07Oct
So.
I’m pregnant.
14 weeks pregnant today, to be exact.
Don’t be fooled by my smile.
This is what I really feel like doing.
I’m such a lady.
But I can’t help it. I feel like crap. And I know I keep talking about it and I know you guys are tired of hearing about it but I just can’t help it. I’m a big believer in the misery-loves-company theory.
So, come.
Be my company.
Sit with me a spell while I tell you about how much I’ve puked today. And yesterday. And the day before yesterday. Here, I’ll give you a summary. Today I had a doctors appointment and I now weigh LESS than I did BEFORE I got pregnant. As in, I am LOSING WEIGHT because of my pregnancy.
So, again, I say…
I don’t really want to do much of anything really. I definitely don’t feel like standing in front of a class teaching. When I talk too much, I throw up. When I sit down, I throw up. When I stand up, I throw up. When I smell middle school kids after they’ve been in gym class, I throw up.
IT AIN’T PRETTY.
I also don’t really want to be blogging (no offense, Imaginary Friends…). Looking at the computer screen makes me wanna:
But my evil, cruel husband said that I HAD to blog tonight because I am being “irresponsible with my blog.” I’m unpredictable now. I’m an irresponsible blogger. And I need to “buck up” and “git her done.”
This:
…does not deter him.
Heartless, non-hormonal, un-pregnant bastard of a man.
So, here I am. Blogging. Against my will.
Oh, and I’m supposed to be blogging “happy.” I’m not supposed to tell you how sick I feel or how pissed off I am or how much I hate being pregnant (no offense, New Guy…). So, I won’t tell you any of that…
Instead, I’ll tell you that I think I’m having a boy.
But let me tell you why…
I just know it.
Also, at my doctor’s appointment this morning, the New Guy’s heartbeat is healthy, but slow. SLOW. As in, SLOW HEARTBEATS OFTEN INDICATE A BABY BOY.
And besides that, I just know it.
I can feel it in my loins.
Er…my womb.
Which is now a little boy’s womb. I think I’ll decorate with cars and trains and dinosaurs.
In all honesty, another boy would just float my maternal boat. I love having a boy. Bean is AWESOME and I can’t help but think another one would be AWESOME-ER. And I’m excited for the things that are coming with him, too. All those boy things that are so much fun.
Now, a girl would be awesome, too. Just in a very different way. It’d be all new and different and exciting and full of pink things. I’d love a girl in ways that I don’t even know yet. So, if New Guy is really a New Girl – bring on the pink! Bring on the curls! Bring on the Easy Bake Ovens and the saddle oxford shoes with corduroy skirts and tights! I’m ready!
But, I’m having a boy. I just know it. And that really makes me glow.
(One more time, just for fun…)
05Oct
So, tonight Chris is working late like he has been for the past few days. That meant that when Bean went to bed at 7:30, it was quiet in the house. Quiet enough that I started to get a little sleepy. And as I was sitting on the couch trying to will myself awake, I thought, “Why? Why do I have to stay awake? If I want to go to bed, then I’m going to bed!”
So, I went to bed.
But at the last minute I remembered you guys and decided to bring my laptop with me. Which means I am currently blogging to you right now from the cozy comfort of my fluffy bed at 8:00pm.
And I feel pretty good about that, actually.
Wanna know my favorite part of this bedroom? It has a remote control for the ceiling fan. At first, I was like, “Wow, that is lazy.” But now I’m more like, “Wow, that’s the GREATEST INVENTION EVER! GIVE THAT CREATIVE INVENTIVE GENIUS WHO CREATED THIS THING A NOBEL PEACE PRIZE!”
Let’s say it’s the middle of the night and I wake up hot as Hades (which happens a LOT), now I don’t have to crawl out of bed, waving my arms around until I find the switch on the fan. Instead, I can just grab my remote and turn up the speed on the fan. BRILLIANT!
Remote controls and any other tool in life that allows you to be more comfortable while not actually having to move is a big deal during pregnancy. Even though I’m not too big right now, I can already see how this is going to change my pregnancy in the 8th and 9th months. Hot flashes? Grab the remote! Night sweats? Grab the remote! Chills? Grab the remote!
Speaking of pregnancy bellies… (we were speaking of those, right?) Check out the New Guy. He’s popping right on out of there, isn’t he? Sort of looks like I swallowed a basketball. Which is too cute. But in about four months it’s going to look like I ate an entire basketball team. And in two months after that, it’ll look like I ate the cheerleaders, too. So, cute now is ENORMOUS later. Just keep that in mind.
And check out what’s on my nightstand right now…
During my first pregnancy, this was my survival guide. This time around, it’s more like a scrapbook. A photo album. A memory box. Each chapter I read makes me smile and giggle and remember being pregnant with Bean and then I pat my big ol’ belly and eat another Twinkie.
