How to Wear a Skirt in 90 Degrees at 38 Weeks Pregnant (Alternatively: Later Pregnancy Woes)

Perhaps you are among the many who complimented me on my outfit after I posted this photo on FaceBook, and if so, I thank you.  You did my ego good.

 

 

The thing is, you can’t see my ankles in this photo.  I can’t see my ankles, either, but that’s because they are swollen to three times their normal size.

 

On Tuesday, the day of the night I dressed up in my nine-months-pregnant best to go to a Rotary banquet with Tony, we experienced the hottest July 1st on record.  I saw a thermometer reading of 89 degrees, which is about ten degrees past Too Damn Hot, if you ask me.  Definitely too damn hot for pants, which means I needed to wear a skirt or dress.  And God help me if I wear a leg-baring skirt – people already look at me sideways, as if I’m going to go into labor and deliver right where I am at any given point of the day (we were seated with the fire chief at dinner, and he assured me that he had delivered nine babies in his career, so I was in good hands), and the unsolicited comment on my appearance I hate the most right now is “Oh, you’re so swollen!”  Really?  I couldn’t tell.

 

I went to the All-Comers Track Meet in a knee-length skirt last night and ten strangers must’ve said exactly that.  Thankfully, my dear friends all lied through their teeth and told me I looked great.  Because that’s what friends are for.

 

So here’s a glimpse into my protocol for a day of skirt-wearing:

 

Wake up, take a cool shower, then put on compression socks as soon as I’m dry.  Before work, switch out compression socks for compression shorts.  Come home from work in the early afternoon (I’m on half-time currently) and take off the compression shorts and put on the compression socks.  Wake up from an overheated nap, take off compression socks, put on compression shorts, go pick up the boys from preschool.  Come home, put on compression socks at the same time as compression shorts, drink my seventh gallon of water that day, and put feet up.  When Tony gets home, take off compression socks and just baaaarely fit swollen feet into honest-to-goodness shoes for the evening out.

 

Sexy socks

 

Now take that schedule of events and picture me hunched over socks, struggling mightily, huffing and puffing, red in the face, and sitting down on the bed or couch every three seconds for a break.  Every time I scrunch up or bend over these days, the baby kicks me in the ribs and stretches his arms into my pelvis, making the donning of compression socks and shorts even more uncomfortable.  It’s a really great thing there’s not a video recording of me getting dressed every morning, because it’s truly pathetic.

 

*****

 

Am I an closer to delivering now than I was yesterday?  Well, yes, of course, but I can’t tell.  I am swollen, yes, and tired, and I can’t eat much without feeling sick to my stomach.  I take long naps and sleep long hours at night (with the requisite potty break every two hours).  The baby has dropped, certainly, so my belly is more torpedo-shaped than before.  I’m skipping Independence Day festivities tomorrow in favor of napping on the couch and keeping my dog subdued.

 

The big concern at the moment?  My doctor is headed out of town tonight and tomorrow night… I really don’t want to deliver without him, so if you’re the praying kind, please pray that this baby stays put until Sunday.

 

Until next week, Happy Independence Day, everyone!  Have some potato chips and onion dip for me (I really don’t feel up to it)!

Blame the Panic on the Pregnancy

I got all the information for church day camp for Charles in the mail yesterday.  Does is totally freak anyone else out the number of waivers we have to sign to have our kids do anything?  I’m pretty sure I just agreed to hold harmless anyone and everyone if my child dies from their negligence during this week.  Which seems CRAZY, since they are going to be interacting with venomous snakes and kangaroos and possums (they bite!), riding ponies, swimming in a pool (will there be a lifeguard???), playing at a beach, and riding on busses driven by VOLUNTEERS.  VOLUNTEER BUS DRIVERS.  My blood pressure just shot up.

 

And lunches.  You guys, in what will be my 39th week of pregnancy, I have to pack a lunch WITHOUT PEANUT PRODUCTS each day for a whole week.  I guess this is a preview of kindergarten and what I will soon be doing every day for the rest of my life, but I’ll admit it: I panicked.  I can barely figure out lunch for myself, let alone my kids.  They eat a lot of quesadillas on the weekends.  And eggs.  Anyhow, after I freaked out for a bit, I sat down with Charles and we brainstormed a list of lunch items he would enjoy, so at least I have a shopping list now.  And it’s mostly good stuff!  Sliced turkey, string cheese, raisins, apple slices, cold cheese pizza… turns out the kid is pretty easy going.  Maybe I’m the only one who’s hung up on peanut butter (because it’s so delicious!).

