On Having Things and Eating Them, Too

The baby-to-be is 34 weeks old (I’m finally 17/20ths done with this pregnancy—now there's a milestone!) I myself am now 37. Years, that is. I found out I was pregnant with my first kid in my last days of being 33, and given that she’s just over two years old now, it doesn’t make sense to me that I’m 37 and still having babies. How did this happen? Where did the time go? When did I stop being twenty-seven? Why are all thoughts about adult birthdays such clichés?

To celebrate the day, I ate a breakfast of fresh coconut cake (homemade (per my annual request) by my show-offy husband) and took a shower all by myself while the show-offy husband took the two-year-old to the zoo for the morning. I had time to blow-dry my hair, touch up my months-old toenail polish, and apply lip gloss all without interruption. It was glorious. Though not as glorious as the cake.

The next night the still show-offy husband took the two-year-old out to dinner while I had a handful of girlfriends over for pizza and wine and homemade (by me) chocolate cake (you think I’d share that coconut cake? No chance.). Because three of us are pregnant and a fourth just had a baby, the conversation naturally turned to placenta eating.

Apparently this is now a thing—at least in Seattle—eating your placenta after giving birth to it.

I’m working on a longer essay on this phenomenon, so stay tuned. In the meantime, to each her own. (But seriously? Eeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww!)

Photo courtesy gracey, morgueFile

Weighing on My Mind

For the first time in all my scores of OB visits, I worked up the ’nads to tell the nurse weighing me in at this month’s check-up that I didn’t want to know my weight—she would have to read it off the scale herself. She acted like my request was the most normal thing in the world (surely I’m not the first?) and then kindly (if unconvincingly) made an approving noise after my weight (presumably) registered. I can’t say that it felt like a major triumph—a major triumph would be NOT GIVING A SHIT WHAT I WEIGH WHEN PREGNANT—but given that it’s something I’ve meant to do for seven consecutive months (plus nine consecutive months a while back), I do have to count it in the “win” column.

All the Pregnant Ladies

Last time I was gestating a baby, I didn't know a single other pregnant person. My friends were all too young to reproduce (in terms of their life plans, not their biological capacity—I don’t tend to hang with eleven-year-olds), Childless by Choice (I like to think of them as members of an official club made up of writers and artists and people who REALLY can’t handle the smell of apple juice), or too overwhelmed with their preschoolers to even think about doing it (or DOING IT) again.

There I was, floating solo in my motion-sickness-inducing boat of enormity, waving (a little desperately) to my friends on shore, turning to Heather Armstrong’s memoir and boxes of Cheese-Its for solace and commiseration.

This time during my tenure as pregnant lady, six friends have kept me company in the rocky, nauseating boat—though none of them were bothered much by the waves or the relentless rocking back and forth. Bitches.

But as much as I love—nay, need—to complain about being in the family way, I haven’t been so much in the mood lately, after one of my friends miscarried and another is finding out today exactly which terrible genetic anomaly her statistically-likely-to-have fetus has—or maybe doesn’t have.

Every time my wee one kicks or head-butts or butt-butts my belly from the inside, I’m just so insanely grateful that he (or she) is alive and statistically likely to be well, with the right number of chromosomes and everything as it should be.

Bless you, little critter. I am so glad to be your vessel and I love you so much—even though you make me barf.

Photo courtesy tjk, morgueFile

Thirty-Two Weeks

  

...and two days!

Discerning readers might note that I got bangs. This is so that when I look in the mirror and inevitably think, "My face looks weird," I can now blame it on the bangs instead of, you know, the weight gain—by which I mean the beautiful miracle of life growing within! (Both face and bangs look especially weird in this photo because I just got off a two-hour flight home from the in-laws' with a two-year-old and a 32-weeks pregnant body and didn't bother to comb, freshen, fluff, etc. Because history has proven if I stall, there will be no weekly photo!)

