm and business-like. And we waited. I went to spin class with this potential secret growing inside of me, and to work where I continued to feel fine.

Friday morning I peed on a different brand of stick. A blue line appeared, but again it wasn’t dark blue like the test line.

I wasn’t as patient this time so I ran off to my friend the internet, and typed in “faint line, pregnancy test.” Sure enough, it told me that ANY second line means that you are indeed creating a child.

“Pete, I think we really are going to have a baby,” I yelled from the computer.

“Wow. That was easy.”

“Don’t jinx us for the next time!”

“Right. We should keep practicing.”

So, it’s true. We made a baby the first time we tried after preparing for it to take six months to a year. Apparently, we are in the 20% who hit the jackpot on round one. We are just now getting over the shock that we are actually going to have a baby at the end of October.

** It’s super early and we really shouldn’t tell anyone, but we did. And now I’m telling the internet because there is way too much going on not to write about it.

The Business of Being Born

I have been pro-home birth, pro-baby for a long time. Maybe all the hippies rubbed off on me when I lived in Boulder. Who knows... all I know is that in Los Angeles NOT having an epidural is like saying you don't want to ever eat again. Wait... that's normal for some women in LA. Hmmm... this is all starting to make sense. Anyway, I haven't seen the movie yet, but I am excited that Ricki Lake and director Abby Epstein are spreading the word that birth is not a medical condition.