Pregnancy does have it’s perks.
It is now officially 8:30pm. Way past New Guy’s bedtime. I’m signing off and heading to bed.
As soon as I finish this Twinkie.
I think one of the most universal feelings mothers have is guilt. Most of us feel guilty as parents at some point. I feel guilty for the shortcuts I take when I’m too tired to be 100% on the job with Bean. I feel guilty that he’s in daycare. I feel guilty that I can’t afford to buy him new toys all the time. I feel guilty that sometimes I just need a little break. There’s always something to feel guilty for as a mother. It’s just part of the ride. I think the best we can hope for in that department is that the good we do each day outweighs the things we feel guilty for.
But that’s such a low standard to have.
And now I feel guilty again.
SEE WHAT I MEAN?!?!?
I am officially twelve weeks pregnant now. The New Guy barely has all his fingers and toes yet and I’m already feeling the guilt increase exponentially by child. The problem with feeling guilty about an unborn wee one though is that I can’t really do too much to compensate for the guilt. I can’t spend more time with him (umm…hello? He’s INSIDE of me…Can’t spend much more time than that together). I can’t make his favorite meal (because he’ll just make me throw it up…party pooper…). I can’t rock him extra long before bed or give him extra kisses (no offense, New Guy…you’re kind of gooey and sticky right now and those ain’t ripe kissin’ conditions…). So, it seems to be getting a leeeetle bit harder to shake this guilty conscious.
The biggest guilt factor for me right now is the care I’m giving my little fetus betus.
My little fetal deetal.
My little fetal beatle.
When I found out I was pregnant, the biggest gray cloud hanging over the whole dang situation was that I didn’t have health insurance. How’s that for irresponsible? Chris was insured through his company, but their family coverage was outrageously expensive and we couldn’t afford it. So, Bean and I were covered through a private plan with a major health insurance provider. That way, we could go to the doctor if we needed, get prescriptions, and visit the hospital (God forbid there was ever a reason). What our coverage did not include was maternity, which we didn’t think was a problem since WE DIDN’T PLAN ON BEING IN THE FAMILY WAY ANYTIME SOON… Turns out, most private insurance plans didn’t offer maternity coverage which left me in a bit of a pickle. So, my first few visits to the doctor have been through the health department in our city.
And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.
If you should find yourself in that scary, uninsured place with a fetal beatle of your own on the way, don’t you worry a speck about the coverage offered by your local health department. I’ve received the same testing, the same treatments, the same ultrasounds, the same prescriptions, the same everything that I had when I had private insurance with Bean. That little baby in there in doing just fine medically and I feel 100% certain about that. So don’t you worry your pretty little head over it if you’re in the same boat.
What I feel guilty about is the stark difference between my pregnancy coverage NOW versus my pregnancy coverage with Bean. With Bean, I was covered through Yale University. I saw Yale University doctors. I delivered in Yale University’s hospital. And I can’t help but feel a smidge guilty that the New Guy is going to a health clinic while his big brother was rollin’ in the Ivy League health care system.
It’s the snob in me.
I can’t help it.
The good news is that with my new job (thank the Good Lord), I am back to regular coverage through a great HMO again and I can start going to a private doctor’s office. My pregnancy is covered and so that guilt is lessening a bit. But it’s still there in the irrational corner of my mind that holds ridiculously high standards for things. Now, it’s just leftover guilt.
Reheats beeeeutifully. (Name that movie…)
Another major source of guilt right now is that I’m so darn sick I worry all the time about the nutrients I’m getting – or, rather, not getting – to the New Guy. With Bean, no matter how sick I got (and it was nowhere as sick as this), I didn’t worry too much with nutrients because I had my prenatal vitamin to cover me. Anything I couldn’t keep down, I knew he got through that vitamin. But now, my prenatal vitamins make me sick as a dog. I take one and about ten minutes later I am violently ill. I think it’s cause there’s already nothing on my stomach and so all those nutrients just churn around in there…and they churn…and they churn…
Oh, man. Gotta talk about something else. Here comes the queasy.
Anyway, I have a doctors appointment next week and I’m going to talk to them about getting on a prescription prenatal vitamin because I’ve heard those are gentler on your system and I’m also going to talk to them about a prescription for being sick all the time.
But then I feel guilty about taking medications while I’m pregnant.
It’s a vicious cycle, ya’ll.
I think what I feel the most guilty about right now though is that I’m having a hard time getting excited about this pregnancy. It’s not that I’m not so happy to have another baby. The baby part makes me giggle and glow and gush like a little girl.
Baby? Yes, please!
