Monday, January 26, 2009

35 Weeks: How should my tombstone read?

“Died peacefully under a mountain of clean baby socks.”

-OR!-

“Died after being tackled by a grocery store security guard who was suspicious that she was shoplifting a watermelon.”

-OR!!-

“Died in fits of inappropriate laughter at childbirth class.”

-OR!!!-

"Died from shame in trying to combine three short blog entries into one way too long entry."



Let me start at the beginning (of the week): Death by Baby Sock

There was a time when I would roll my eyes at the cliches of pregnancy.
Pregnancy brain? No, you’re just an idiot. Sorry.
Bitchy Pregnant Monster Hormones? Whatever. You’re in a bad mood. Don't use your baby as an excuse to be a douche.
Cravings? You just feel like eating. Don’t complain to me when you can’t lose that extra 100 pounds two years later.
Nesting? It’s called productivity. You’re not special. Way to not be lazy!

I am probably rolling my eyes a bit still, but The Nesting.
Oh. The Nesting.
You can call it whatever you want if you don’t like the term nesting. It started out with wild, uncontrollable list making. Long, detailed, orgasmic lists of things to do! To look into! To remember! To CROSS OFF!

Then, after I had the longest list ever written, I started doing things and then adding more things and then AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHZZZZZZZZZZZZ…….

But I didn’t know that it wasn’t bad yet. I was na├»ve in thinking that I just needed to write things down to remember all of the things I need to do.

After both of my baby showers, I decided to organize all of the stuff that we got. Normal? I think so. I took everything out, threw away the packages, bought an organization unit with pink baskets, and rode that closet like a pony. It looked sexy and clean and organized.

Until I went to update my Bump Pregnancy Checklist, and realized that I should be packing my hospital bag this week, which means that I should be packing baby clothes, and none of my baby’s clothes had been washed and would probably make her skin peel off and OMFG PPL I NEED TO DO LAUNDRY.

And Laundry I did.

I woke up at 4 a.m. on Wednesday and I washed every item of clothing in Cupcake’s closet with a size of 0-6 months, including socks, sheets, Boppy Covers, burp cloths, blankets – if it was washable, I washed the shit out of it. With Cheer Free, because I think that Dreft is bullshit.

Once I did all that laundry, I needed to assemble the Pack and Play, the Travel System, and the Bouncy chair and wash all of the parts of those. Then I washed all of the bedding. THEN I did our laundry, because hell, I was already the laundry wench so what was another three loads, you know? Why bother relaxing - I can relax when the baby comes. (HA!)

I did three days of laundry. And on the fourth day I rested. It was all very Genesis, except I didn’t really do anything monumental like creating heaven and earth – just mental, like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. I was, like, two Prozacs away from hanging lists all over the shed in our back yard.

Mid-Week: Death by Tackling
35 Week Belly Picture: Could I possibly look more like a Watermelon Smuggler?



That is my 35 week belly, and my new expensive camera. Because, you know, I have to take pictures of the baybee and they have to be high quality. And look, my hand briefly grazed over a fancier $1200 camera before it turned black (like my heart) and blew away in a million ashes, so we should all be happy that I bought this camera and not a different, more expensive, less necessary one. Now I just need to learn how to use it...

Let me end at the end (of the week): Death by Belly Laugh
Then, you know, it was Sunday. And we had to go to our Childbirth class. Normal people have no issues with this. I do.

I was kind of looking forward to this week's class because we were told that we would learn breathing and massage techniques for labor. Sounds useful to me, right?

We put our blankets and pillows on the ground and are told to sit facing each other. Then, the instructor came around and gave the moms-to-be lotion...or, more accurately, shot wads of old person scented imitation cum lotion into our palms.

Yes.

This was enough to make me giggle. Then, Mark had to rub this shit into my hand while we listened to a "guided relaxation video."

And this is where it all went wrong. Horribly wrong. Colossal middle school fail type wrong.

Sometimes I tend to start laughing and then I can't stop. And not just annoying giggling, but, like, gut busting laughter that cannot be stopped no matter the consequences. One time, I laughed like that at a funeral because my friend asked why they were using potpourri at a funeral, and for some reason I found it hysterically funny that he was calling incense potpourri, and it got worse when he was all, "what? I've never seen potpourri at a funeral before!" And the more I think about how I need to get a damned grip, the more I can't stop laughing. It's bad.

So, the instructor tells us to close our eyes and try to follow along, and I think that most people would be able to do this but I am somewhat socially inept and so this would be a Big Big Problem.

