Saturday Excitement

I had an interesting weekend!

So after being finger-probed by the nurse on Friday evening, on Saturday morning I was rear-ended. I was sitting at a very quiet intersection waiting to pull out with a truck idling behind me waiting to do the same. Suddenly, for no apparent reason- he slammed into me. It wasn't hard enough to give me whiplash, but it wasn't the usual 'whoopsie' soft tap either.

What shocked me, however, was the driver's reaction...which is to say, there was NONE. He (a sullen 20-something year old male) simply acted like it never happenned, and neither made eye contact with me nor made any move to get out of his car. So I hopped out and walked over to the back of my car to inspect all the shattered plastic lying on top my bumper and all over the ground. Homeboy still refused to move his lazy behind out of the car, but actually (get this) yelled out at me "It's nothing! It's nothing! Just go!" and acted like he expected ME to get back into my car and drive off so he could be on his way!

And this, my friends...is when I got pissed.

I marched/waddled over to his window and said "Nothing?! Ohhhh NOOOO! There's something!!!" and was about to reach in and grab a hold of his ear and drag him out (I dare the police to arrest a short, angry, pregnant woman engaged in a physical altercation in which she's winning) when he eventually grumbled under his breath and stomped over to the back of my car. My pimp mobile clearly had a small dent and some minor scratches, but one of his front lights and pieces of his front radiator grill had cracked. And despite being confronted with the evidence that it was far from nothing...the little punk actually began pouting and THREW his hands in the air and began ranting to me, "What do you want me to do?! I have no license! If you wanna call the police, they gonna take my car away! Then what?! I have no money! I need to go to work!"

And this...my friends...is when I nearly beat his a**.

I (who had been crouched on the ground looking at my bumper) stood up, marched over to him and as menacingly as I've ever spoken, said "I. DON'T. WANT. YOUR. MONEY." "I want you to apologize. FOR. HITTING. ME."

He then nearly howled at me, "I'M SORRY!" At which point I glared at him and said "Oh I don't think you are! You just YELLED it at me! That doesn't seem SORRY to me!" By now, two pedestrian dogwalkers had stopped to see if I was okay...and I was. But I was just getting started- "People who hit other people for no reason usually SAY THAT THEY ARE SORRY. They do not remain in their cars and then yell at them about things that are NOT THEIR FAULT. It's not my fault you have no license or money or insurance. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

At this point, I think he had calmed down (not because of my santimonious lecture, but mostly because he knew I wasn't after him for $$). So while looking at the ground, he managed to mumble a slightly more sincere, albeit very muffled, "I'm sorry." I continued to glare for another second (you know, for dramatic purposes) before getting back onto the ground to inspect my bumper. I also offered up a silent prayer that Roy wouldn't be upset at me for letting the kid off the hook without getting his information (which I've now done twice in the last year). Once I stood back up again, the kid awkwardly offered his hand out to me as a peace offering, said a final 'sorry' and I shook it.

Roy and I felt good about how I handled the situation later in the day, which may have granted me extra good karma...because as it happens, I was actually on my way to the Relay for Life. I decided to enter it two days before (solo) on a whim after I read in the paper that they needed more participants. The last two years I've entered as part of a team and did 104 laps around the track (26 miles), but this year my goals were slightly less ambitious:

1. Pace myself and do not collapse.
2. Do not steal food from the other tents.

I had thought that since I wasn't going to have to circle the track 100+ times this year that it would breeze by much quicker...but it did not. This was probably because in addition to it being very, very hot (about 100), I was also carrying around 30 extra pounds and therefore very, very sloooow... Nonetheless, I succeeded! I walked 10 miles!

I have to admit, I felt kinda silly that morning monitoring my hydration intake, taping up my toes and applying Body Glide to go out on a walk, but what the heck- it must've worked since I had absolutely no pain/blisters the next day. Love the Relay for Life! I hope to do it every year!