 

Or maybe the panic is just that I am really, really, really pregnant.  At 37 weeks, my feet are so swollen that I don’t fit into shoes, only flip-flops, and those leave marks on my feet.  I’m so tired I could nap all day and I really don’t want to eat anything but fruit and Oreos with milk (super healthy, right?).  I don’t feel nearly ready to have this baby, regardless of the fact that I have unpacked all my nursing bras and thrown a new toothbrush into my hospital bag.  There’s simply too much going on over the next two weeks (payroll and beginning of the month stuff at work, Jamie’s birthday, day camp for Charles, Tony’s Rotary Installation, bulk berry deliveries… I could go on) that I’m starting to feel like this was insanely poor planning on my part to have a baby in July.  And yet, I want to meet this little guy, so I’m hoping the next couple of weeks go quickly.  Except for Jamie’s birthday.  I’d feel terribly if I hurried that along at all.

 

 

Maybe I should go get some more of those delicious buttermilk pancakes to pass the time.  I’m sure my double chin will thank me.  (Not.)

Full

It’s funny, but regardless of how tired I am, the fast pace of my life continues, unabated.  Complain miserably or embrace?  How about “embrace, but compromise by taking lots of naps.”

 

I took the boys for a “Mommy-Charles-Jamie” day on Friday and spent most of the rest of the weekend on the couch.  One last hurrah before their world is turned upside-down by a new baby brother.

 

Because I am a working mom, and I have a lot of flexibility in my work schedule, I try really hard to take a few hours (sometimes a whole day) off to hang out with my kids on occasion.  Sometimes it’s one-on-one, other times, we do things all together.  I don’t want to be a stay-at-home-mom, I think that’s really hard and it doesn’t bring me joy, but working punctuated by the occasional “day out” with my kids is pretty great.

 

We started with breakfast out, and the best damn buttermilk pancakes you will ever eat, ever.

 

Oh, yes, they’re big.  And delicious.  And I ate all the leftovers and I still want more.  I want one right now.

Then, we went to a play-date with friends from Boot Camp, where Charles found a costume that fit, both literally and figuratively, and stayed in it until we left.

 

After lunch, the boys watched a movie while I took a nap.  When I woke up, Jamie was in the arms of Morpheus and Charles was dutifully keeping him snuggled.

 

 

Aaand, I made a startling realization: Charles knows how to navigate Netflix.  So, even though I have the users set up on my online account, I have to now figure out how to get them on my TV (they’re not there).  Any suggestions?

 

After Jamie woke up, we went out for ice cream, since there is a new Baskin—Robbins in our neighborhood.

 

 

 

And then we had dinner, and then we went swimming, and then we all slept the sleep of the dead, except the pregnant lady, who was up every couple of hours to pee and switch sides.

 

Car rally before 7 am on Saturday

 

Saturday was just as fun-filled, with Baby Boot Camp, playing outside, watching the Berry Dairy Days Parade (I stayed home) and a trip for the boys to the Speedway for races and the Demolition Derby.  They didn’t get back until nearly 11 pm, and Tony and I had to get them into pajamas while they were asleep and floppy.  Did they sleep in the next morning?  No, they did not.

 

They were up early, went to church and the grocery store with me, played outside in the pool with their friends, and fell asleep on the couch together at 5 pm.

 

You can’t see it in the picture, but Jamie is sucking his thumb again.  He regressed about a week after kicking the habit when he and Charles started playing “baby and daddy.”  Sigh.

What did Tony do all day Sunday?

 

         

He installed new flooring and baseboard in our bathroom.  Isn’t it lovely?

Weekend Plans

I have big, exciting plans for this weekend: I’m going to do LAUNDRY.  Baby laundry.  Loads and loads of it.  I plan to fall asleep on a pile of tiny onesies, clutching sweet, little baby socks (probably mismatched) in my swollen hands.

 

Thirty-six weeks, y’all.  Livin’ large.

 

I’m probably looking at all the mirror smears.

Tony’s weekend plans are slightly more robust.  He’s going to finish the bathroom remodel AND get the boxes of baby clothes out of storage for me to launder and probably weep sappy, sentimental tears over.  “My last baby!”  Then, in true Cook Family fashion, the boys and I will try to pamper him and probably only succeed in annoying the crap out of him for Father’s Day.

 

Speaking of, I love you, Daddy!  Don’t work too hard this weekend!

Headed for a Slowdown

A daily nap?  Please, I’ll take two.

 

Life is getting slower here chez Cook.  I still exercise, I still do laundry and make dinner, but I’ve started asking for help with many other household chores.  And I’m not really going anywhere anymore, except the swimming pool.  In the hours following a session at the pool (during which I watch my children splash and play while I just sort of lounge in the water), I feel 20 pounds lighter than before.  I wish I had access to one every single day.

 

All that to say that I am feeling particularly boring these days, so here are some photos of my brood to liven up this space:

 

Moon Sand.  Get some, it’s awesome.

 

I love how pulling out a box of the next-size-up clothing is like Christmas for my kids.  Jamie has found some cool new duds in his drawers lately, and it’s always amusing to see what he’s drawn to.  And the sunglasses?  Well, the kid who refused to wear them for the first (almost) three years of his life can no longer be parted from his shades.

