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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.

Five steps to a perfect budget babymoon (or any kind of vacation!)

March 26, 2014

Travel is very important to The Husband and me. But so is saving money, especially now that we have a baby on the way.

So while we did want to indulge in a babymoon — our last getaway as a couple before our boy is born — we also wanted to keep enough cash in the bank to afford diapers when it was all over. We decided to ditch the traditional advice, since an all-inclusive in the Virgin Islands was simply not in our budget, and plan our own luxury-on-a-shoestring excursion.

Here are five easy questions we asked ourselves. Use them to plan a babymoon, or any kind of vacation, of your own.

1. What do you want to do?

Are you seeking action or something more leisurely? Want nightlife or nature? Sightseeing or sunset gazing? Determine the kind of vacation you’d like to have. Once you figure out your priorities, you can whittle down the destination options.

Even though The Husband and I typically enjoy more adventurous excursions, we desperately wanted to relax and recharge. We decided to look for a beautiful location where we could hike and take long walks, as well as a nice room where we could curl up together.

2. How will you get there?

Decide how you want to get where you’re going. Think about what will be the best for your budget AND the most hassle-free. We all know how to get a cheap flight, but if you have to drive a few hundred miles to catch a redeye or endure a 7-hour layover somewhere, is it still worth it?

While The Husband and I love to fly, we knew driving would be the easiest and most frugal way for us to travel. Depending on where you live, though, you might find some terrific air travel deals that are both time-saving and low-cost.

With the goal of a one-tank trip in mind, we looked at locations within a five-hour driving radius of our home. Our options included Las Vegas, coastal California, southern Arizona and northern Mexico. I’m not crazy about Vegas (I know, I know — I’m THE ONE person who doesn’t care what happens in Vegas or if it stays there), and we’ve already spent considerable time vacationing throughout California and Arizona.

We figured Mexico would give us a new locale to explore, and our money would go farther there. For instance, for the price of two nights at a beach hotel in California, we could afford four nights in Baja.

3. What time of year is your vacation?

This sounds so simple, but you’d be surprised how often it slips past when planning a getaway, and it can actually make or break your vacation. Ask yourself: What’s the weather like where you’re going? Do they have any festivals or major events happening when you’ll be there?

There are plenty of travel articles that will tell you vacationing off-season is a great way to stretch your budget, and that’s true. But really think about where you’re going, consider the potential risks and determine your comfort level, which is particularly important when you’re pregnant. Are you willing to brave Miami in the midst of hurricane season? Will you still enjoy Costa Rica if it rains every day? Will you be comfortable in the desert if it’s 120 degrees? It’s fine if your answer is yes; just arm yourself with this information in advance and plan accordingly.

Now look at what else will be happening in your destination while you’ll be there. To use an extreme example: Say you end up babymooning in Rio during the World Cup. Not only will you be battling crowds for tables at restaurants and places to stay, you’re also going to face severely inflated prices. You’ll probably still have a great time — but it might not be the getaway you originally envisioned.

In our case, The Husband and I were a little apprehensive about heading to Mexico during spring break. But since we decided to stay in a sleepy, seaside village and not anywhere with a Señor Frog’s, we didn’t have any issues with drunk fraternity brothers.

4. Where will you sleep?

Think about what kind of accommodations will make you most comfortable. Do you want to stay in a big hotel with a lot of amenities? Or are you looking for a boutique hotel with a lot of personality? Do you want a pool, a gym, a restaurant on site? Or are you looking for a totally unique experience, like a B&B? What’s important to you? I’m not much for room service, but I have some friends who consider it one of life’s greatest pleasures.

The Husband and I like to use Airbnb, an accommodations website with unique listings all over the world — anything from private rooms to entire houses. (Even clock towers and treehouses!)

For this vacation, we wanted an entire apartment to ourselves. It was also important that we have our own kitchen, because we both have special dietary needs, and we wanted to keep costs down by making some of our own meals. (We tend to cook two of our own meals a day, eat one nice meal out.)

This is the suite we booked.

What made this place special is that our host gave us the kind of personalized experience that you rarely find from a hotel, unless you’re paying top dollar. Cathy organized our Mexican car insurance for us in advance. She booked our massages with a trustworthy and experienced professional. She welcomed us with a tray of fresh-basked cookies. And she gave us invaluable advice on places to go, things to do and what to eat.

5. What else will make you feel comfortable?

This will be different for everyone and will depend on your situation.

I had two major concerns about leaving the country for my babymoon: Medical care and clean water.

