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Pregnancy Week 34: Getting prepared — and pampered

May 26, 2014

The Husband and I started going to birth preparation classes this week. We opted to do the classes at a local non-profit for families, because they focus on empowering parents through education in order to make the birth a positive and comfortable experience. The last thing I wanted was to get trapped in a class that scared me — like a teacher running through every possible scenario of what could go wrong or screening a bunch of outdated videos in which bloody babies are yanked from snarled, 1970s porn crotches.

But this class is good. It’s led by my doula, and there are two other couples who are expecting baby boys around the same time. During the first class, we discussed the stages of labor, comfort techniques, and how to make a hospital room feel less hospital-ly. We also watched a birth video that was so real and beautiful and emotionally raw, I got a little teary.

OK, a lot teary.

In that environment, I didn’t feel dumb asking my dumb questions. For instance, I wasn’t clear on what the placenta actually is, where it came from and what happens to it. (If you’re wondering too: It’s an organ that attaches the baby to my uterus, I recently grew it just for this very purpose, and I’ll have to “birth” it after the baby is born. Freaky, man.)

Big lady in front of a big lady.

I also wondered what will happen when I poop during labor — because let’s be honest, I will. (Supposedly there’s a sack attached near the end of the table under the stirrups, kinda like the butt bags that horses wear during a parade. This is where the poop goes.) I’ll be honest — just knowing there’s a system in place makes me feel much more comfortable about defecating on a table.

Before the next class, The Husband and I need to come up with a birth plan. A lot of people tend to say those words with capital letters, as though it is the most important document I will ever write. BIRTH PLAN. It is supposed to go into my HOSPITAL BAG, two more words often said with deep reverence, apparently the most important purse I will ever carry.

The birth plan is designed to help choreograph the labor and delivery process. I get why this is important — it’s supposed to make my wishes very clear. But I also know that life doesn’t adhere to plans, and I want to remain flexible about delivery.

I really feel like this birth plan is something I should leave up to the baby. You want to come out, baby? Terrific! Have I got a canal for you! You need a C-section? Fine. I’m not crazy about that, but we’ll work it out. Whatever makes you healthy and happy.

During my ideal labor, I’d like to have my Spotify “Push It” playlist thumping. I’d like to have some snacks. And I’d like a framed photo of Beyonce on the table next to me — because nothing inspires confidence and strength like Queen Bey. But really, I’ll just be happy if I don’t have the baby in the elevator.

Here’s how things are going this week:

Baby: As big as a pineapple or a cantaloupe or something else fat and juicy.

Shower: My friends Xochitl and Nelsy had a fancy lady pampering day for me, and it was exactly what I needed. I’m grateful to have such beautiful friends in my life.

Sassy lady baby shower.

There were cupcakes …

OMFG.

… and a visit to a spa, where I had the loveliest prenatal massage. Then we spent all afternoon soaking in the saltwater pools.

Spa … ahhhh.

Cravings: Strawberries, which is strange because I have a minor allergy to them. This allergy is so minor, I only discovered it about a year ago when I had the following conversation with The Husband:

ME: The only thing I don’t like about strawberries is how they make your face numb after eating them.

HUSBAND: Strawberries don’t make your face numb.

ME: Uh, yes. They do.

HUSBAND: That’s not supposed to happen. You’re allergic to them.

Oh. So I have this allergy, but it has completely disappeared since I’ve been pregnant. And I have been eating a LOT of strawberries.

Perhaps I’m birthing a magic baby with the ability to remove allergies. In which case all you celiacs should get your money ready now, because I’m totally going to charge for that service. Cash only.

Also craving watermelon, mango and all the world’s avocados.

Body: I think maybe baby is going through a growth spurt. I’m hungry all the time, and my body is now all belly. I also had a body/self-image crisis this week, but I don’t feel like writing about it yet.

Reading: This review of “Labor Day: True Birth Stories By Today’s Best Women Writers.”

I love this part: “Yes, healthy living babies matter, yes, healthy living babies are the inarguable goal, but women’s bodies and minds — and the all-important connection between the two — matter also.”

Pregnancy Week 32: Mother’s Day

May 11, 2014

My favorite memory of my mom is also one of the most mysterious.

It happened when I was in first grade, and the teacher abruptly sent me to the principal’s office. My mom was there, waiting, and she gave me the kind of look that meant I should keep my mouth shut.