 

His future’s so bright.

 

I try not to let Charles have access to my phone, because when he does, I end up with 25 photos just like this one:

 

His father’s son, he is on his way to mastering the cheesy smile.

 

My mom brought some new toys for Buster.  It took him a few days, but he disemboweled them with his usual precision.

 

 

Charles woke up and looked outside and said, “Mommy, is that SNOW?  In SUMMER?”  Nope, just the consequence of your dumb dog being dumb.  And then I made Charles clean it up, because I don’t bend down unless I have to.  Also, I am mean.

 

In the heat, he acts more feline than canine, stretching out lazily in the sun.  His most active time is at night, which he spends outside.  Not because I’m cold-hearted, but because he wants to, and I am tired up getting up (or making Tony get up) at 2 am to let him out to play.

 

For all my idleness lately, Tony is working double-time.  He fixed our fence (which blew down this winter) and is working on the bathroom floor (new linoleum and baseboard).

 

That’s a lot of cement.

 

But he wasn’t too busy to bring me some beautiful flowers:

 

Late Pregnancy Woes

Things I have recently forgotten:

• To turn off my turn signal.  Sorry, I know.  I hate drivers like me, tooling along, signaling for a turn I never make or did make, but half a mile ago.  The turn signal in the van is SUPER quiet, and I am slowly losing my mind.
• My office keys, at home.  Not very convenient.
• An item (or two) on my grocery list.  Staring at me, right there on the list, and I don’t put it in my cart.  It’s like I don’t even see the words I wrote.

 

Things that hurt and/or are uncomfortable:

• Everything.
• Everything, especially my back, shoulders, hips, pelvis, and legs.
• Everything, especially my whole body when I’m trying to go from horizontal to vertical to go to the bathroom fifteen times a night.
• Everything, including my lower abdomen, which is where labor started the past two times for me, prompting me to freak out a little bit, abandon my evening walk with the dog, lie down and drink a bunch of water, and ultimately come to the conclusion that I am doing too much, all the time, and I definitely need to STOP LIFTING JAMIE regardless of how sick and pathetic he is.  (Not labor, don’t worry.)

 

Times I am tired during the day:

• All the time.
• Every hour.
• This morning when I got up.
• 20 minutes ago.
• Right now.
• 20 minutes from now.
• Later this evening.

 

Frequency with which I have parented alone this week after a hard, long day at work:

• Three out of five days.

 

Point in this pregnancy at which Tony is going on an overnight bachelor party for a friend:

• 38 weeks.

 

Point in this pregnancy at which Jamie will turn three years old and have a day-long birthday party, including bounce house, in our backyard:

• 38 weeks.

 

Difficult things I have recently tried to do but have found I am unable to do:

• Paint my toenails (why did I even try?).
• Paint Jamie’s toenails (requiring just as much crouching as painting my own).
• Weed the garden.
• Jog.
• Move full garbage cans.

 

Things I want to eat:

• Sugar.
• All the sugar.
• Do you have something sugary over there?
• Fruit.
• Fruity, sugary desserts.

Sick Day

Jamie came home from school early yesterday with a slight fever.  After not napping and driving me crazy all afternoon, he rallied, so we got on with our regularly-scheduled evening plans. 

 

Life would be easier if he were the least bit interested in electronic babysitters, but he’d rather jump all over me, have stories read to him, or play with his trains, in the water table, or under his bed.  All of which would be totally fine, better than fine (since we are a pretty low screen-time household anyway) (like two hours a week low), if he would only be quiet for more than ten minutes at a time and let his largely pregnant mama nap. 

 

It’s like he just doesn’t understand how to be sick.  He should be cuddling me on the couch for the entire afternoon, not dancing on my legs, screaming at the top of his lungs, and then breaking down into hysterics because his throat hurts when he sings.

 

That’s more like it.

 

His throat hurts.  That’s the extent of his illness.  However, that minor issue kept him, and all of us, from sleeping well last night.  I can no longer maneuver myself into the bottom bunk, so Tony spent the night there with Jamie.  Jamie woke up crying several times, only to refuse both Tylenol and water, two things that would have alleviated his misery.  You try reasoning with an almost-three-year-old at 2 am.  Impossible.

 

The agony has continued through this morning, though with the help of small doses of ibuprofen and acetaminophen, Jamie is as rambunctious as ever.  He just can’t eat or drink without screaming.

 

So he’s at work with me.  At some point, he decided to take off all his clothing, so he’s running around my office in his underwear (real professional, this kid).  I made the ill-advised decision to wear white pants and a light blue shirt today, both of which are now grubby beyond belief. 

 

Dance party!

