before you pop...

I hate the fat phase.

Not that all of pregnancy doesn't feel like a fat phase... But you know what I'm talking about. Those weeks where your old clothes bind and pinch in all the wrong places, but you're not yet big enough for hideous maternity wear.

You feel huge - not huge like you know you're going to get - but still huge, but people can't tell you're pregnant yet.

Instead, they just kind of wonder if you've been eating too much pizza lately.

Yesterday I went to buy a few little pumpkins. There's a church down the street that sells pumpkins every year as a massive mission trip fundraiser. And the pumpkins were cheaper there than anywhere else. I'm going to use them as a party craft for all the adults coming to Little Man's 1st birthday celebration this weekend.

So I'm standing there in the brisk fall air, swallowing down nausea, picking out cute pumpkins from a very friendly church lady. We got past the purpose of buying them (to entertain the grownups at a 1 year old's party), and laughed about how the birthday boy will never remember it anyway.

I started coughing to cover a retching heave. Nice. Very nice.

And, just like with so many other strangers I meet, I felt obligated to explain. In just a few more weeks, no one will need explanations, unless of course they're under 6 years old and still slightly confused on how to tell if "that lady is fat or just having a baby?"

But for now, people can't tell. I'm just thicker than normal. And since they don't know me, they don't know the difference. I'm not sure why I feel like they need to know. I'm never going to see them again.

Once you pop, the discomfort begins. As though nausea isn't discomfort enough already. But the heaviness, the backaches, the hip aches... But I kind of wish it would just happen already. No more explanations necessary.

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© Sarah K Asaftei, 2009-2010 unless otherwise sourced.
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cataloguing differences...

They say "every pregnancy is different!" Mostly they mean to be encouraging. 'Cause, you know, they want me to know that just because last time I was sick the whole time and suffered prenatal depression, doesn't mean it'll happen again.

But different doesn't necessarily mean better. It can also mean... well, the opposite.


Last time: I was sick with all-day nausea for 8.5 months.
This time: It's worse. (But then maybe it won't last quite so long? Hey, a girl can hope...)

Last time: I had to graze on food every 45 minutes to an hour to help control nausea.
This time: I can hardly eat at all. On the upside, by this point last time I'd gained 10 pounds, this time I've only gained two. I take small comforts where I can get them!

Last time: I got to lie in bed or crash on the couch during rough days.
This time: Mr Man needs meals, diapers, naps, baths, songs, you know... all that crucial stuff in a baby's day. So yeah, no couch-napping.

Last time: I got stubborn rashy, oozing eczema patches on my face for the whole pregnancy.
This time: The patch is on the opposite side of my mouth. Turned up weeks before the pregnancy test showed positive.

Last time: Insomnia. For months on end.
This time: Insomnia. But I've discovered that if I jet off to bed immediately after Mr Man goes down (sometime right around the totally-grandma hour of 7:30 PM), and try to fall asleep by 8:30 or so, I can skip the "second wind" that keeps me staring at a black ceiling into the wee hours. Yay for discoveries!

Last time: I had an awesomely helpful husband who set a day's worth of snacks out on the counter since being in the same room with the refrigerator door open was enough to send me hurling.
This time: I still have an awesomely helpful husband. Except now his energy is most kindly spent in changing nasty diapers (whenever he is home), to keep me from adding to each diaper's mess.

Last time: I thought the pregnancy would never end.
This time: Mr Man keeps me busy enough that somedays I forget I'm pregnant at all and just wonder if this is perennial stomach flu.

Last time: I didn't have many friends who were moms. Or who were pregnant. I felt utterly, totally alone in the journey most of the time.
This time: I've got some really incredible friends. Some of them are right in the middle of it with me, and instead of feeling isolated - I've got a small but fabulous network of like-minded moms. Heather, Nabila, Ramona, Louana, Iveth, Lianro, Claudette, Celeste, Christine - you are all awesome! I'm so glad to know each of you, and your amazing kids!

© Sarah K Asaftei, 2009-2010 unless otherwise sourced.
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keeping track...