This was clearly unusual. I had never been to the principal’s office before, let alone in the middle of the school day. My mom signed a form or something, and then she held my hand as she guided me out of the school, into the parking lot and into our family station wagon.

When I was buckled into the car, she handed me a paper bag from some toy store that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

“Go on. Open it,” she said.

Inside was a Glamour Gal, a 4-inch tall doll of molded plastic and tiny features. She had luscious blonde hair, just like the lady on WKRP in Cincinnati, and was wearing a blue tube dress. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The present was strange, because it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or any special occasion at all.

I had the one on the right. Eventually I also got the one wearing the pink dress — a dress that easily slipped off her shoulders so she could have filthy sex with my gigantic Ken dolls. The ’80s were crazy for everyone.

After that, we went to McDonalds, and my mom bought me a Happy Meal. This was also strange, because it was something that just didn’t happen. We rarely went out to eat, fast food or otherwise, but when we did it was with the whole family.

I remember stirring my soggy fries into puddles of ketchup, just like mom did, and it felt very grown-up, like two sassy ladies out on the town. When my mom finally brought me home, she said I must never tell anyone about our secret afternoon outing. I waited for something like that to happen again, but it never did.

My mom did a lot of terrific things for me, so I’m not sure why that incident sticks in my head. I suppose it’s the oddity and rarity of it.

I don’t remember the context of that day — what was happening at home or at school. Maybe my mom was sad and lonely, and she wanted to do something to strengthen our relationship. Maybe she was just bored and wanted to see me. Maybe that’s the day my first-grade teacher was baptizing everyone into the Church of Satan, and she was protecting me. Who knows?

I wish I could ask her.

This is the fourth Mother’s Day since my mom passed away. But since she spent 10 years dying of Alzheimer’s Disease, it feels like I’ve been without her much longer.

I think we're both wearing cool Member's Only jackets because it was the '80s and we were totally rad.

I think we’re both wearing Members Only jackets because we were totally rad. Also what is this place? Anyone know?

It’s difficult to explain Alzheimer’s to those who haven’t tried to love someone through it. It’s a thief of a disease. It doesn’t only steal memories, it steals the victim’s everything.

Alzheimer’s took the light that illuminated my mother’s eyes, and it left behind someone I no longer recognized.

It’s only fair, I guess, that she no longer recognized me either.

At the nursing home.

I spent many years resentful of this — it’s how I mourned. I was angry that my mom abandoned me. I didn’t have a mom to call when I got engaged. I didn’t have a mom to watch me walk down the aisle. I didn’t have a mom around when adult life felt fierce and overwhelming. I didn’t have a mom when I needed one.

For a long time, I pushed away memories of her. I could only recall the most mundane things — our drive to church, her vacuuming the house, the way she studied her the arch of her eyebrows as she filled them in with a makeup pencil.

But now that I’m writing a memoir in which she figures prominently, I’m starting to excavate my memories again, and she materializes in the most surprising places. I hear a George Michael song, and it reminds me of mom dancing in the kitchen, committing crimes against chicken. (Seriously, she was a terrible cook.) Spring flowers remind me of how my mom found wild honeysuckle in our backyard, plucked the stamen and placed the sweet drop of nectar on my tongue. Certain smells remind me of her perfume, her sweat, her skin.

I think of her even more now as my pregnancy progresses. I wish she were here to offer me advice and guide me down this brand-new path. Maybe I wouldn’t even want her opinions if she were here to give them; maybe I would hate her advice. It would just be nice to have the option.

This is one of my favorite photos of my mom. I love it because she looks completely fallible, like she’s about to drop my screaming sister right there on that lawn full of weeds. She has absolutely no idea what to do with this child.

The funny thing is that the longer she’s away from me, the closer I feel to her.

Mommy and me. She was clearly an investor in Aquanet at this point.

Mommy and me. At this point, she was clearly an investor in Aquanet.

I’m not a person who believes in heaven as a literal place. I think it’s a beautiful myth, and I have no problem with people who do believe in the concept. But for me personally, I don’t think my mom is watching me from above or looking down over me. I don’t think I will somehow be reunited with her when I die.

What I am attached to is the concept of energy, which doesn’t dissipate simply because a physical body dies — I believe souls never disappear, they just change form.