29 weeks
27 weeks
23-26 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
 22 weeks

21 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]

20 weeks

19 weeks

[at 18 weeks I REALLY didn't want my photo taken]

17 weeks (for reals)

fake-out 17 weeks (really 16)

16 weeks (really 15)
15 weeks (really 14)
14 weeks (really 13)

13 weeks (really still 12)

12 weeks

11 weeks

I Want a Cookie

My, how time fails to fly when you’re pregnant. It feels like just yesterday the smell of coffee brought me frighteningly close to throwing up in my mouth… Wait, it was just yesterday.

On average this pregnancy has been less taxing than my last, but I’m currently experiencing a resurgence of first-trimester-type nausea that isn’t much fun. To be fair (to what, the nausea? Not sure…), it isn’t nearly as bad as the first eighteen or so weeks—it’s just an unpleasant reminder, taking me back to barfier, queasier times. For some inexplicable reason, all the cooking smells from the kitchen—first floor, west side of house—congregate in our bedroom—second floor, east side. And even though I do like the taste of bacon, I don’t relish having it jammed up my nose when I’m just trying to slip into something a little more comfortable at the end of the day (read: trade in my underwire for one of these deliciously soft camisoles that I am not being paid to plug—I just really love them). Of all the things about not being pregnant that I look forward to, the banishment of quease is at the tippy top.

It occurred to me the other morning that I bitch about being pregnant all the time, but I haven’t mentioned what’s easier this time. So: the terrifying gnarled forest of veins where my moderately attractive vulva used to be isn’t nearly as painful as last time. So far, I’ve spent zero evenings with a bag of frozen peas on my crotch, which is a major improvement.

What else is there to report from the field? The two-year-old’s room is coming along nicely, thanks to the help of a handyman with unending patience for the crap I buy off Craigslist and then ask him (sweetly) to paint. Yesterday it was a $5 doll cradle, today it was a $30 nightstand—quite the bargain if you don’t pay any attention whatsoever to the cost of labor. Or supplies. Today we got plantation blinds installed, and tomorrow the room gets a door, and then the kid can finally use the room she’s been begging to sleep in ever since I first invoked my best cheerleader/game-show-host impression and told her that the arrival of her new sibling would not only bring lots of rivalry and feelings of jealousy but a BRAND NEW ROOM!

She’s stoked—and her bed doesn’t even have sheets yet. And that, people, is why two-year-olds are fun. They get excited. And then they literally jump up and down. And then they demand a cookie. Totally understandable, really.

My Newest Mantra

"I'm seven months pregnant, and this is America—I'm allowed to wear yoga pants in public."

photo courtesy click, morgueFile

Tasteful Animal Art

While I’ve been sitting around nesting like a pregnant lady, I’ve just discovered that one of my colleagues on this here Information Superhighway has been dressing up a taxidermied weasel in an apron and making her famous—and lucrative—on Zazzle.

I’m so inspired—and jealous—I can hardly speak. Gestating a human, though an act of creation, is not exactly creative. And I think I might kind of miss being creative. I mean, I used to live in a converted old school filled with artists where I used a child’s play oven for a side table in my living room. Now I live in a house in a neighborhood filled with Amazon executives and the child’s play oven in my living room is used strictly as a child’s play oven. (Okay, sometimes it’s used as a refrigerator. Or a pantry. Or a resting ground for plush mice—similar to a regular pantry.)

Last time I was pregnant I went into full-throttle planning mode the moment I finally quit barfing around week eighteen. I wanted to work obsessively on the baby’s room but had to plan—and have—my wedding first. After Dr. Husband made an honest woman of me five-and-a-half months into my pregnancy, I was all about the painting and cleaning and onesie-shopping and Craigslisting. This pregnancy, I haven’t had the energy or motivation or even strong desire to do any of that stuff that brought me so much peace of mind and a tangible sense of accomplishment (as opposed to growing a baby inside my body which only felt like an accomplishment after the baby was good and done)—until the past two weeks when I’ve been NESTING LIKE A CRAZY WOMAN.