Again, our Airbnb host was incredibly helpful. Cathy is an American who has been living in Mexico for 12 years, and she assured me of the quality doctors/hospitals located near her rental. She also offered to give me a list of physician names and phone numbers.

Her place does have filtered tap water (and all the restaurants nearby use filtered water too). That said, I’m very, very careful when it comes to water, so I purified it anyway. I use a SteriPen Adventurer Opti, which is my constant travel companion. It’s portable, it’s easy, and it works. And it’s saved me thousands of dollars over the years, because I never have to buy bottled water, no matter where I go in the world.

Here’s the final breakdown of our babymoon, which you can read more about here:

* The price of the suite rental came to $320. ($300 + cleaning fee).

* Our Mexican car insurance, required by law, was $40.

* Before we crossed the border, The Husband and I took out $200 from an ATM to pay for our food, massages, tolls and other assorted expenses — and we returned to the U.S. with $10 in our pockets.

So our grand total for five days was $550. (Plus one tank of gas, but I factor fuel into a different place in my budget.)

I’ve definitely traveled cheaper, but our priority here was comfort as well as a budget. We could have done without massages or some of our pricier meals, or we could have stayed at a smaller place off the beach. But we wouldn’t have quite as many beautiful memories — and those, of course, are priceless.

Pregnancy Week 25: A pierce of my heart

March 23, 2014

This week I am bidding adieu to my navel ring.

It’s not that I want to get rid of the piercing. It’s just that my belly is pushing against the steel hardware to the point that something’s gotta give. And I don’t want it to be the belly.

(You can’t see it here with my black T-shirt, but trust me — that ring is about to poke right out.)

I still remember when I got that piercing.

I was in college, of course. There was this girl who lived in the next dorm over, and I thought she was super crazy and super cool. Her hair was jet black, and her eyeliner always made perfect, inky rings around her eyes. She was skinny, more muscle than meat.

I don’t remember the girl’s name. It might have been Dana. I barely knew her.

One night I got messed up with Dana at a party, we waited in a long line for the bathroom together, and somehow we decided we’d get our stomachs pierced the next day. I think she brought it up, and my response was a resounding, “Fuck yeah, dude” — because nothing says “I’m an adult now” better than “belly button ring.” We traded phone numbers, and Dana was surprised when I followed up the next afternoon with a call.

Of course I called. Dana was the cool girl I wanted to be. She moved fast and wild, and she always seemed to have the most fun of anyone in a room. And right up until that moment, I had never done anything nearly as exciting or scandalous as a piercing. I didn’t even have my ears pierced! (I still don’t.)

Also, Dana had a car, and it was a long walk to get to the tattoo shop without her.

The place was called Art Apocalypse, and the piercer had a long ZZ Top beard. As I stretched out on the table and the man leaned over to swab my belly with cotton balls of cold alcohol. The hem of my shirt was tucked into the underwire of my bra, and I could feel his breath on my stomach as he placed a clamp on my skin.

“This is too freaking cool,” I said. “It’s just like Alicia Silverstone in that Aerosmith video, huh?”

“No,” the piercer said.

I decided to change the topic.

“So, like, do I need to worry about accidentally pulling this thing out? Like, with a sweater or something?”

“Listen,” he said. “The only way this piercing is coming out is if you put a big chain on it, and then you attach that chain to a Buick, and then somebody drives that Buick at 120 miles per hour. Are you going to be doing that?”

“No.”

“You should be fine then.”

I remember the smooth pain of the needle, then the zing inside my stomach muscle as the piercer pulled the ends of the metal ring together. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

I remember buying generic Dial antibacterial soap, in order to keep the piercing from getting infected, and keeping it in my Caboodles shower caddy. The hole got infected anyway, because college students are filthy and holes are always getting infected, and then somehow it cleared up on its own. I haven’t had a problem with it since.

I remember two weeks after we got our piercings, Dana went to a party somewhere off campus and I didn’t go with her. And then I remember running into her the next morning outside of the dining hall. She was still in last night’s skirt and crop top, but she was wrapped in a sweater holding the ends shut, like a cocoon. She was crying. I remember she was so silent when the piercer’s needle punctured her, but now she wailed as if she had been stabbed. Her eyeliner was smeared.

I don’t remember the details of who assaulted her, but I do remember going to the rape trial. I remember a lawyer asked Dana what she was wearing and what she’d had to drink at the party. I remember her cheeks burning when she testified that she wore a skirt and a crop top. I remember being so thankful she had been sober on the night of the assault — and then I remember the shame of feeling that way, because I knew it shouldn’t matter, even though it clearly did in that courtroom.