I’m sad my mom will never meet my son. Even so, I feel her energy now, every day. It’s here as I rub my growing belly. It’s here as I feel a small little thing kicking inside me. And it’ll still be here someday when I spontaneously pick my child up from school, give him a surprise present and take him to lunch for no reason whatsoever.

Pregnancy Week 27: Just the tip of the third trimester

April 6, 2014

ME: My pregnancy app says we need to talk about circumcision tonight. Presumably for the baby, but they didn’t really specify.

HUSBAND: OK. What do you want to say about it?

ME: (Googling) It appears to be a controversial topic with many pros and cons.

HUSBAND: How do you feel?

ME: I actually have no strong feelings about it one way or another. None. Zero.

HUSBAND: Neither do I.

ME: This is really your territory. All I can contribute is the story of the first time I saw an uncircumcised penis.

HUSBAND: Nope. Don’t want to hear it.

ME: Wait, I’ve got something. What do you call a cheap circumcision?

HUSBAND: What?

ME: A rip off.

HUSBAND: Alright, we’re done talking about this now.

A baby mushroom.

Times like these I feel like I’m still pretending to be an adult. There are very important decisions to be made here — such as, do I want to cut off the tip of my son’s penis? — and I have never even considered these things before. Not once. How am I qualified for this? My business card doesn’t say “foreskin expert.” (Maybe someday. Fingers crossed!)

More importantly, how do other people do it? Did everyone go to a special parenting school when I was out at a bar? If so, you guys are bastards for not inviting me. Is there some way I can obtain a spare baby, so I can try again after I irrevocably screw up this one?

All I know is that I have a lot more research to do before I make any organ-altering decisions. Back to the Google I go.

Here’s what else has been going on this week — the very tip of the third trimester!

Week 27: This is supposedly the beginning of the end, according to people who give me unsolicited advice: “Oh sure, you feel great now. But just wait. That third trimester is terrible.” So … yay?

Baby: As big as a head of cauliflower.

Me: Looks like I’m shoplifting a head of cauliflower.

Seriously, every week I look more and more like the pregnant dude in the “Been Caught Stealing” video, and it cracks me up. If only Halloween were closer, I could totally rock that look, no foam padding necessary.

Exercise: Not so great — only a couple long walks and one yoga class — and I’ve definitely noticed a difference. I feel far chunkier and more lethargic this week. Next week will be better.

On a good note, I did some cool stuff instead of working out.

For instance, I had a couple hours before work on Tuesday. Instead of going for a bike ride like usual, I watched a bunch of guys disassemble the Forever Marilyn statue in downtown Palm Springs.

All hung up.

When Marilyn really went to pieces.

And on Saturday, which is typically my hiking day, The Husband and I drove to San Diego and took a falconry class. The Husband was initially wary about us doing the class during pregnancy, because he was afraid a bird might peck the baby out of my womb.

I’m pleased to report we both enjoyed the class and had zero Hitchcockian incidents.

I should tweet this.

I made a new friend. It was hawkward.

Not ruffling any feathers.

The Husband is very talon-ted.

I still think most birds are weird and could really use some arms, but I’m starting to warm up to raptors.

Health: I had my glucose tolerance test this week, and I should get the results early next week. I’ve done a fair amount of research on the test, and I feel like it’s flawed — and because of that, too many pregnant women are incorrectly diagnosed with gestational diabetes. But I’m going to save that rant for another day. Also I’m not a doctor, just a lady with a lot of opinions.

Books: Baby received his first set of books this week, a gift from my dear friend Tracy. They’re some of my favorite children’s books too: “Where the Wild Things Are,” “Pat the Bunny” and “Goodnight Moon.”

I’ve already started reading to the baby, which seems to inspire a whole taekwondo performance in my belly. So the baby either looooves books, or he hates them and wants me to shut up about rabbits and mittens already.

Cravings: Peanut butter on all the things. Peanut butter on apples. Peanut butter with celery. Peanut butter crackers. Peanut butter and rice cakes. Peanut butter on a moldy rooftop shingle. I don’t care! Slather me in peanut butter and let me nom myself to death.

Pregnancy Week 26: Is this normal?

March 30, 2014

It’s the final week of the second trimester! The exciting thing about week 26 is that we’re far enough along, the baby will likely survive if he is born right now. (But please stay in there. Keep baking, little bun.)