I cannot adequately express how relieved I was to wake up one morning knowing that I would spend the first half of the day stuffing garbage bags full of crap for Goodwill and the second half shopping on Etsy like it was a canned good store on the eve of a nuclear winter. I’ve become convinced that the successful transition from heavily-doted-on only child to doted-on-only-on-her-birthday oldest child hinges on my ability to find the perfect fabric bunting in her favorite colors—yeh-yo and pink AND puhpuh. Pimping out her new room has brought me much pleasure—and taken up every ounce of energy and mental space lately. And THAT, friends, is why I haven’t written! Because I’m too busy putting together Ikea shelves and driving to random suburbs to buy wooden doll cribs from old ladies for five dollars and convincing myself that my daughter WILL BE OKAY.

When I was pregnant with the now-two-year-old I funneled all my anxieties into one giant anxiety about giving birth. That’s been harder to do this time since her birth was so freakishly easy (sans the barfing (jesus the neverending BARFING), so instead I’ve been funneling all my anxieties into one giant anxiety about the two-year-old feeling displaced and unloved and traumatized and miserable and morphing from her sweet (albeit bossy and unnecessarily whiny) self into a sociopathic monster who eats other children for lunch and doesn’t even say fank you afterwards.

And so… Even as I write this I am SIMULTANEOUSLY looking online for tasteful, fun, not-too-babyish, affordable, framed artwork that somehow incorporates cats for my kitty-obsessed daughter. (Do you have any idea how little tasteful cat art is out there? Almost none! And I only say “almost” because my internet search skills are not 100%.)

Perhaps the answer is to get her a taxidermied cat that we can dress up in an apron and sell greeting cards in her image to recoup the cost. Kill a couple of birds, as it were.

Or maybe I’ll just turn off the computer for a while and head to Goodwill to drop of the ten bags of stuff I’m getting rid of to make room for the baby. Because lord knows those people take up A LOT of space—and not just in our minds and hearts.

photo courtesy rezdora70, morgueFile

Everyone

Lest you all think I've spent this entire time away from you watching porn for pregnant ladies, I give you this brief check-in to let you know that: a) I'm still alive, b) I'm still pregnant, c) I still barf occasionally, and d) I still love you. Every one. More soon, I swear.

Twenty-Nine Weeks

A Slideshow for the Ages

As you may have noticed, I'm not a big sharer of random crap I've discovered on the internet, but in the name of Porn for Pregnant Women I make an exception.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go put on dry leggings.*

*From the pee, people!

Twenty-Seven Weeks

So. I'm officially in my third trimester—finally/thank the lord/ohmygodIstillhavethreemonths left. I don't feel terribly huge—until I realize I'm six months pregnant, not eight or nine. Then I cry a little and try to get on with it. I'm already looking forward to dropping my maternity clothes off at the consignment shop the moment I can fit into even one non-maternity item.

In other news, you can't tell from any of these photos due to the magic of back-lighting, but it's dark and cold and rainy here—still and again. Not helping matters (still or again).

Why did we think this was a good idea, exactly? I mean, babies aren't really THAT cute, are they?

26 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
25 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
24 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks] 
23 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
 22 weeks

21 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]

20 weeks

19 weeks

[at 18 weeks I REALLY didn't want my photo taken]

17 weeks (for reals)

fake-out 17 weeks (really 16)

16 weeks (really 15)
15 weeks (really 14)
14 weeks (really 13)

13 weeks (really still 12)

12 weeks

11 weeks

Just Like Jennifer Garner, Only More So

I know, I know, I'm severely delinquent in posting a pregnancy photo—a project I never should have started in the first place, given how little I like to be photographed when pregnant. I'm no Jennifer Garder. Obviously.

That said, I did have a lovely, sunny time in Mexico (where the paparazzi is so much less intense!), made even better by the fact that we flew out of Seattle in the wee hours of a blizzard that shut the city down for many days.