 

We’re throwing in the towel.  It’s nearly eleven o’clock, I’m hungry, and I’m not getting any work done.  I guess his sick day is my sick day.  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be lucky and he’ll nap this afternoon, thus enabling my own nap.  Cross your fingers!

Exhausting Weekend (Heavy on the Parentheticals)

Because of these guys,

 

Yes, Jamie is ASLEEP on Tony’s shoulders

 

we ate off the land last night.  Between the three of them, they gathered enough steamer clams (and some manila and butter clams) for a meal for us and the neighbors.

 

Though we mostly went our separate ways this weekend, we were all more active than usual.  We had a lovely birthday dinner on Friday night, complete with fruit pizza (sugar cookie crust, sweetened cream cheese frosting with lime, and sliced fruit) (“But mooooom, where’s the cake???”) and staying up way too late.  Tony and I went to see Neighbors in the theater (a real date!) (aside: our theater’s bathrooms are upstairs from the screens, which is about the dumbest layout for a cinema I’ve ever seen.  I mean, who’s going to take a break from the movie when it means hoofing it up a flight of stairs?  I’m winded just thinking about it.  Instead, I let myself get dehydrated so I wouldn’t have to pee during the movie, which made me even more exhausted after a long and exhausting day), which we enjoyed, while the boys used all of the delaying bedtime tactics they know on grandma and grandpa.

 

Saturday included boot camp (I did lots of pushups!  Real ones, on my toes and everything!  And I’m still feeling the effects two days later!), a big yard cleanup by Tony, and a baby sprinkle thrown and attended by some of my favorite people:

 

I don’t want to make you jealous, but that was some of the best damn cake I’ve ever had.  For God’s sake, it’s oozing.

 

Later that afternoon, Tony took the boys to the speedway for the sprint car races (Jamie hasn’t stopped asking when we can go back to the racecars since) while I settled into some girl time with a good friend whose husband was also initiating his son into the manly art of eating corn dogs while watching people drive too fast around a dirt track (ear protection was included in the evening’s festivities).  We were all up far too late again.

 

Yesterday, we had family photos taken after church:

 

These boys… so handsome!

 

That afternoon, I tackled this:

 

Baby stuff madness

 

while Tony and the kids dug clams.

 

And then we stayed up until the normal bedtime hour, but it was still too late because we were so tired.  The children melted down and I decreed that I would do no more vacuuming or unloading the bottom rack of the dishwasher (which will only last as long as I can stand to have a dirty floor and dishes not put away).

 

Sometimes, weekend success is defined by how much relaxing we do.  Other times, it’s defined by how much fun stuff we do.  We win for the fun stuff!

Birthday Girl

 

33 Years old, 34 weeks pregnant.  (Feet swollen to 35 times their normal size.)  (Not really, but it feels like it.)  Boom!

West-East-West

We left Friday at about 5 pm and took our sweet time getting to I-90.  First, we dropped the dog at the kennel, where he acted as if he couldn’t get away from us fast enough.  It’s a good thing he’s just as happy to go home as he is to get there, otherwise I would worry.  It starts with the whining and squealing when we get off the freeway, then evolves to prancing in the backseat and trying to move back and forth between the back window and the windshield to get a better view of the kennel.  Aren’t we going to the kennel?  We’re going to the kennel, right?  THERE IT IS, THE KENNEL.  I SAW IT.  I SAW IT.  WE’RE GOING THERE.

 

We leisurely drove the back roads and avoided I-405 and the mess that is Greater Seattle Traffic (it’s totally a proper noun), arriving in North Bend right around dinner time.  We went on our merry way, hitting some traffic over the pass and finally arriving in Richland shortly after 11 PM.  We put the kids to bed (Jamie sang and danced in bed for at least ten minutes, happy to have arrived at last), watched the meteor shower (we saw one meteor), and took ourselves to bed.  All in all, a fine trip.

 

Our way back, however, tested the limits of car and bladder endurance.  We left Richland around 11 am on Monday, Memorial Day.  I knew that the pass would be busy, I was totally prepared for a slow drive over, but I failed to take into account the many thousands of people leaving the Sasquatch Music Festival at the Gorge that same day.  Not your regular holiday traffic.  As we passed Ellensburg, I thought, hmm, there’s an easy rest stop near Cle Elum, we’ll stop there for a bathroom break. 

 

Juuuuust beyond the last Ellensburg exit, we slowed to a stop.  A dead standstill.  Not even a crawl.

 

 

It took us two hours to drive the 21 miles from Ellensburg to the Cle Elum rest stop.  At one point, a young guy got out of the car next to us (clearly a Sasquatch attendee) and walked on his hands around the car he had just vacated.  “Girls,” Tony said.  “He’s riding with girls.  He has to show off.”  Whatever, if I could walk on my hands, I’d do it all the time.