We have also entered double digits in the countdown to the due date, which is ridiculous. This is all happening so fast! I have to graduate in June, and I have a thesis to finish! And there’s still so much I need to prepare! I’m sure I’ll feel differently soon, but right now I envy the elephant and their 22-month gestational period.

Why can’t I be you?

This week The Husband and I celebrated our anniversary — 11 years together, four of them married.

March 28, 2010. It was a nice day for a white wedding.

I can’t help but look at photos of us and daydream about the fat, happy baby we’re going to produce. What’s he going to look like? Who is he going to be? What will he enjoy? What traits will he take from me and which parts will be from the man I love?

I just can’t wait to meet this kid and find out.

Ingredients in the genetic soup.

Typically The Husband takes a belly photo of me on Sundays to post here, but we’ve both been writing and working all morning, and I haven’t showered yet, let alone put on real clothes. So we’re back to the dreaded bathroom selfies! I took these earlier this week because I was feeling pretty good about my fly maternity outfits. (Please excuse the toothpaste dots on the mirror. I rock my teeth like a hurricane.)

I tied a ribbon to show I still have a waist somewhere there. Also I was wearing cute tights and boots.

When bumblebees get knocked up.

Here’s how everything is stacking up this week:

Baby: We’ve officially entered the ugly vegetable stage. The baby is as long as a green onion, and the size of a head of lettuce. He’s also about two pounds, has eyelashes, and his little heart is holding steady at 145 beats per minute.

My body: I might write a book about the physical effects of pregnancy called, “Is This Normal?” since so many things this week had me running to the Google machine to ask that very question. Stabbing pain under my left shoulder. Is this normal? Tender right rib that feels bruised. Is this normal? My belly skin is too tight and might rip apart like the Hulk’s clothes. Is this normal?

The thing is, the internet is no help when it comes to medical issues, because I end up sucked into a black hole of rare diseases. Yesterday I logged on to WebMD with a totally normal pregnancy and logged off with leprosy.

This is why I’ve actively avoided reading most pregnancy books. I feel like my body instinctively knows what to do. I don’t need to read about all the complications that might occur. Not yet. (Then again, maybe a book might have told me that the pain under my right rib was just the baby’s foot.)

On a bad note, I had a little lecture from my doctor for gaining a couple pounds more this month — literally a couple — than my target weight. I’m still feeling good, though, I’m on track for overall healthy weight gain, I can still cross my legs and everything. And my goodness, a couple pounds could be poop.

See? They didn’t factor in poop.

Exercise: Beyond the shoulder/rib/skin discomfort I mentioned above, which has been very minor and temporary, I feel terrific. I have a lot of energy. I haven’t been sick or crampy. I’ve been walking every day and doing yoga a few times a week.

When I had a massage in Mexico, Arturo the masseuse rubbed my thighs and said, “Have you noticed your legs getting stronger and stronger during your pregnancy? You’re all muscle,” which made me feel really good. I like knowing that I’m building a strong, solid foundation for birthing.

Nursery: I think I’m supposed to be doing something with this room now? I’d like to be one of those women with hand-painted stencils on the door and a cool mobile above the crib and frilly curtains and everything artfully arranged, but that’s just not going to happen.

All I know is that I have a crib, a lovely gift from my mother-in-law, and the baby won’t have to sleep in the bathtub.

Welcome to MTV’s “Cribs.”

For a while I was reading a lot about Montessori nursery design, which doesn’t use a crib, just a mattress on the floor to allow the child freedom of movement. Then I started getting overwhelmed with all the other options, which include co-sleepers and bassinets and everything else. And you know that moment when too many choices actually becomes paralyzing? That happened.

I finally decided if we really want to do a floor bed, that’s something we can implement later. Same with a co-sleeper. Right now I just want a safe, rectangular space where I know my baby can sleep — and just having it brings some peace of mind.

Food cravings: Clementines. Hummus. Peppermint tea.

Predictions for my child’s first words: Any combination of “cat” with “No!” “Stop!” “Get down!” “Out of the kitchen!” or “Really?”

Thing I was called this week that I do not wish to be called ever again: Big Momma.

Week 24: Babymoon!

March 19, 2014

As I write this, my hair is sloppy with sweet almond oil from this morning’s massage, and my feet are caked with sand.