First the video says, "Imagine your baby floating in a deep blue sea."

My eyes fly open, and I see Mark struggling back a guffaw. I start a silent belly laugh. A controllable belly laugh.

Then the video says, "Ask your baby questions, like, what do you want from me baby?"

Then I died.
I was laughing so hard that I was crying. Tears. Lots of them. Tears, and snorting and snot flying out of my nose from trying to hold back maniacal laughter. And grunts and sweat and the possibility that I will need to run from the room and far enough away to literally LOL right in the hospital lobby.

I'm sure that the purpose of this exercise was to picture yourself as some sort of fertile earth mother birth goddess. But all I could picture was myself wild-eyed, red-faced and sweaty in my 20th hour of painful labor yelling, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, BAYBEE?!" followed by something really eloquent, like "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!"

FINALLY, after a million years (or one minute, twenty three seconds of pure torture), the exercise ended, and her presentation moved on. Then we came to another slide that showed a relaxation exercise, and I could feel my insides start to quiver with potential laughter. That's when the instructor says, "Maybe we will skip this one, because it is really cheesy, and I might lose credibility."

I can only imagine just how cheesy it was. And just how big of an asshole she thought I was.


Death from Shame
I am so tired. SO tired. I think of something to write, then it is gone. I even wrote on a sticky at work when I had an idea, and I lost it. I am sure it's stuck to the back of some important client paperwork somewhere, and I'm sure it said something really exceptional, like "My Vagina is Tiny: So, How Exactly Does This All Work?"

Sunday, January 18, 2009

And I shall call him: Dr. Handlebar Mustache

My 34 week appointment was another good one.

The OB office has the obligatory wall o' birth pictures. All the doctors, holding up the new babies they delivered. As I've mentioned, the people who work there are ridiculously good looking.

But there is a picture of this one doctor who is not ridiculously good looking. That's not to say that he is necessarily ugly. As a matter of fact, we've been talking about how we hope we get to meet with him because he looks...like fun. Like, maybe he delivers babies by day, and then rides his hog to The Handle Bar by night.

Mark has been coming to all of my appointments. But this one he decided to skip, because I had three this week and OH MY GOD there are only so many times we can drive two cars to doctor appointments then wait an hour then get home at 6 to two dogs who have been in their cages since 7 am.

So anyway, the day Mark skips is the day that I get to meet with Dr. Handlebar Mustache. Of course. Because I know that something funny is going to happen. It always does when I am by myself, and then I tell a story so outrageous and have no way to prove that it is true (or at least mostly true) and not me just exaggerating for the sake of my blog.

Dr. Handlebar Mustache is very prompt. He was five minutes early for my appointment, and pretty much ran it the same way as everyone else. But then, in what I imagine to be good doctoring, asks me the following question:

"So, has anyone told you what to expect as a patient with The Diabeetus?"

OH MY HOLY HOT DAMN!
I shit you not, he called it THE DIABEETUS.

And I know, I know, it's time to move on from the whole Wilford Brimley thing. But it is kind of hard for my head not to explode when Dr. Handlebar Mustache, who looks like Wilford Brimley, calls the diabeetus The Diabeetus with a completely straight face while I am by myself with no witnesses to what can only be described as Too Much.

For a moment, I almost asked him if he read my blog...


So it seems that part of being all speshul with the diabeetus includes being all speshul with an induction no later than your due date, probably at 39 weeks.

Oh noes...

I admit, my birth plan goes something like this:
1. Drugs.
2. As Many As Possible.
3. As Soon As Possible.

Basically I have no birth plan other than: get this kid out of me and I don't really want to feel much, kthxbye. I plan to go with the flow and do what the doctors say is best.

But induction? I don't know. I don't really want that unless it is absolutely necessary. And while the Planning Whore part of my brain is all THIS IS GREAT WE CAN MAKE SO MANY PLANS! Another part, perhaps the Big Big Baby part, says, oh noes, an induction is not what I want at all. I'd like to go into labor at home, and be comfortable(ish) at home for a while, and...other stuff.

On Friday, we had an ultrasound to check my fluids and the size of Cupcake. And as it turns out, she is perfectly average. She measured at 34 weeks 1 day (I was 34 weeks 3 days at the appointment), and her weight estimate was 4 lbs. 15 oz. which puts her right at the 50th percentile for size.

No giant diabeetus baby yet.

My blood sugars are under control with the lowest dose of Glyburide and a diabetic diet.

My weight gain is great - I just hit 20 pounds.