Lost Innocence

Thank you for sharing all of your labor experiences! Thought I'd highlight two of them since they came from the very culprits I referenced in the post-

Joseph said... I know this wasn't a guys turn to comment but it sounds like I wouldn't mind having one of these epidurals before I have a good poop. Sometimes I have to push hard too!

The L & D Nurse said... Just to clarify, I didn't tell Joseph that you should go Brazilian per se. Merely, proper grooming and cleaning is much appreciated by the staff! We're not going to tell you that (that might be a little awkward).

And of course we're gonna tell you that it doesn't matter that we have to dig through a mini afro to find your cervix or breathe through our mouth so as not to gag on the funk. We're professionals! But you better believe that if it's really nasty down there, we'll be talking about you in the breakroom.

I do see a lot of pedicures, and as lovely as they are, which would you rather have? Pretty feet or a pretty vagina? Not often is your vagina on display for multiple people to see, might as well dress it up. You don't have to go all the way to Brazil to deforest the Amazon, just a little trim and a scrub. Trust me, someone will appreciate it.

By the way, don't worry about the poop. Really, no biggy. It's actually good, means you're pushing correctly.

Since the two of them and two of my coworkers have recently compared childbirth to being like 'a good hard poop,' I thought I would share a little more on this topic. As most of you know, I've been quite open about being constipated for nine months now. Like the many legions and legions of seniors and low-fiber diet eaters before me, I too have grunted furiously, red-faced and sweaty- all in an effort to do something most people take for granted. So during this painful time, I have quite naturally developed a few good techniques- the most important of which is the breathing technique. More specifically- NEVER to unconsciously take a deep breath inward mid push, NO MATTER how out of breath and smashed/tiny your lungs are! Because the minute you suck inward, so will your poop! Trust me, in doing so- there is NO more surefire way to kiss away 5-10 good hard minutes of 'poop labor!!!'

So in that respect, I wanted to think I was ahead of the curve...because of course I already knew how to do the breathing for minutes on end! Which is partly why I have no intention of signing up for a Lamaze/birthing course (I'm also terrified I'll have to watch a birthing video, which I've managed to dodge from my nurse practitioner thus far).

That is...until yesterday, when I went in for a weekly OB visit. This was the first time my nurse officially checked me 'down there' to see whether or not my cervix had dialated. Now call me naive, but the last 80 visits I've made there have generally always been the same- pee in a cup, get my blood pressure/weight taken, listen to the baby's heart beat on the doppler, and then leave.

So when my nurse said she'd check my cervix to see how it was progressing, I happily undressed and donned the gown, eager to see how ready Fester was to move down my birth canal. What she NEGLECTED to inform me as I happily and naively lay there was that this would NOT be a little peek or a few soft pokes at my pink, delicate region with her gentle fingertips. In fact, it would feel like her JAMMING HER ENTIRE ARM UP TO HER ELBOW UP THERE AND COMPLETELY REARRANGING MY DAMN CERVIX, FEELING MORE LIKE GETTING A VERY ROUGH PAP SMEAR WITH (two fingers, my a**!) A BASEBALL BAT.

Even though I almost never squirm or cringe during regular womens exams (toss me a dog-eared Star magazine from 2003 and I'm happy), I was visibly grimacing and shooting Roy death looks (he suddenly became VERY interested in his Sudoku puzzle). I was in shock. And in wide-eyed horror, I told my practioner how painful that was...who just grinned, patted me on the thigh and said "Oh honey, you're gonna have a whole new way of looking at pain after you push a entire baby out of your vagina. That was just two fingers!"

I think I nearly passed out and fell off the table at that point. Because I believe it was the first time I actually realized the magnitude of what I'm in for. I told Roy I was actually scared to stand up and get dressed after that because I was SURE there would be a puddle of blood pooled under my buttcheeks from her finger-rape (there wasn't, there was just an embarrassingly large outline of my growing buttcheeks in the thin tissue paper cover). I contemplated rumpling the paper a little to spare the nurse from having to look at that too, but was too traumatized to care at that point and pretty much left clutching my purse in a daze.