I remember the sinking regret of being a bad friend. Of not knowing how to support someone who was broken. Of feeling so awkward and awful for Dana that my piercing became a metal stitch in my stomach, holding me together.

We barely talked after the trial, and Dana eventually dropped out of school.

I don’t know why I’ve kept this thing in all these years. I no longer flaunt my belly or wear the navel ring for any decorative purposes. If anything, it seems silly to have a schoolgirl’s piercing at my age. I did the math once, and my piercing is actually older than Justin Bieber — though it hasn’t picked any fights with rappers or gotten caught drunk driving.

It’s just this thing I have, part of the cartography of my body. I guess when it’s out forever, I’ll still have the hole there, proof of something that once filled it.

The good news is that I have different things to fill me now. I hope Dana does too.

Here’s how everything else is going with the pregnancy this week:

Baby: The size of a cauliflower or rutabaga. Let’s go with cauliflower.

My uterus: The size of a soccer ball. Also, Baby has been so active lately, my uterus feels more like a burlap sack full of rabid coyote pups.

Special guest stars: My friend Xochitl brought me to a kick-off party for the Palm Desert Food and Wine festival, where my fabulous baby bump met The Fabulous Beekman Boys!

I’m a huge fan of these guys, particularly of Josh Kilmer-Purcell’s memoirs. If you haven’t yet read “The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers,” I highly recommend it. I also love that Josh and Brent used their “Amazing Race” winnings to create Mortgage Lifter heirloom tomato pasta sauce, in which 25 percent of the profits go to struggling American farmers to help pay off their debts. You can buy it here.

Cravings: I am not really having any cravings of my own, but I am very much influenced by other people’s food lately. Someone on Facebook mentioned Smarties … and I bought a bag of Smarties. Someone on TV made a green smoothie … so I made a green smoothie. There was a sample station of salsa at Costco … and I bought all the salsa, all 47 gallons of it.

Just don’t come around me with a pizza. Deal?

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.

Pregnancy Week 23: When hormones attack

March 10, 2014

I have been waking up on the wrong side of the pregnancy pillow this week.

I am crabby and mean. But I am also needy and sad.

Within the space of five minutes, I complained to The Husband: I am so lonely. Nobody calls me anymore or wants to hang out with me. My friends don’t ask how I’m doing. They don’t care. Nobody cares. When I send pregnancy photos to my family, they don’t comment on them or say I look pretty. And the last time I sent a photo to my sister she said it looks like I’m about to cry. And why did I have to give up an hour this week? I want it back! With interest! And look — salsa fell off the chip and onto my big tummy and taxes are due AND OH GOD EVERYTHING, ALL AT ONCE.

Then I cried.

It is lovely being married to me right now, I’m sure.

Photo taken during the five minutes my emotions weren’t wildly ricocheting all over the place.

Are these hormones? Is that what’s happening here? Because fuck hormones. I hate feeling this uneven and irritable. This is not me.

On a lighter note, spring has waltzed into the desert, bringing crazy cactus blooms and pastel sunsets and letters from President Clinton. Those are good things, even though I feel a little too delicate to fully enjoy them right now.

Pen pals! This was the highlight of my week.

Little pricks.

You’d never know I was in a grocery store parking lot.

Here’s what else is up this week:

Baby: Supposedly the size of a grapefruit, but I no longer believe my iPhone app on this matter. So you’re telling me this baby is the size of a grapefruit? But he is also 12 inches long?

When’s the last time you saw a damn grapefruit that was as tall as a schoolkid’s ruler?

Never. That’s when.

Family portrait! The Husband, me and baby grapefruit.

Cravings: Tomato-based foods. Marinara. Salsa. Tomato-basil soup.

Body: Bigger. I guess this is what happens.

Also I am starting to feel the limitations of pregnancy, and that has been difficult to accept. Normally when a person works out each day, the reward is that the routine gets easier, your muscles take longer to fatigue, you feel the results. That’s one of the basic principles of physiology: The more you exercise, the more your body wants to be in motion.

Pregnancy is the exact opposite. For me, anyway. Lately I feel like I am fighting with myself. Each day the effort is more daunting, and laziness is more seductive. I want to rest. But also know that’s not what’s best for me or the baby — I need to maintain some level of fitness.

So I still walk 2-3 miles each morning, and I’ve been doing prenatal yoga. I took my bike out for a slow 10-mile ride. I went for a hike with my husband, even though I couldn’t make it anywhere close to the end; I had to admit defeat and turn back down the mountain, wheezing the whole descent.

The view from not-the-top.

Maybe in the coming days I’ll try to tackle that mountain again. Maybe this time I’ll even make it to the top.

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