So I have this app from BabyCenter that tells me what's going on every day of this pregnancy. It gives me checklists of things to do, and has links to interesting resources sites. And about once a week it'll show me a video about how babies grow, or what epidurals look like, or how it feels to have an unmedicated birth.

Yes, I skip the gory ones. I don't grasp the fascination with freaking moms-to-be out over what's coming. Besides, I've been there, done this. I have a good enough mental picture already.

But it also keeps urging me to regularly write down pregnancy memories. Which I keep forgetting to do.

I think that's kind of their point. What's not written down, will be forgotten. Even the act of writing it down. Yes, I know I'm going in a circle. I don't really care.

Last time, I was pretty good at writing stuff down. If you read this blog last year, you already know that. I vented right here. A lot. I think it was one of the threads that kept me clinging to sanity during the whole thing.

This time, well. I have an 11-month old to keep up with. He sort of changes things. And I've got work to do. If you've got kids, you know what I mean. Sitting down to journal superfluous stuff gets shoved to the bottom of my priority list.

But the weeks keep slipping away. The first trimester is almost over. And this is pretty much my first post about it.

I'm going to try and do this more often. You know, so I can accurately remember the misery. Just in case my forgetter gets so good after this one comes along that I lose my sanity and consider signing up for a third round.

© Sarah K Asaftei, 2009-2010 unless otherwise sourced.
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the puking ain't in vain...

Crissy, my former college roommate, recently shared some scientific studies about morning sickness.

Apparently, a new Canadian study has found that children of moms who suffer lots of vomiting and nausea are born with higher IQs.

I'm taking that as a hint that all this retching and heaving is not a waste. 'Cause at this rate, both my kids are going to be geniuses on a level to make Einstein feel dumb.

Somehow, in the moment, it still doesn't make puking any more fun.

Sigh.

© Sarah K Asaftei, 2009-2010 unless otherwise sourced.
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on specimens and such...

So we had the last doctor's appointment today, and as usual the nurse took me to get weighed and measured (makes me kinda sound like a side of beef, doesn't it?).

Then she asked me, like every time, to step around the corner into the bathroom and leave a full little cup in the shelf behind the tiny door in the wall.

At this clinic, they don't have proper specimen cups. Just regular white styrofoam ones, with a pen by the sink. You're supposed to write your name on the cup, fill it up, and then leave it for the nurse behind that little magic door. Not rocket science, right?

Unless you're me. For the second time in the last three months, I walked in, shut and locked the door. Grabbed a cup and the pen, sat down while dutifully writing my name on the cup as legibly as possible. And then realized there was nothing left to go in the cup.

Nice.

Reach over and turn the faucet to a noisy trickle.

Think watery thoughts.

Berate myself for not being able to manufacture more pee when it's actually needed. Because, honestly, I could fill more than this stupid little cup at any given moment of the rest of the day. Just not right now.

Ignore the next pregnant lady knocking on the door cause I've taken so long.

Finally settle for placing the cup behind the door with approximately 7 drops of "specimen". Reach over and shut off the pointlessly trickling faucet. Take five more minutes to get the maternity jeans, long tank top, maternity shirt and everything else tucked back into place.

Wash hands.

Find the funny in it all. Cackle loudly to myself all the way out the door, down the hall, and into the exam room.

Stop cackling long enough to ask the nurse, "Uhh, ma'am, if you need more..."

"Don't worry," she cuts me off as though she knows EXACTLY what I'm going to say. "Just a couple drops'll do. The doctor will be right with you."

Get cackling under control before doctor arrives. Not aiming for the lunatic diagnosis. At least not today...

Who knows, maybe next time?

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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does it seem to you like...

... there are just a WHOLE LOT of baby boys being born this year? Nearly every couple we know has had or is having a son.

As you may already know, by 9.5 months everybody you meet thinks it's their business to inquire about the baby. Strangers ask you when you're planning to "pop". Last week some random (and very talkative) lady in Target also wanted to know the gender.