 

Do you have (or have you had) small, potty-trained boys?  Ever noticed how they can’t just pull their pants down a little ways, or unzip their flies (if they even have them) to pee?  No, they have to drop their pants all the way to the ground, putting their cute, little boy-butts on display as they do their business.  Lucky me, I got to teach Jamie and Charles about why they shouldn’t pee into the wind.

 

You know who didn’t pee by the side of the road, a road bordered by fields and low scrub bushes, with nary a copse of trees in sight?  Me.  I’m not sure I could have balanced to squat anyhow, but there was literally no place to go.  I held it until the rest stop, at which point I didn’t even get an offer to let me, the visibly pregnant lady, cut to the front of the line.  Where has common courtesy gone?

 

We split off a couple of miles (and many, many minutes) later to head north on Highway 97.  We hooked up with Highway 2 and started over the pass.  It was a beautiful drive and passed at a reasonable pace.

 

A rest stop near the Wenatchee River

 

Until we got to 20 miles east of Sultan (which is on the west side of the pass, about 30 miles from Everett).  Then, another standstill.  Stopped cars, no explanation.  Except, weirdly, every once in awhile we would move about 50 car lengths.  It took us two-and-a-half hours to drive the 20 miles into Sultan.  The reason?  Sultan has three stoplights, all of them timed for about 50 car lengths, despite the nonexistence of cross-traffic. 

 

Of course, the entire time we were stuck outside of Sultan, the kids asked, every five minutes, “When are we gonna beeee theeeerrre?”

 

We arrived home around 8 pm, hungry, tired, and sore (if you’re keeping score at home, that’s a NINE HOUR CAR TRIP).  At least I was sore.  My back, my butt, my pelvis, my hips.  I was dehydrated because the last thing I wanted to do was have to pee every half an hour, especially when we might not have moved more than five miles in that half an hour and there was no bathroom anyway.

 

It’s the mark of a good weekend, however, when a drive like that cannot eclipse the fun we had.

 

Boy cousins had the BEST time together

 

We played with cousins and I got to catch up with a great friend (who also happens to be my sister-in-law).  Tony’s brother-in-law set up an elaborate splash park in their backyard and we had a barbeque that was also (surprise!) a birthday party for me.

 

Cousin Juliet was BEGGING to have her chubby cheeks chomped all weekend.  Lucky for her, I was too hot and swollen to attack her in all her cuteness.

 

My friend Maggi visited from Walla Walla, so we got to sit around and be lumps of pregnant inertia together.  We’re due within three days of each other, so I’m hoping our babies can be birthday buddies.

 

 

Ultimately, the weekend trip was all about family.  We won’t get a chance to drive east again for awhile, and despite the God-awful trip home, I’m really, really, really glad we went.

 

     

But I’ll say this: Never again will we travel on Memorial Day.  Never.  Again.

Let’s Obsess

Hey, friends!  Here I am at 32 weeks and change:

 

Still exercising, religiously.  Still not making any difference in how big I get.

 

 

Do you know how many pairs of pants I have that still fit?  TWO.  And one of them is white, which makes everything I eat a potential mess.  Oh, look!  I brought beet salad for lunch!

 

I have a doctor’s appointment today, at which I will report that I have TOTALLY SLOWED DOWN in the last two weeks.  Two weeks ago, I stopped running.  My abdominal muscles have given up on trying to hold this belly up during bouncing activities like running and my uterus thinks that any amount of cardio is license to contract.  Contractions are uncomfortable, you know?  I’ve also started sneaking in a nap whenever I can because, come 2 o’clock, I can barely keep my eyes open.

 

I’m so thankful I have a job that is flexible and children who love preschool so that I can sleep in the middle of the day like a goddamn lazy asshole.

 

Also this week?  Or maybe next?  I will crest 200 pounds.  I keep hoping that the weight gain will slow down along with the rest of me, but no such luck.

 

The bottom line is that pregnancy just isn’t as much fun this time around.  My boys take up all my available energy, and as I’ve said before, I’m an anticipator.  I love planning and imagining and preparing for what’s to come.  In short, I love obsessing.  And it would appear that the only thing I have to obsess about this time around is my size.

 

The baby’s name was decided long ago.  Turns out that Tony and I often agree with each other (good for a marriage), and Charles and Jamie even approved their new brother’s name (not that it would matter if they didn’t – these are two boys who think fart jokes are funny, reading-level-2 Superman comics are great literature, and ‘fruit snacks’ is a major food group.  Their taste is questionable, is what I’m saying).There are lots of things that I CAN’T do before baby arrives: adjusting the crib, finishing the bathroom remodel, fixing the fence – and a whole lot of things that I haven’t done yet because by the time I put the boys to bed, I just don’t have the energy and my swollen feet demand to be put up: washing and adjusting all the cloth diapers, washing all the newborn clothes, getting out the pump and the sterilizer and the baby toys.