So, why would I need to be induced, dear internets?
If you had GD, were you told that you would need to be induced at 39 weeks?
Did anyone protest?
If you didn't have GD, but had an induction, can you tell me how it was? If you'd do it again? The upside and down side?
Before you answer, though, please note: Obviously I will do what is best for the baybee. I could do without any of the "you're a selfish asshole" type comments here.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

34 Weeks: Non-Stressing

So. Things have been happening, and I have been too tired and lazy to blog about them. Last night, the third of five times waking up to pee, I thought of something very hilarious to say on this blog, then I fell asleep and forgot it by the fifth pee.

Well, it was hilarious at two in the morning when I was half asleep and trying to navigate to the bathroom to pee without opening my eyes, anyway. Maybe we're all better off?

Last week I had to wait almost an hour for my OB appointment. Mark and I sat in the room, listening to some lady next door bitch out the OB over something. I know this because the OB office has paper thin walls. I hope the workers there realize this and don't walk out of a room mumbling obscenities because you can totally hear it. I know I will keep it in mind, should I ever have an It Burns When I Pee situation to discuss with my doctor.

Anyway. Waiting. For an hour. Pissed off. Starving.

Mark and I seriously considered running the appointment ourselves and just leaving notes on the white exam table paper for the doctor to copy into my file.

Finally, the doctor comes in and is all sorry about that blah blah blah. And I'm all, "hey, you could totally make it up to me by giving me an ultrasound, mmmmkay?"
Amazingly, he said that he would but not until next week!

Then he realized that during our hour wait, we were supposed to be having a non-stress test. He was lucky that he dangled the ultrasound in my face like a Twinkie, because when he apologized, I said, "You had me at Ultrasound. You had me at ultrasound."

Last week, cupcake was measuring at 33 weeks, which was perfect. Her heartbeat was perfect, my glucose readings were perfect, and the only thing that was not perfect was that I was so hungry I wanted to eat the elastic bands on the torture device strapped to my abdomen for the non-stress test. Elastic has no carbs, right?

The test was cool. We could constantly hear the heartbeat, and every time she kicked, it sounded like thunder. Mark realized it first that the kicks sounded like thunder, then he said, "that is totally blowing my mind." Then he lit up another doobie.* I was having Braxton-Hicks contractions and got to see them on the graph.

Continuing the tradition of milking my insurance for every single precious maternity coverage penny, I will be going to THREE appointments this week: a non-stress test, my 34 week appointment, and an ultrasound.

So help me, if we see a penis on that screen...

Speaking of penises**, my second shower was Saturday, and Nostradamus correctly predicted Armageddon: Ohio Style. The roads locally were passable, so we still had 10 people come. We had fun, I think! And really, everyone got a prize, because we were supposed to have 26 people crammed into my living room to play games. So the guest-prize ratio was very favorable.

I admit to a few tears in the morning over the weather, and how it so effectively fucked my shower right in the ass. However, it was a fabulous time - here is a pic of the cupcake tower and adorable favors:



And here is me, in all my 33 weeks pregnant glory and whatnot in front of the fireplace:



I think I have earned my good weather karma - there was a blizzard on my shower day, so I will have a crystal clear day for my drive to the hospital. It's My Name Is Earl, except My Name Is Jennepper, and I didn't win the lottery.

Eating karma? Not so favorable. At the shower, I was a horrible human being who deserves to birth a toddler because I ate two cupcakes, pasta salad, Pizza Hut, AND BURGER KING. Like some sort of diabetic junkie going on a total bender. (You know what? My sugar wasn't all that shocking after my performance - it was 132, and my limit is 120.)

Wilford Brimley is probably setting fire to a fertility clinic right now.

*Not really, but it's not often that Mark sounds like a pot head. Except that last night he couldn't remember how to write a cursive B, and said, "how come I can't remember how to write a cursive B?" and I couldn't breathe because I was laughing so hard. He sounded hiiiigh then, too.

**It has nothing to do with penises, but there aren't enough changes of subject where I can use "speaking of penises," and since all the pretty pretty pink clothes I got at my shower would be useless in the event that a penis appears at the ultrasound, I thought I'd seize the day.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Meteorology? Pfft.

Tomorrow is the day of my second shower, and apparently the weather forecast looks like something predicted by Nostradamus: On the 10th of January in the year of 2009, snow will bury everyone in Northeast Ohio and surely all will perish except those with mullets. (So maybe it won't be so tragic?)

Dear everyone alive: Yes, I heard the weather forecast for the day of my shower. Yes, I am fully aware that it sounds a bit like Armageddon. Thank you for telling me, because I am so completely not stressed out about it, like, at all.