So now I need to be held. Is two weeks and two days before your due date too early to ask for that epidural? :-(

Before I forget- I am only 40% effaced, -2, one fingertip! So it's looking like Fester is staying firmly implanted exactly where he is for awhile more! Today marks the start of 38 weeks...2 more weeks to go!

Grooming for Fester

A friend of Joseph's is an L & D nurse, and she occasionally passes along various tidbits of information (usually borderline inappropriate) for him to pass on to me. Her latest helpful hint has been to suggest getting a Brazilian. In fact, I believe her exact words were..."Just as you all appreciate a clean work space...so do we."

Two of my other coworkers have also recommended that I get a pedi before I go in so that anyone who chooses to help hold my legs up (just visualizing this scene makes me shudder) won't have to see or touch my scary troll-like feet (my second toe is longer than my first on each foot, plus they're kinda cracked/calloused on the heel part...feet are not my finest feature). I think it's safe to say that there is no danger of Roy losing me to anyone with a foot fetish.

Though is no way I'm taking the first recommendation- since A) I'm not Italian, and B) I'm hoping that donuts and pastries for the L & D team will suffice instead. However, I am going to get the pedi (mostly 'cause two of my coworkers not only gave me a gift certificate to get one, but also because they just notified me that they've now scheduled it for me as well since they knew my protesting, cheap tomboyish behind probably wouldn't do it). I'm also going to get a haircut, not because I need one (I just got one a month and a half ago, and let's be honest here- the ricebowl cut does not require regular maintenance), but because I know I probably won't feel like getting one for awhile afterwards.

I just hope Fester appreciates all this beautification on his behalf- because as a general rule of thumb- I'm a bit slovenly. I haven't used an iron in years, I buy wrinkle free (always classy), and my hair is ratty and straw like because its colored so frequently and I make Roy play with it every night and it gets damaged. So this is a big effort for me. I'm gonna be like Fergie- G-G-G-G L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S...

I do wonder though- for those of you gave birth naturally, did you scream like they do in the movies? I mean full on hysterical screaming/moaning- like you want to die. I'm hoping that doesn't happen (if it does, I plan on making Roy pluck a stick from a tree outside my hospital window so I clamp on it with my teeth just like the pioneer women did).

Feedback, por favor!

Life at 37 weeks...full term!!!

Fester is officially done cookin' today! Though I'm sure that I'm much more likely to continue to waddle around for another 3 weeks, one can dream that he'll come early, right?

What made this occasion even more celebratory was that my office had a surprise baby shower for me last week! It was a true surprise, complete with them jumping out of the dark (resulting in only minor, temporary incontinence) and me having no idea the party was in the works. This is nothing short of amazing, given that usually, I am quite alert and sleuth like (i.e.- I'm a horrible sneak who ruins surprises).

And I almost ruined this one, though it wasn't because of my usual insensitivity. What happenned was the day before the surprise shower, I decided to readjust my work schedule and just happenned to casually mention to one of the co-party planners that I wasn't going to be there the next afternoon (you know...the time of the party). I did notice that her eyes bulged out a bit at this news, but I believe they were able to rearrange things so that I was there!

This near potential castastrophe kinda reminded me of a couple of other times I nearly ruined surprises- like the time Roy stood out in the cold in the days before Christmas to buy me overpriced Alanis Morissette tickets in Osaka, Japan, only to have me loudly announce (not knowing he'd already bought the tickets) that I thought she was becoming too much a of stinky, long haired hippie for me to command so much money for a ticket and I wasn't interested in going anymore...or even better- the time my college teammates dragged me to a jewelry store to help them pick out a Hawaiian heirloom bracelet for our friend Melissa (this was a cover for them actually buying ME the bracelet for my wedding gift). I have been painfully reminded time and time again that during those 10-15 excruciatingly long minutes, that all I did was exasperatedly proclaim from my podium to anyone that would listen that Melissa already HAD too many bracelets, that I couldn't understand why people would pay so much money for a bracelet, etc. And when asked to help select the thickness and design of her bracelet, I repeatedly rolled my eyes, pointed at the first option they presented me and said things along the lines of "Who cares? They all look the same! Just get that one, damnit."