 

All of these things were fun and exciting the first time around, and heartwarming the second time (“Oh!  Do you remember this onesie?  I can hardly believe Charles was ever so small!”).  Now, these are merely more tasks to stuff into my days, in addition to finding time to schedule photo sessions (I did maternity photos with the other boys, I don’t want our new mister to feel slighted), planning Jamie’s birthday party, and preparing for leave at work.  I can’t even justify a baby-item shopping spree; we have almost everything we need.

 

It would appear that all I have to anticipate has taken on a negative cast in my mind.  While my parents and brother go to Seattle to see Book of Mormom, I’ll be nursing a newborn.  While Tony and the boys go on several treasure hunt hikes, I’ll be up all night nursing a newborn.  While my family and friends go camping, I’ll be a crying mess of surging hormones, up all night nursing a newborn. 

 

And maybe that’s the big problem here: I’ve been through this all before.  I know how hard it is.  I know how tired I’m going to be and how terrible I’m going to look and feel.  I remember loving my newborn boys, but somehow, I can’t seem to get to the point of anticipating this new little one’s soft hair and skin, scrunched face, and sweet, milky breath yet.  Where did my optimism go? 

 

Help me, internet.  Help me find a way to anticipate the good things about my new son, instead of focusing on the difficulties that will come no matter what.

You Might Be Pregnant If

You might be pregnant if you can smell your co-worker’s honey-flavored Greek yogurt from across the room and it makes you want to vomit, but you don’t say anything negative to him because this particular co-worker is your brother and making comments about vomit while he’s enjoying his snack is a blatant invitation for him to try to make you vomit every hour for the rest of the day.  (Don’t believe me?  Leland tries to make me watch things like the “Raw Chorizo Challenge” on a weekly basis anyway.)  (Google that at your own risk.)

 

You might be pregnant if you wonder, every single day, how early is too early to eat lunch?  And if you eat what you brought to work for lunch at 10:30 am, does that justify eating another meal at 2 pm?

 

You might be pregnant if you constantly misjudge your girth and bump into things and people all day long.

 

That’s a lot of belly to navigate.

 

You might be pregnant if you have at least one remodeling project that you are insisting be done in a given time period but you don’t plan to help at all, other than giving direction, which, as well all know, is the most important part.  For instance, perhaps you have a bathroom remodel project that you wisely and graciously (much to the relief of your darling husband who puts up with your nonsense) scaled down to include merely repainting the walls, new linoleum, and new baseboard.  That’s not hard, right?  Like, he can totally do that in a weekend.  Maybe even a day.

 

You might be pregnant if, in addition to that one not-so-big remodel project you have planned, something rather disastrous happens in your house, causing you to make plans for a truly enormous remodel project.  Like, for instance, when something happens at a hose bib in the backyard during the week of super sunny, hot weather while you are running the slip-n-slide for an entire afternoon and water backs up into your crawlspace and your laundry room, soaking your basement carpet, so you think, “Hey!  Since we have to get new carpet anyway, why don’t we just redo the walls with new insulation and drywall and definitely new paint, we really need new paint in here, THIS BABY SHOULD NOT HAVE TO COME INTO A HOME WITHOUT NEW PAINT!”  You think about projects like this even though you are 99% sure you would rather not be divorced before the baby comes.  (1% sure that the walls need to be painted regardless.)

 

It turned out it was a VERY EXPENSIVE slip-n-slide session.

 

You might be pregnant if the aforementioned disastrous event results in a $1000 plumbing bill, causing you to cry giant alligator tears and scrap plans for a new carpet and new paint and instead settle for a heavy-duty professional carpet cleaning because you want to be able to fund some college savings accounts for your children someday.  PRIORITIES, mama.  This doesn’t mean that you won’t hate that carpet until the day you die or move to a new house, whichever comes first.

 

You might be pregnant if you are shopping for anything at IKEA and you’re not heading to college or your first apartment in your early 20s.

 

You might be pregnant if the biggest and best gift anyone could give you this year for Mother’s Day or your birthday is a nap, but you didn’t get one for Mother’s Day and you know you won’t get one for your birthday, and you probably won’t have a chance to have one at any other time on any other day of the week because you are the glue that holds the family together and without you cooking and cleaning and grocery shopping and taking kids places and the dog to the vet and every other goddamn thing that must be done on a daily/weekly/monthly basis, no one would have any clean clothes to wear of food to eat and they would look at you with sad, big eyes and say, “Mommy?  Help me!” just when you are about to drift off into a blissful 45-minute snooze on the couch.  Trust me, it’s not worth the pain of rousting yourself from an aborted nap to even bother trying.