I always get pissed off about the weather forecast. Mostly because the meteorologist on the news channel we watch is just downright frightening looking. Someone you could shrink up and place in your garden as one of those gnomes to scare bunnies away so they don't eat your plants. Or something.

In addition to offending my delicate little eyes, the weather forecast is always wrong when I want it to be right. Like when I really don't want to go somewhere and 10 inches of snow would just be so fab, and I get really excited because the forecast says 10-20 inches of snow? We always end up getting flurries.

Woe. Snow. Blah blah blah. Someone might get stuck with an awful lot of cupcakes, and it won't be me because I have the beetus.

I went to breastfeeding class last night, and saw more huge knockers than I ever wanted to see in my life. Boobs make me really uncomfortable. Probably because I have tiny ones. Every time the guys were at the Bing on the Sopranos, I had to look away because DEAR GOD, THERE ARE BOOBS! BIGGUNS! (Please note that all the cussing, killing, adultery, and violence didn't bother me a bit.)

Luckily, the instructor was not one of those super earthy, tree humping, granola chowing breast milk pushers (although, I did not examine her thighs for bark burn). She went over the benefits, talked about how to cure cracked and sore nipples, and showed a few videos about latching on and positioning. It was informative. I took notes like a gigantic nerd.

The video was a little off-putting. There were these women at the hospital, bearing it ALL for a bunch of people in the room. And yes, yes, I know, I know - I will probably not even notice my public nudity because I will just be ready for the baby and la la la I don't want to hear it because it still freaks me out.

And. So. I hope everyone has a great weekend.
If my blogging abruptly stops, you'll know that I probably got buried naked under 20 feet of snow because I do not have a mullet and was practicing being comfortable showing my Lady Business to rooms full of strangers.

Remember me by eating nachos and Dairy Queen ice cream cake. Maybe light a candle (but not french vanilla, because gag).

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Let me bore you with the inappropriate workings of my subconscious.

You know how there are some things that people say that let you know that you will be in for some serious faking of interest? And you are all, "Oh, my gosh, yes! Enlighten me!" but really you are thinking, "Dear god, how long until lunch? I could really go for a latte right now, or maybe even a Big Mac...I wonder if anyone has a Tic Tac...My butt itches..." while trying to keep eye contact and laugh and say uh huh at all the right places.

Let me give you some examples:

1. Maybe you had to be there, but the funniest thing happened...
2. No offense, but...
3. Oh my gosh, listen to this dream I had last night...

Any three of these things, from the wrong person, can cause much head explodyness. So good luck to you, because:

Oh my gosh, listen to this dream I had last night!
HA!

Last night I had a dream that I was nursing. Which I suppose isn't surprising considering my current state of being seriously, for realsies pregnant. Probably given my discovery that The Ladies make colostrum. They've been doing it for a month now, but now they are really doing it, and it kind of makes The Ladies less about The Sex and more about Feeding The Lady who will be coming directly out of My Lady Business in a mere 6 weeks.

Which is weird.

The dream was probably just normal anxiety about the future, right? Nighttime brain dumping, perhaps.

Except that all this maternal nursing business was between mommy and her 1 year old Shih Tzu, Milo.

Meet Milo: He's one hell of a nurser. And thanks to the groomer, a bit of a cross dresser, but only when the groomer ignores his wiener and balls and sends him home with a pretty pretty bow...



In my dream, Milo was being fussy. So I say to Mark, "give him here." And I pop him right on the tit, where he proceeds to Nurse Like a Human.

Then I woke up and thought two things:
What the fucking fuck?
And,
I really, really need some carbs. Stat.

(Is right now a good time to mention that I originally wrote this post with Meconium, instead of Colostrum?)
(I wrote that my boobs were leaking fetus shit.)
(I didn't catch it until I did my final spell check, after I read, and reread the post multiple times.)
(It is no small wonder that I am trying to nurse dogs in my sleep.)

Monday, January 5, 2009

32 Weeks: Where is this pregnancy measuring stick?

And can I poke you in the eye with it? Or possibly just shove it up your ass?

I had my first shower this weekend, and it was fantastic! We got so much stuff for the baby, and it really was a lot of fun. Cupcake is a lucky, lucky girl. We have two entire closets full of baby stuff and another shower next weekend. I'd say we're ready! I can't believe how generous people are! We had lots of cupcake things there and it was so cute. I even got a set of cupcake pajamas and robe just for me.