"It's a boy", I replied, slightly scattered between trying to find some elusive jumbo waterproof changing pads, and still managing to be polite.

"A BOY!" She crowed. "All the babies this year are boys! You know, my gramma always said that when everyone has boy babies, there's gonna be a war. She said it was God's way of preparing armies for when they're needed."

Nice, lady. I really want to hear that God is giving me my son so that he can go die in a war in 20 years. Do you realize you're implying that I'm having a son for the sole purpose of being either bullet fodder or a killing machine?

Way to go.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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the pediatrician hunt...

... has been frustrating.

Just like I'm hoping to avoid being shot up with too many drugs myself, we'd like to avoid packing lots and lots of shots into our baby all at once.

I'm not being unreasonable radical here regarding vaccinations, but given our family history of allergic reactions - I think it's smart to not load up an infant with so many shots at once that there's no way to tell what caused an allergy. Should there be one, of course. But let's stay on the safe side, shall we?

Annoyingly, Georgia pediatricians don't seem to be very flexible on these kinds of things. I've been interviewing several pediatricians for weeks now, and getting that same glazed response that I feel from my own doctors.

I finally found a midwife office and called to see if they had any recommendations. Per usual, they still haven't called me back.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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i really despise...

... that feeling you get when you're trying to communicate with someone and it's obvious that they're not even paying attention.

Especially when that "someone" is your doctor.

The last four or five times I've been to my doctor's office, I've come away feeling just "this close" to sitting down and bawling my eyes out. Come to think of it, I actually HAVE sat down and cried a couple of times. It's like there's this huge disconnect between what I'm trying to say, and what they are hearing. And they don't even pretend to care.

When I say that I'm allergic to a host of medicines and that I quickly become allergic to any new ones - I mean that I'm concerned about chugging my body full of drugs because I know what happens next. And doctor, when you sit there and tell me that you're "pretty sure" that all my concerns aren't legitimate, it's not exactly comforting.

Last week I talked to my doctor about my severe allergies to various medications, and my concern about having an allergic reaction during labor. Particularly since I'm also allergic to Benadryl - which is what they'd normally give to stop an allergic response.

His reply?

"Hey, if you're going to go into anaphylactic shock, there's no better place to be than in the hospital!"

Are you kidding me? What are you going to do, shoot me up with Epinephrine (the only thing that still works for me) while I'm in labor? Do you not get that I'm trying to avoid triggering an allergic reaction? This is not about picking the best venue. It's about not going there at all!

I'd hoped that the other doctor I was scheduled to see this morning would be more willing to at least make me feel like he's listening. But no, didn't happen. It was like he was irritated with me before he even walked in.

If we still live in this area and there's a "next time around", I'm finding a new doctor. Someone who treats me like a human being who has a brain.

End of discussion.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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oh the depths to which we sink...

I used to look askance at those waddling pregnant women who allowed themselves to go out in public in just housewear.

"How could they voluntarily embarrass themselves like that?" I'd roll my eyes. Swore I'd never be caught dead in public wearing a bathrobe or other grungy attire. Just because it's comfortable doesn't mean you should be seen in it!

Until yesterday.

I'd just driven home from visiting my sister. Had to take some stuff over to my parents' house. Gas tank almost empty. Gotta fill up - wouldn't want to go into labor with a car that's running on fumes.

Stopped at the station. Hopped out. Scratch that - LUMBERED out to pump the gas.

And looked down at myself.

I am HER. That ubiquitous waddling pregnant chick who never bothered to properly dress this morning. I'm wearing a black shirt, stretchy black yoga pants, and big fluffy white house slippers. AND I HAVE THAT HIDEOUS (but amazingly helpful) WHITE BELLY SUPPORT BELT ON THE OUTSIDE OF MY SHIRT.

At least it matches my fluffy house slippers.

I am THAT chick.

But honestly, what did I know back then when I was rolling my eyes at other women? Back then, I could still reach down and touch my own feet. Heck, back then I could still SEEEE my own feet.