Coordinating Issues

Sitting at my desk, I had a minor panic that I wore two different shoes today.  Since I cannot see my shoes without contorting my legs to the side or sticking them way out in front of me, I feel that the slight panic was justified – I managed to get two children and my foggy-headed self out the door at aaaalmost the regular time this morning, sans assistance from Tony, and frankly, we’re just lucky I wasn’t wearing my house slippers when I got behind the wheel and started shouting at everyone to SIT DOWN AND GET BUCKLED!  (That’s happened before.  The house-slippers-worn-out-of-the-house thing.  They are so unattractive that it wouldn’t matter what I had scheduled at nine am, I would go home and get real shoes, assuming I could see my feet to notice that I wasn’t already wearing real shoes.)

 

Anyway, my shoes are the appropriate ones, matched to each other and my outfit.  Thank goodness.

 

I’m phoning it in on clothing, lately.  It’s getting hot out, the effects of which are multiplied by the fact that I normally don’t deal well with hot weather AND I’m pregnant.  Dressing for the heat when one is pregnant and fat isn’t easy (thus the maternity Spanx), and I have no desire to spend loads more money on clothing that will be worn, at most, for the next 11 weeks, but more likely for the next 8.

 

 

Tank top, roll-top jersey-knit skirt… it’s only the jewelry that keep this from being a slobby, Saturday-morning outfit.

 

To top off my malaise, I have awful allergies right now.  Something’s blooming, and it’s trying to kill me.  It leads to some interesting situations with my children right now, though.  I read Interrupting Chicken and I have to interrupt the story to sneeze every other page, for instance (thank You, God, that I have a strong pelvic floor – it would be beyond cruel to pee my pants every time I sneezed like so many pregnant women do).  And conversations with Jamie take an interesting turn when I can’t think of a response because my brain is so fogged up: “Mommy, why do you pee out of your butt?”  “I don’t pee out of my butt!  I sit down because I don’t have a penis.”  “But, mommy, where is your penis?”  “…I just told you, I don’t have one.”  “But why?”  “Because I’m a girl, and girls have vaginas, not penises.”  “Mo-ooom!  You’re not a GIRL!”  Now try having this conversation when you’re drunk or high, and you’ll know how I felt.

Beat the Heat

I did it.  I bought maternity Spanx.  They’re just as horrible/wonderful as you can imagine.  Sort of like regular Spanx, I guess. 

 

I only ever wear Spanx for one of two reasons: bad skirt/dress material or chafing.  The bad skirt/dress material is an obvious one, I think.  Some material hangs on every lump or roll, even if you don’t really have lumps or rolls, and shapewear is essential for a smooth silhouette.  Chafing, though.  Phew.  If you have never experienced thigh chafing in hot weather while wearing skirts, then you are so, so very lucky.  I assume this is a problem that is limited to us “larger” women, us pear-shaped ladies with well-fed thighs, but I don’t know.  Maybe those skinny-minis chafe, too.  They can probably control their chafing with BodyGlide, as I often do in the summer months.  However, I’m dealing with a whole new class of chafing now, the pregnancy-thigh chafe, and it means I can’t wear a skirt or dress more than a couple days in a row without rubbing my inner thighs raw. 

 

At least I assume they’re raw.  They feel raw, but I can’t actually see them.

 

Donning maternity Spanx is a workout in the third trimester.  I have to bend all the way down and pull those suckers up – with force – and get them situated without pinching, all while not being able to see what I’m doing.  I usually have to lie down for awhile afterward to catch my breath.

 

(Just so we’re clear, these are not heavy-duty, fat-sucking Spanx.  They’re more like double-control-top pantyhose without the hose Spanx.)

 

It’s 31 weeks of pregnancy madness over here.  The weather has turned warm, but I can barely get up from the lawn chairs on my own and the kiddie pool is taken over completely by jumping kids, both my own and other neighborhood boys, so I can’t cool my feet without getting the rest of me and whatever book I’m reading drenched.  I spend my time wishing I could take a nap (impossible with work and activities and the weekends full of screaming kids fighting dragons or having Slip-n-Slide contests) and dreaming of ways to use my ice cream maker to relieve the heat (I made lemon frozen yogurt yesterday).  I take the dog for a 1.5-mile walk around the block and I am winded, so I’m forcing myself to do it EVERY DAY in the hopes that I will stay in shape for the next 7-11 weeks.  I’m turning 33 in three weeks and damn, do I feel old.

 

Maternity Spanx is not something I even thought about when I was pregnant with Charles at age 27.  What a difference a few years makes.

Appreciation

I complain about pregnancy a lot for a couple of reasons: 1) I don’t want to be that mom who says, “Pregnancy is wonderful!  This is the MOST MAGICAL TIME!” when it, in fact, is not.  So much of it sucks hairy balls and we mothers do a disservice to other mothers, especially first-time mothers, when we gloss over the terrible parts.  I am sure there are a few women out there who are never sick, never get heartburn or cankles, never have an achy pelvis, never gain weight in their butts, and never develop jowls, but they are few and far between; 2) I am more comfortable with complaining/joking about the bad stuff than I am raving about the good stuff.