So a few weeks later when they presented me with the very generous, beautiful and well thought out gift (engraved with all their names inside of the bracelet I might add), I nearly croaked. My sheepish and apologetic motification only earned me glares and punches to the my upper extremities.

Anyway, I'm 33...so I hope by age 50 I'll have more control over my obnoxious mouth and occasional insensitivity. Before I forget, here's a picture of the gifts we received (we try to take pics of all gifts received so we can remember them long after they've been used/gone) from the surprise shower that almost wasn't... (Psst- like how I covered up my big belly with the toy? I learned that trick from Heather Locklear after she able to conceal her belly during the season of Melrose Place that she was pregnant!)

Old Ritual...New Response

Ever since my weight shot up dramatically late last year, every Tuesday has been 'weigh in day.' The ritual has many similarities to when I lost weight a few years ago...I wake up, feel extremely nervous, mentally/remorsefully run through all the excess crap I ate in the days prior, make silent pleas to God for mercy, desperately attempt to squeeze out every last ounce of pee, and last but not least- strip down. Hello Kitty pjs, underwear, scrunchee, glasses, socks...anything that weighs more than a half ounce?! Gone.

Roy has become so used to this weekly ritual that once he hears me trudging off to the scale he usually mumbles a half asleep, "Ganbatte!" to me (Japanese for 'good luck'). And then the moment I return to the bedroom, he usually half-opens one sleepy eye so he can see whether I'm scowling or jubilantly prancing around waving potato chips in my hand.

Today's weigh in revealed that I have officially gained 29 pounds. To be perfectly honest, I've been rounding up to 30 for a weeks now anyway...partly for dramatic purposes/pity, but also because I'm stunned that I haven't yet hit 30 given how much I've been shoveling down. I know that the day will soon come when this blessed, blessed event of heightened metabolism must end...hence, my statement yesterday about wanting to get back onto the open road (or litter-filled sidewalk spattered with dog poo and dried earthworms) as soon as I can.

While I do take seriously the cautionary advice of "Don't stress, relax...you need to let your body heal" you gotta remember- A) I'm extremely hard headed, and B) I keep thinking about my farming ancestors who probably toiled in the fields alongside their menfolk until the baby's head crowned...at which point they put their hoe down, gave birth under a tree, cut off the umbilical cord with a sharpened bamboo reed, and then worked a few more hours with the child strapped onto their back before it was time to rush home and prepare the family's rice and pickled vegetables for dinner.

So I figure...if my great great grandparents can go back to work hours after giving birth, then surely Ms. Potato Chip can get off her duff a few days postpartum and shuffle a few miles, right?

But back to the weigh ins...I have noticed that in the past, if the number on the scale didn't go down (or God forbid, went up), I would have nothing short of a heart attack and sulk the rest of the day. Possibly longer. Weep via this blog. Overeat even more in anger. In my defense, I was doing everything I could to lose more weight- counting calories, exercising, eating heathily, downing water/vitamins religiously, journaling, reading a lot about fitness/nutrition, training, etc. So when a week's worth of effort yielded no results, I got pissed. Even then I knew intuitively that what I was doing (defining my self worth by a number on scale) was extremely stupid, but I was stuck on a train I didn't know how to get off of. No self love, I guess.