The comments about the bigness are really, really annoying. Not the, "Oh, your belly is growing and you look cute" comments. But the, "Wow, you look huge, and I just saw you a few weeks ago and you looked huge then but NOW?! I know I asked before but really, are you having twins? Because you are huge. Did I say that already?" And the more subtle but equally rude, "Do they think you'll go a little early based on your size?" And my favorite - asking for proof that the string used to judge the How Big is Jen's Belly Game is actually my belly because it looks way too small and there is now way that it would fit around THAT hoss of a mother-to-be.*

Nothing like feeling like you are at your roast instead of your baby shower! I can fake amusement at the first few "jokes," but I reach my limit at three and then just start to be rude back. So mature, I am. Always bringing it with the maturity. Luckily my mom and sisters-in-law were there to help me keep my sanity, and to laugh at all my snark.

I don't see why it's a shock that I am big at 32 WEEKS PREGNANT. As in EIGHT OUT OF NINE MONTHS PREGNANT. I'd like to see the yardstick that people are using to make their judgments on pregnancy size. I'd like to see it. And hold it. And swat at people with it. Maybe poke some people in the eye with it. Possibly whack a few shins. Stuff like that.

But! 32 Weeks! 33 Weeks tomorrow, actually. And since I am diabetic and speshul, I get to go to the doctor again tomorrow, and every week to have my glucose monitored. A true overachiever in the OB department. My fasting glucose levels were waaaay too high, even though they fell within the range given to me by the dietitian. I'm just too sweet. (Except when I am hitting people with yardsticks.)

I ended up being put on Glyburide by a hilarious new (and very good looking) doctor who won me over by telling a boob joke. I would totally tell the boob joke, because it was funny, but it had to do with someones last name being like our last name, and that is just way too Google-able for me. But it was funny, and now poor Mark will have to sit through appointments with this new hot funny male doctor as apposed to his beloved hot Suzie. (He will probably live.)

Cupcake was measuring right on time, so the doctor didn't think that I was growing the female Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Or, not yet, as he said. Very comforting. My belly measured at 32 centimeters, which is right on for 32 weeks. And I have gained 19 pounds, which is the same as the past few weeks, but nobody seems worried so neither am I.

I've read about 40 katrillion blogs about new years resolutions. So, how are we all doing on the new years resolution front? I didn't resolve, so I am doing great! It's a no fail plan, really. I just set the bar so low that it is impossible for me to underachieve.

Be honest - how many of you have fudged just a little already?

*The best part of this story is that the person who was brave enough to say it, was also brave enough to put it around her waist as proof that lo! The string is too small! Her waist was the same size as mine, not pregnant. So, I win, I think.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Jennepper's New Year's Rockin' Eve

Last night, my last New Year's Eve as a nonparent, I did the following:

Ate roast.
Filled out my entire Belly Book, complete with pictures.
Watched 3 hours of the Dog Whisperer marathon.
Went to bed at 9:30.

I think I'm really over that point in my life where I feel like I need to GO OUT! and DRINK! on new year's eve. I'd rather be at home, eating delicious food and hanging out with Mark and maybe a few friends.

2008 was a stellar year. Unlike 2007, I wish 2008 no ill will, sexually transmitted diseases, or urinary tract infections.

Truth be told, I feel a little sorry that 2008 is over. I won a cruise, and went on two fun vacations. I made it through two IVFs while going to work full time and finishing my graduate degree.

I got pregnant.
I stayed pregnant.

It feels almost impossible to top 2008.
And? I'm a little intimidated by 2009.

The thing is, I've been making all sorts of excuses for putting up with all kinds of things. Or, maybe I should say that I've been just kind of accepting things the way they are instead of working toward making things the way that I want them because I am still in school/doing fertility treatments/pregnant/only 28/would rather eat chicken wings.

My excuses are just that. Excuses. All of the situations that I've been using to justify my laziness are pretty much gone and I have no reason to still be unhappy about my career/not being pregnant/feeling like I'm too young/being fat and physically lazy. I don't really have any reason for sitting on a big pile of goals, but I am terrified of not being able to improve all of the things that I've been putting off due to said excuses. Afraid of failure, really.

And the biggie: parenting. Motherhood. Scary. I feel clueless - about birth and what to do after. I'm sure I will figure it out, but still. I've been worrying about it more and more lately. I think it will be amazing, and I think it will be harder than I can even imagine. I hope that I will do a good job. I can't wait to meet our little Cupcake, and I just hope that I can be all of the good things to her that she already is to me.

What about you? Anyone else just a little intimidated about whats to come in 2009?
Or are you leaving behind an asshole of a 2008 and ready for a new start?