I could walk without feeling like a hippopotamus. I could run if I wanted, bend in half to plug something into the wall, roll out of bed without needing the Hubby to haul me upright first. All those magical abilities that childless/never been pregnant woman take completely for granted.

Yeah. What did I know?

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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POP GOES THE CERVIX (sketches::5)

This is the last in a series of five humorous sketches on pregnancy, by my friend Adel Torres. Adel and her pastor-husband brought home their first child, a baby boy, just last week. She sketched these during her time in the hospital, and gave me permission to post them here.

You can read about Adel's art, mission trips, and pregnancy journey on her blog: This Journey, My Home.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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BEFORE TRAMPOLINES (sketches::4)

This is the fourth in a series of five humorous sketches on pregnancy, by my friend Adel Torres. Adel and her pastor-husband brought home their first child, a baby boy, just last week. She sketched these during her time in the hospital, and gave me permission to post them here.

You can read about Adel's art, mission trips, and pregnancy journey on her blog: This Journey, My Home.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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KARATE KID (sketches::2)

This is the second in a series of five humorous sketches on pregnancy, by my friend Adel Torres. Adel and her pastor-husband brought home their first child, a baby boy, just last week. She sketched these during her time in the hospital, and gave me permission to post them here.

You can read about Adel's art, mission trips, and pregnancy journey on her blog: This Journey, My Home.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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VIEW FROM THE OTHER SIDE (sketches::1)

This is the first in a series of five humorous sketches on pregnancy, by my friend Adel Torres. Adel and her pastor-husband brought home their first child, a baby boy, just last week. She sketched these during her time in the hospital, and gave me permission to post them here.

You can read about Adel's art, mission trips, and pregnancy journey on her blog: This Journey, My Home.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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Wal-Mart gigglefest...

It's amazing what weeks of sleep-deprivation will do to you. Like last Friday afternoon, when I went into Wal-Mart to get groceries. I walked through the front door, nodded at the little old greeter lady sitting by the door. She grinned and waved, and I was suddenly reminded of a joke someone sent me recently:

A little old geezer got a job at Wal-Mart. On his first day he was instructed to greet all the shoppers that came through the door. After a few hours, a big ugly woman came thundering through the door cussing up a blue streak at her two young children.

"Hello ma'am, welcome to Wal-Mart! Those are beautiful kids you have there - are they twins?"

"What the blankety bleep bleep makes you think they're twins? This one's 9 and that one's 5! Do they bleeping LOOK LIKE TWINS TO YOU?"

"Oh no ma'am, not really. I just couldn't imagine anyone sleeping with you twice, that's all. Enjoy shopping at Wal-Mart!"

His manager said he wasn't really cut out for this line of work...

As the little lady greeted us at the door, I couldn't help laughing to myself. By the time I got to the produce section I was giggling uncontrollably. The guy stocking the bin of onions chuckled along with me. But I wasn't able to stop.

Before long, the initial laughter at a mildly funny joke had morphed into hysterical giggles. I wanted to stop, but couldn't. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I bent double over the lettuce and cucumbers. A young woman pushing a cart with a small baby stopped to ask "Lady, are you alright?"

It was several minutes before I could breathe normally again. I don't think it'd have happened if I'd gotten more than an average of 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night for the past month.

But hey, after all those positive endorphins - I sure did feel better!

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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34 weeks and counting...

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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what would you like to confess?

This morning we had our 31 week prenatal checkup. Results:

- baby's head is already down and in a good position
- heart rate of 155 bpm
- wiggly and squirmy - very good
- mommy has gained a total of 24 pounds
- no more bleeding or other complications
- not eating lots of sugar or bad junkie calories
- still got nausea - bummer
- sleeping better than two weeks ago - yippeeeeeee

"You get A's all the way down my checklist," says the doctor. "You can't be that good all the time. So what would you like to confess?"

Uhhhh.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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i know you're cheap, but does that give you the right to be rude?