And then...Fester came along. And he forced me to abandon that increasingly manic, unhealthy behavior that was starting to consume me. Because once I realized I HAD to gain weight, I could no longer focus on the scale, and instead- had to shift my focus elsewhere. To buying baby furniture. Rearranging the stuffed animals in Fester's crib. Washing his little clothes in Dreft. And at some point during this process, without even knowing it, I suppose I stated to realize how much more fulfilling/relaxing my life had become now that I wasn't so intently focused on going to the gym/losing weight. So though I don't take much credit for this- I no longer panic about eating refined white flour. Exceeding my daily salt intake. Eating greasy burgers and fries. Not exercising for a few days. Fester has introduced a great balance/order to my life that I'm not sure I would have found on my own.

I just hope I can maintain this self acceptance/healthful thinking once the little guy comes out and I'm on my own to find that new middle ground again. My vision of a perfect me? To be able to run 10 miles and then go out and snarf a large fries from Del Taco afterwards with ZERO guilt!

Life at 36 weeks

One more week and I'm officially full-term! So Fester, if you're listening- feel free to kick a little hole right through mommy's amniotic sac and break her water, or alternatively (she's not picky), use your little fingers to shove down her mucous plug and come on OUT.

Because about a week or two ago, I officially entered the notorious 'uncomfortable' stage. I waddle more. I sweat more. I ache more. I whine more. On Friday while walking to the grocery store with Roy, it felt like my stomach muscles were about to tear off/detach from my body. And had they done so, as long as Fester fell out intact and smiling, I would have been absolutely pleased.

I still have four weeks to go, but I'm soooo ready. Psychologically and definitely physically. In fact, I think I'm as excited about getting back in shape as I am about the birthdate. My hope/plan at this point is to continue to slowly walk the first 2-3 weeks after birth, and then around week 4 if all is good- attempt my first run.

And I'm going to be very realistic here- due to the weight gain (30 lbs!), lack of conditioning (haven't run so much as 10 yards in 4 months!), heat (it's starting to hit the 90s!)...if I'm able to even trot a half mile continuously, I'll be stoked. The ultimate goal is to be able to run a half marathon at a decent clip by the end of the year. I haven't picked a race yet, but I know I'll have to. Because I know that plunking down the non-refundable $$ for my race entry fee and hotel fee are the best motivation for my cheap, lazy behind to get back on the road.

So last but not least, these are pictures of the amazing things we received over the last month. The first three pictures are of the gifts we received from each of our three baby showers (we wanted to capture them before Fester annihilates them with his pee, poop, puke and crayons), and the last picture is of gifts that we've received since then.

We never dreamed we would experience the outpouring of kindness, generousity and love we've received from our friends, family and coworkers. during this time. Each day that I walk into Fester's room, that same feeling of shock and wonder overwhelms me. We feel so extremely indebted to everyone who has made the last month probably one of the most memorable ones of our entire lives. Roy even confessed to me that he's never felt so emotional in his entire life (but I think it's because of the nightly beating he gets from me where I scream at him for making me fat again).

Fester in Sin City

I think most times people check in for a flight or hotel, there's always this tiny part of them that hopes the agent will pause over her keyboard, look up at us say "It looks like we have a free upgrade available...would you like to be moved up to First Class/a penthouse suite?" And since I'm like most 'normal people' (just with a lot bigger tummy and more personal issues with food), I too find myself nervously smoothing down my hair, practicing my most winning "Aren't I lovely traveller" smile and trying to hide anything on me that screams "riff raff" (i.e- my cheap purse, my cheap suitcase, my cheap shoes and my cheap clothes...so yeah, NOT easy to do folks...).

In any case, though the hotel I'm at is right in the center of The Strip, it's one of those dated relics that has NOT been renovated in like, thirty years. Even worse- it sports a 'tropical' theme which at best- is kitchy, at worst- tacky. So when I checked in yesterday, I was totally unprepared and unimpressed when the receptionist proudly announced that I'd been given a free room upgrade (which I think was because I booked the conference).

This is because having stayed at this exact hotel two years ago for the same conference, I knew exactly what the rooms looked like (think 1970s bamboo canopy beds with mirrors on the ceiling, pink bathtubs and clamshell sinks)- so being granted a few hundred extra square feet of space and a tiki mini bar? Sooooo not worth getting excited about. Fester and I were over it.