The toddler transitioned beautifully to beach life, making snowmen, snowgirls, and snowcats in the sand. My pregnant self transitioned pretty well to (the good) life in Mexico, too, though I was reminded the hard way that this baby I'm growing inside me WILL NOT STAND FOR ONIONS, dammit. (Yes, I sometimes still barf in my third trimester of pregnancy. Be warned: it could happen to you!)

The highlight was probably the fact that we befriended a very, very fit (and mysteriously tan) family from Vancouver, and I managed to let myself be seen by them in a bathing suit* without having a nervous breakdown.

* I went with my retro-styled one-piece with lots of ruching. Thank god once again for ruching.

Snowed In

It’s snowing in Seattle. Big, fat flakes for the third day in a row even though, as the woman at the table next to me at the doughnut shop just mused as she gazed out the window, “It’s not cold enough to snow.” It’s not cold enough to snow, but the sky keeps dumping the white stuff, trapping people in their homes and neighborhoods because the city of Seattle owns one snowplow, one shovel, and one bucketful of salt, and the airport has dibs.

Yesterday the two-year-old and I experienced our first “school is cancelled!” snow day, and let me tell you, it was a big bummer. I was not at all in the mood to be housebound for another day, and she was in no mood to hang out with her cranky mother all day. We got bundled up and went outside and I exhorted her to “Go have fun!” while I shoveled. After 20 or so minutes I said, all fake-cheery, “Did you have fun?”

“No.”

I felt like such an ass.

But I just wanted to do some work. And have some alone time. And get some shit—other than shoveling—done.

I’m feeling increasingly panicked about being home mostly full-time (but for occasional writing and teaching breaks) with not one but two children, and being literally trapped at home wasn’t helping matters.

I don’t want a full-time job away from my precious cargo, but twenty hours a week sounds pretty good. Or maybe 25… Anyone know of an employer looking to hire an essayist 25 hours a week? They’d barely have to pay me—just enough to cover a babysitter and maybe a few pens. Anyone? Anywhere? Helloooooooooooooooooo?

In the meantime, we head to Mexico tomorrow. Unless, that is, we get snowed in by the 14'' expected tonight even though it's not cold enough to snow.

Photo courtesy Ladyheart, morgueFile

Things Not to Do in Seattle in January When You’re Six Months Pregnant With Your Second Child:

1) Try on bathing suits.

Even the one you wore last time you were pregnant. Especially not the one you wore last time you were pregnant. No matter that you’re leaving later in the week for five days in Mexico—DO NOT DO IT. Do not tell your husband your old suits might not fit, either, because he might suggest swimming in one of his old t-shirts which will make you laugh and cry in equal measure until your lungs are choked with snot and phlegm. I don’t know what you should do instead, but don’t do what I did.

DO. NOT. DO. IT.

photo courtesy markemark, morgueFile

Clogs Can Be Sexy...Right?

I'm back from Chicago, where I basked in the company of two of my best friends, saw a comedy performance at Second City, had high tea at a fancy hotel, slept in a different fancy hotel, felt a bit vertiginous at the top of the John Hancock building, did a little window shopping, had my toenails painted a color called "Vanessa," ate too much delicious food, and had a tiny (but wildly disgusting and a little upsetting) relapse of "morning" sickness in the middle of one night. It turns out the baby-in-the-making isn't as big a fan of truffle oil as I am.

It also turns out that even a city as tidy as Chicago (and DAMN is that city litter-free—I saw ONE wadded-up kleenex on the ground the whole time I was there, and it may well have come from my own pocket)—even a tidy Midwestern city smells really gross when you're (I'm) pregnant. It wasn't as bad as, say, New Orleans, but it was considerably worse than, say, rural north Texas.

As I suspected, no one called the pregnant lady a MILF—which was probably all for the best but still a little disappointing. Even pregnant ladies want to feel wanted, you know? Even in our soft-knit plumpness-showing spandexy skirts and puffy coats that don't close and sensible clogs to keep our feet from aching—even we want someone to convince us we're still hot—or at least really, really, really warm.

photo courtesy kevinrosseel, morgueFile