Okay, I know AirTran is famous for their low fares, high bag fees, and nonexistent service standards (without even the humor that SouthWest offers to balance out the cheap). But just because I'm willing to fly cheap doesn't mean I want to be treated like an idiot.

So we were flying home from a weekend in Chicago, and we'd already had a full day of travel. (Think: 1 hour by car, 1.5 hours by train, board the plane, deboard the plane, board again...)

You might guess correctly that my 30-week-preggo-hormonal patience level was wearing thin by this point.

We reach "cruising altitude" (whatever that is), and the second the little orange seatbelt light dings off, I'm popping up for a potty stop. We're in row 20, and there's only 30 rows in the plane. So obviously I start for the rear restroom. Except I'm waved off by a grim stewardess mouthing "You'll have to go to the front!"

Gotta pee. Gotta pee.

FINE. I'll hike 20 rows to the front. No problem. It's vacant... Until I'm 5 rows back and someone else scoots in front of me.

The pilot makes an intercom announcement that the FAA does not allow any congregating or forming lines for the lavatories. I ignore him. There's no way I'm going TWENTY rows back to my seat. Especially now that a line is actually forming behind me of other people who want to potty too!

Gotta pee. Gotta pee.

Five minutes pass. I hear a flush from inside the little room. Good, any moment now...

Nope. Not yet. Another five minutes squeaks by. Another flush. More silence and nobody comes out. I debate knocking politely on the door to let them know that people are waiting out here. I mean, there wasn't anybody in line when they went in - so maybe they're just staring in the mirror popping their pimples or something. Maybe they don't know people are waiting...

I'll wait a little longer. Gotta pee. Gotta pee.

Five more minutes. A third flush. No one comes out. You've got to be kidding me! Okay, this pregnant chick has really REALLY gottta pee!!!

I'm mentally debating the potentially adverse effects of just going right here in the front row of business class. Hmmm, but that might get me banned from flying these friendly skies. Rather skip that possible repercussion. What's a girl to do?

I finally reach over and knock.

Tap. Tap. Tap. (Okay, maybe it was a little harder than tapping... but honestly, if it were me, and I were in there giving myself a facial while some hapless passenger did the potty dance outside, I'd want to know that I was holding up the line.)

Like magic, a flight attendant pops his head from around the kitchen area with a big scowl.

"Lady, you can't do that!!!" he snaps. Like I'd just tampered with a smoke detector or something truly horrendous.

"Excuse me?" I asked, turning sideways in case he'd missed my belly.

"It doesn't matter if you're pregnant, you can't rush the person in there," he bellowed. "I wouldn't let someone knock on the door if YOU were in there!!!!"

"If I were thoughtlessly holding up a bathroom line for 15 minutes, I certainly HOPE you'd knock on the door and let me know people were waiting!" I replied.

Remind me, since when did knocking on a bathroom door become a federal offense? Of course, there are so many new offenses these days, I may have missed one or two.

"You still can't do that, lady!!" he snipped back.

Dude calm down. I'm not a terrorist. I'm just a pregnant chick who really needs to pee. Take a Valium and sign up for a customer service refresher course. There is no bomb. This is not an emergency. Although if you keep preventing me from getting to the toilet, the mess on the floor might reach disastrous proportions!

The lady inside finally exited, meandering out without any apology or air of concern.

I rushed inside. Navigating a belly belt, maternity jeans AND my belly, I was still out in under a minute and a half.

Back at my seat, the rude attendant strolled by and paused, with the repeated comment that "you really can't do that to people". Right. But apparently it's perfectly acceptable for you to beleaguer me about it?

Then he offered me a beverage. I could hardly keep a straight face.

"No, thank you, sir. I believe that if I accept a beverage, I might actually need to use your restroom again. And we obviously wouldn't want THAT!"

Sheesh.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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sleep? what's that?...

And there's still two and a half months to go before Munchkin arrives.

Oh goody.

For the past two weeks I've been waking up several times a night. This week it's gotten downright unbearable. No baby to nurse yet, no diapers to change. Constant exhaustion and mental sludge.