But I’m having a problem staying excited right now. With Bean, I just walked around happy and excited. I bought every baby item I found in newborn size.
(And can we just pause and talk about how newborn sized clothing is the most adorable thing ever? I’m not going to lie. I’ve thought about buying it before for Lucy and dressing her up in little ducky feety pajamas. But I think she’s really more of a 6-9 month size…)
(I digress…)
With this pregnancy, there is just so much going on around me that I can’t seem to focus on it enough to get excited. I’ve got a new job, a new house, and – most importantly – BEAN! And that kid doesn’t slow down for anyone. Especially a little fetal deetal. So it’s hard for me to spend the hours I spent with my first pregnancy, laying on my couch after work just rubbing my belly and talking to the baby.
We also are just now getting back on our feet financially and there’s just not a lot of extra cash flow at the end of the day for me to go baby shopping (which always got me excited when I was pregnant with Bean). I haven’t bought one thing yet for this New Guy and I feel a little guilty that I’m not making more of a big deal about it.
Is that natural?
Am I normal?
Wait, let me rephrase that last question before you answer…
Well, that’s about it. My guilty conscious all laid out in Cyber Land. And you might think I would feel better after airing out these things. Journaling and talking through my problems and all that psycho mumbo jumbo…but I don’t really.
Actually, I feel guilty that I’ve admitted these things. What if the New Guy reads my blog? I mean, it’s not like he’s got much to do in there for the next six months. He might surf the web to keep himself busy. And now I’ve just admitted these awful things to him.
Guilt, guilt, guilt…
My parents are famous for saying that raising two girls is like being pecked to death by ducks. They just nibble and nibble and nibble away at you. “Mom, can I have money for this?” “Dad, can I break my curfew for that?” “Mom, can you take me here?” “Dad, can you buy me that?” Nibble, nibble, nibble.
Lately, I’ve begun to experience that same feeling. Only, instead of being pecked to death by duck daughters, I am being pecked to death by duck dependents. Namely my two legged dependent (Bean) and my two four-legged dependents (the dogs).
Every time I look around, one of those three clowns needs something. More water, more juice, more kibble, more snack, to go outside, to come inside, to go for a walk, to go for a stroll, to lay down, to get up… And the list goes on. Always, there is something.
And they never seem to sync up, either. I’ll let Lucy outside and three minutes later Molly will bark to go outside. Which means when Lucy barks to come in, three minutes later Molly barks to come in. And when Bean shrieks and moans and yells and demands dinner, two minutes later Molly will start scratching at the closet where we keep their dog food. And once I’ve fed Molly, Lucy then starts barking two minutes later for her food.
It’s a never ending cycle of need.
Although, I should confess that I don’t actually have first-hand knowledge of this cycle. I only catch glimpses of what I am able to hear of the cycle from the depths of the toilet where my head has been for the past three weeks. Chris, poor man, has been taking on the entire house of needs by himself while I try to concentrate on not puking at school and/or in our living room. The only thing I seem to do more than puke these days is sleep. And I am sleeping like CRAZY. All night long and then taking several naps during the day, too.
Not that the sleep is peaceful.
Sleep is constantly interrupted around these parts by the cycle of need. There are dogs barking and Bean’s whining and doors being scratched and toys being thrown. Sleep is for the weak around here.
Well, the weak and the pregnant.
And while I complain about these things from my little porcelain throne, Chris doesn’t say a word. Not a word. He just goes about his business of taking care of others business. He cooks and cleans and plays and scratches the ears and kisses the boo-boos without a word of frustration or irritation.
And from the depths of the toilet, I tell him how much I love him and how much I owe him. That’s when he pats me on the back, hands me a cold wash cloth, and says, “You don’t owe me a thing.”
He’s a good, good man, that husband of mine. And when he finally falls over dead from exhaustion, I’m going to engrave the following on his tombstone:
“Here lies my husband. Pecked to death by ducks.”
Get updates via Facebook |
Become a fan of Marriage Confessions
Categories
Weddings
blogging
Around the House
Changes
Childhood
Husbands
Jobs and Careers
Laundry
Lucy
Marriage
Molly
Money
Moving
New Haven
pregnancy
Random
Suburbia
The Dog Pound
travel
Vacation
Yale
Friendship
health
holidays
photography
Book
Communication
Etsy Day
Fights
Flashbacks
Florida
In the Kitchen
Letters to Chris
Operation BWYP
Reader of the Month
Southern Weddings
Stalking the Pioneer Woman
Understanding Chris
Understanding Katie
Videos
Giveaways
Out and About
Dads
FamilyBellycasts
Depression
Faith
Parenting
Just for Fun
Fun Things
31 Gifts
Reviews
Running