So after rolling my suitcase no less than two full miles to get to my room, I found that my room key didn't work. I was curtly instructed to come back and get a new set of keys, which I actually balked at and requested that security come and let me in so I wouldn't have to haul all my luggage around again. Apparently some hotel clerks find it perfectly acceptable to make a sweaty, porky pregnant woman lugging around 18 pieces of conference gear walk all the way back to the front desk to fix their mistake (and of course I wouldn't dream of mentioning the hotel name here since it shares the same name as a very large orange juice distributor that sounds a lot like "Mopicana").

Anyway, once I got into the room, I was pleased to see that it was probably about the same size as my 3-bedroom home. And while yes, yes...there was the usual kitchy Hawaiian crap in the room (the tiki mini bar, the bamboo bed frame with mirrored walls), I was quite exicted to see the giant hot tub next to the bed, the steam room bathtub and the excellent view of the Strip. Sweet!

So last night after indulging in a delicious $15 hamburger at New York New York (I'm not a steak, prime rib or crab leg kinda girl) I decided to fire up the 'ol hot tub and soak for a bit. And you know...it was really quite nice! While soaking (it was brief since I didn't want to overheat little Fester), I got to gaze out over the entire, sparkling Strip below. And once that I was done, I followed it up with a hot shower in the steam bath tub. I assumed between the two relaxing experiences that I would drift right off to bed, but I forgot about the Fester Factor...which meant I woke up 2-3 times to pee, 1 time because of a leg cramp, 1 time because of a back cramp and 3 times to put the folded up towel back under my belly. :-)

A Note from the Fester Holder

34.5 weeks and counting! Fester is now up to nearly five pounds, which regrettably, leaves me more or less accountable for the bulk of the other additional 22 pounds that continues to settle in my thighs and butt. And I don’t think I can blame those pounds on Fester Chainsaw (though I suppose I can blame it on the Maui Style potato chips, rice crackers and 2-day old movie theatre popcorn I ate last night as part of my nutritious, well balanced dinner). What can I say? I wanted to have a bowl of Muesli and a glass of wheatgrass, but Fester insisted we have the other stuff instead (and we all know the sacrifices one must make for their children…).

Now that I’ve started my 8th month, I have noticed a few more changes to my body- my tummy is suddenly MUCH MUCH bigger, my back is pretty sore when I wake up in the morning, and I have a lot more painful nighttime leg cramps. But the latest and greatest (stop reading here Dad & Joseph) symptom- itchy boobs. They’re back. With a vengeance.

So I’ve developed a nightly ritual/strategy in an effort to counteract the itchiness:

1. Apply moisturizing lotion all over my chest (in case the itchiness is due to dryness).
2. Apply Gold Bond powder on top of the lotion (for the soothing coolness).
3. Pop a Benadyl (in case the itching is from something on the inside).

And as a result, each night I end up groggily stumbling around with sticky, powdered white boobs that still itch and have red scratch marks all over them. Quite sexy, really. I bet Roy can't wait to knock me up again! But the way I see it, the only other option I have to make them stop itching would be to ice them. And while I can live with being half asleep with sticky, powdered white boobs, I cannot add semi-frozen to that list. I think I just have to live with this horsepuckey.

On a positive note, we had our third and final baby shower today (at Roy's work). And it was AWESOME....overwhelming actually. Though I was amazed by the kindness and generousity of Roy's coworkers, what touched me most is how much he must mean to all them. He's only been on that unit for a little over a year, and yet it felt like we were among family.

And the best part is, tomorrow I head out to Las Vegas again. I'll be attending a conference on Thursday and Friday, but Roy will join me for an extended stay once it's over. It's the final babymoon before The Fes' arrives...so I'll probably end up jumping up on the tables at Ghost Bar like the very pregnant, chronically constipated, boob-scratching rockstar that I am.