You'd think I'd be napping like CRAZY.

Nope. Not this delighted insomniac.

Every morning I'm wide awake in the wee hours (in addition to several other times throughout the night, not counting about five sleepwalking trips to the potty every night). Today I actually went to the office and started writing on my work projects at 3 AM. Anything's better than staring for hours at a black ceiling. Especially when you're too big and awkward to toss and turn to help the hours pass by.

I suppose I should console myself that I got massive amounts of work accomplished before the sun came up. Yay for me.

But then I just glanced in the mirror and got reminded that my zit-face is back en force.

Self-congratulation ended.

I think it's been about three years since I found out I was pregnant. But I might should double check the calendar to be sure.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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those women I used to make fun of...

I used to really think some women were idiots.

You know the kind - where the smallest thing happens and they just turn into helpless, defenseless creatures that must be waited upon hand and foot.

I thought they were dumb.

I was never EVER going to be helpless. I could change my own oil, fix a flat tire, drive a stick shift, cook a scrumptious dinner, sew my own clothes, change my own light bulbs and tie a mean Trucker's Slipknot.

No way was anything, including pregnancy, going to transform me into a waddling, bed-ridden, damsel in distress who needed things lifted/carried/remembered or anything else.

I had no sympathy for people who started sentences only to drop off slack-jawed halfway through. No compassion for those who snapped their fingers in hopes of sparking a memory of that name or telephone number that just mentally vanished.

And zero patience for anyone who moved slower, thought clumsier, functioned with less self-discipline or somehow just couldn't keep up.

I mean, I tried to be polite about it and all... But deep down inside, those people drove me batty.

Then I got pregnant. The brain that once stored dozens of faces, names, telephone numbers, email addresses? The body that once trotted to the gym several days a week for grueling one-hour workouts?

Brain = bowl of mushy oatmeal. Some days with green fuzzies growing on top.

Body = three-toed jungle sloth. Can't bend over without grabbing onto something. Must take time to carry the lightest loads.

Ridiculous.

Is this really me? Oh yeah baby.

Funny how life has ways of turning our arrogance on its ear and hitting the spin cycle. I no longer laugh at those who can't keep up with my old pace. Oh right, that's cause I can't keep up with my old self these days.

For those of you who haven't been pregnant yet, and think I'm just whining pointlessly - you just wait. I always told myself that I would just mind-over-matter and push right through anything my body threw at me. I wouldn't give in to being sick. I wouldn't go all mushy and helpless.

But you really don't know how your body's going to react until you're in the middle. You might think you can keep up the pace, but then maybe you won't. You might think you can keep working right up until the baby's born, but you might draw the lucky bedrest card.

If I believed in karma, I'd say karma's having a good laugh.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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to those of you...

... who just adore being pregnant:

I'm really happy for you.

My mom never had a day of morning sickness with me. I have good friend who says that if her belly hadn't been growing, she'd never have known she was pregnant. No nausea, no extreme exhaustion. No overwhelming hormonal fluctuations.

But then I've met dozens of women who had pregnancies like mine - or worse. I know one OB-GYN doctor who was on bedrest with an IV drip for nourishment for the entire length of her pregnancies. I've talked to women who threw up several times a day every day for months on end, lost 10 or 20 or 30 pounds from their normal weight, and couldn't eat any regular food.

Some women can't drink plain water without vomiting (I'm one of those). Then the challenges of hydration cause other complications because they're left with the choices of dairy, high calorie juices, or carbonated sugary sodas - none of which are ideal sources of liquid.

And then there are those who got gorgeous hair, flawless skin and just beamed their way through the entire experience. I'm happy for you...

I'll find my comfort in other places - like the fact that my doctor's mantra is that the sicker you are during the pregnancy, the healthier the baby is likely to be. :)

And hey, for the past little while, it has been pretty good. I think I got two whole weeks of that famed 2nd trimester energy spurt.

Thank you, God, for letting that energy come during the week I had to move our entire household while my husband was out of the country - that was a tremendous blessing!

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

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