 

This is the good stuff.

 

The truth is, though, that when Jamie was about 18 months old, I started thinking to myself, “I can’t imagine not being pregnant ever again.”  I love the feeling of being kicked from the inside.  Those little jabs and the big rolls and the times the baby has hiccups are a nice reminder that I am growing the next member of our family.  I have a buddy with me, constantly, and I’m loving it.  He dictates what and how much I eat, he has instituted a strict “no alcohol/no sushi/no lunch meat” policy, he keeps me from sleep, and he reminds me multiple times a day that he is coming and is going to change our lives forever.  As much as I hate watching my butt grow, I love watching my belly grow, and because I have been through this before, I know that my belly is still in the small and cute stage – pretty soon, my belly will be too big for even size L maternity shirts.  I love the sense of anticipation – choosing a name, wondering how our new little guy will look, stocking up on baby essentials and getting baby gifts.  Those parts are truly wonderful.

And then!  Then!  We get to have a baby.  A baby who will cry, and keep me up all night, and cause me grief and worry about every little thing, from eating to pooping to holding his head up to countless questions of “is this normal?” for years and years and years.  And it is so amazing and worth every second of misery from pregnancy and beyond.

 

At least I’m pretty sure that’s what my parents would say about me.

 

It was especially worth it for my parents because now they get these two goobers as grandsons.  Grandsons who WORSHIP their grandparents.

 

My boys don’t know what Mother’s Day means, and they might not understand until they have kids of their own, but I know.  And I celebrate my little wonders, my treasures, my tornados of love.  Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!  (Especially my mom, whom I love so much it hurts sometimes, and who, I know, sacrificed so much for me.  Thanks, mom.)

 

  

I said “goodbye” to the days of steady, in-focus photos long ago.

Updates - Updated

I’m on hold with the IRS right now… this must be what Tony’s job is like a good chunk of the time – goofing around on the internet while listening to terrible hold music.  Actually, I’m certain that Tony doesn’t goof around on the internet while he’s on hold; he does other work, because he’s efficient.

It’s Monday, friends, and well, I know you know how I feel.  The whole week is rolling out in front of us, taunting us with how much we need to get done, barely an end in sight.  It could be worse.  I could be on hold with Vonage or some other service provider whose customer-service representatives read from a prescribed script and cannot actually help you.  Then again, maybe that’s how it goes at the IRS phone bank, too.  In the interest of being able to abandon my train of thought at a second’s notice here, I’ll go all listical and give you some random updates about liiiiiiife:

Buster had surgery last week, and is recovering nicely.  In fact, he doesn’t seem to be bothered at all, even though he had a sizeable tumor and some muscle removed from his butt.  The vet called the tumor a “poorly differentiated sarcoma,” which is another way of saying “cancer.”  But not a type of cancer that metastasizes, thank God, so we just have to watch for re-growth in the coming years.  He has a pretty nasty scar and he’s half shaved, which makes me think of a baboon every time I look at him.  Ha.  Baboon Butt.

I have heartburn.  All the time.  Water gives me heartburn.  My 30th week of pregnancy has signaled the onset of that and other unfortunate symptoms, like swelling hands and feet and growing out of all my clothes (again).  The only comfortable position for me to sleep in is semi-reclined on the couch.  I am tired, and my muscles are constantly fatigued, regardless of my level of activity in any given day.  And you know what food sounds good to me?  NONE.  None food.  Which is not to say that I don’t eat, of course.  Sigh… ten weeks to go.



We went to the beach this past weekend and got rained out of almost all our activities.  The boys took a trip to the Cape Disappointment Lighthouse and Dead Man’s Cove while I napped on Friday, and Saturday we did our best to entertain the kids indoors while it poured buckets outside (after the cancellation of the day’s activities).  It must have worked, because Jamie fell asleep in Tony’s arms on Saturday evening, about 15 minutes before dinner:



Of course, even though we woke him for dinner, he and Charles refused to sleep before 9 pm.  They got to have a fire engine ride on Sunday morning and we watched the big parade before heading home. 

Foot-long, hand-dipped corn dogs, fresh maple bars from the best bakery, and candy thrown from parade vehicles: win.

We’re making one more road trip before this baby comes and after that, I am DONE travelling.  I love seeing family and friends, I love visiting different places, but being old and worn out and pregnant really makes these trips tough.  Not that they’re un-fun, just tough.  The mounds of laundry after a trip is over aren’t all that exciting, either.

Hey!  What do you know?  I was on hold for 15 minutes but then a five-minute conversation with an IRS representative who sounded like she knew what was going on totally solved our issue.  I’ll take it.

Update on Buster, 8:30 PM: He's in pain now.  I guess the meds finally wore off.  Poor Bear.