It’s day four of my babymoon, and I don’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed. My shoulders are no longer hunched. My spine is loose. I feel the thrum of a kicking baby in my gut.

What is a babymoon? It’s like a honeymoon but with a dumber name. It’s basically the last getaway as a couple before a baby arrives — which sounds slightly ominous but is actually pretty special.

Goodnight, sun. Hello, babymoon.

For The Husband and me, we’ve never had a vacation like this before. Our actual honeymoon was spent hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, unshowered, our muscles spent and sore. Then we explored the Amazon rainforest, slathered with DEET and stink.

So this babymoon — a road trip to Baja, Mexico — has been more of a traditional romantic getaway than anything we’ve ever had. No plans, no watches. The kind of lazy days where the question of “What should we do today?” is answered with “Let’s get tacos.”

Our time here has been unscheduled but busy. Mornings are for watching whales and waves. We read books and eat bagels on a patio that overlooks a wide swath of sea, and the early mist makes my hair frizzy.

Misty morning in La Mision. For some reason, this makes me croon the song “Memories.”

Afternoons are spent strolling the beach, finding patterns in the sand, unearthing pretty shells. The sun is hot on my shoulders, but the breeze is cool. We take naps and get tangled in the sheets. In the evenings, we sit on our patio and watch the sun sink into the ocean, our wine glasses filled with Trader Joe’s sparkling pomegranate juice. At last, when the sky goes navy, we sip peppermint tea under the white fairy lights that are woven into the wooden trellis.

After I took this photo, I pretended we were in the North by Northwest crop dusting scene.

We brought Lemon along, and her reactions to the beach have been a never-ending source of delight. She enjoys digging in the sand and sniffing out birds. But my favorite thing is how she becomes temporarily paralyzed whenever a cold wave hits her little legs. She is not a water dog, that’s for sure.

What do you call a blind and deaf dog on the beach? Nothing. She can’t hear you anyway.

The other day The Husband and I made an excursion to Ensenada, a city chock full of vice and rowdy cruise ship passengers, but there wasn’t much for us to do. We don’t like to shop. Horseback riding is out. I can’t drink and don’t need any cheap pharmaceuticals. And it’s hard to buy a lap dance when I no longer have a lap.

Next time, Bar Wetlips.

Instead we ate tacos. And then we walked on a beach. On our drive back to the B&B, we stopped at a fruit stand situated on a road shoulder in the canyons. We shared a cup full of fresh-sliced mango sprinkled with chili and lime, while a grubby white dog slept at my feet. Then I bought a coconut and slurped down all the water and meat. It was pretty perfect actually.

I love it here. They get me.

Here’s the update for the week:

Baby: Depending on the source, he is supposedly as long as an ear of corn, as big as a cantaloupe or the size of a large zucchini. Basically, he’s a whole Ohio produce stand.

Melon belly.

Food: I’ve probably been eating a little too adventurously. Every time I see my produce chopped with a rusty machete, I cringe and think, “Maybe I should ask for a clean machete.” But I can’t help but eat this way — I have a difficult time going to a boring restaurant when there are so many street vendors cooking up fresh, homemade goodness.

I also have this belief, based in no scientific evidence whatsoever, that chilies kill bad bacteria. So overall I’ve been feeling very confident about my food choices, as long as everything is topped with incredibly spicy salsa.

Body: My poor lower back has started to take notice of the new weight I’m carrying. I feel my spine curving just a little, compensating for the bundle on my hips.

Also this week my breasts started leaking. Not gushing, just a teensy dribble. But it was enough that I looked down and thought, “Huh. So this is why I have these things.” It is SO WEIRD! My body is navigating a brand-new landscape, and it doesn’t even need a map. It just knows what to do.

(By the way, I thought about not divulging this bit of information. But I have a male co-worker who tells everyone about his busted nipple, which is persistently erect, like a Raisinet glued to his chest — I know some of you have seen this — and so I figured all’s fair when it comes to nipple stories.)

Husband: At night when the baby is most active, The Husband likes to place his ear on my belly, resting on the slope of my stomach. This means we have a lot of conversations like this:

HIM: Wow, your stomach is grumbly.

ME: Yes, I know.

HIM: Ha ha. I think you have gas.

ME: Yes, I do. Thanks for pointing that out.

HIM: Whoa. The baby kicked me in the head!

ME: Good.

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