(From my phone’s notepad, and quoted in a previous post, but it makes me laugh, so here it is again):
I would pay $100 for diarrhea.
I can’t let that sentence go away, even though I know Nuv is super disgusted with me and by me, the more I loiter around it. Seriously, I’ll let you use your imaginations as to why I would make this revolting deal with the devil. You just have to wait and see how your bowels get so possessive about your shit. And I had no idea this would be the case. So, this is, what, Lesson 374? Eat as many prunes and blueberries and beans as you can handle, because even then, it won’t be enough. And take good reading material into the bathroom with you, and be prepared to be patient, because the alternative is hemmorhoids, the most terrifying 11 letter word on the planet. I would rather serve the rest of this pregnancy in a maximum security prison on Mars then have them.
Mar 19 (Week 13)
Today I feel like a regular person.
Hang on there, did you feel that sharp corner being turned? Mid-March life was starting to resemble something not entirely unholy. I could cook, eat and smell. So, so wonderful. And hours could pass at a time where I would forget I was pregnant. And then frantically look through my baby book to make sure feeling “okay” wasn’t a bad thing. The emotional see-saw was dizzying and confusing, and non-stop entertainment for the rational thinking part of my brain, long since banished to the cellar with some old issues of Esquire and a tall glass of “You’re WRONG.”
On our way to a weekend in Victoria to visit family and friends, the MD office called to give us the scary (aka genetic) test results. Everything was fine. I’m not that old, but once in my 30s I knew full well the chances of things going awry did increase. This test coming back meant I could scream to the whole world (aka Facebook) that the bubs was here and perfect and I could gather more congratulations and praise and rub them all over me like a perfect body lotion composed of hugs and kisses. It was the final hurdle for my worrying brain to clear; it was a great weekend.
First leg cramp last night.
So far, the one and only I’ve ever had. It made me instinctively kick out like a horse as I lay in bed, and the brief spasm of pain was so intense I’d rather not mention it ever again.
Zit week last week.
This is pretty self-explanatory. My chin and forehead was 16 while my uterus was a grown up. Fair.
The reality of the situation created spots in front of my eyes sometimes. Mom, baby, newborn baby, head squeezing out vagina, sleep, goodbye sleep, we have nothing, we have to move, we will be three, not two, this is the last May 1 I will not be a Mom. Then, the slow inclinations transforming me into my own Mother slowly bubbled up. Me, a former very laissez-faire, hard to offend, live-and-let-live gal, saw a flyer for a band called Dying Fetus, and flinched. If left unchecked, this slow burn into my Mother would turn into an outright apartment fire – suddenly I won’t “get” Family Guy, I’ll fall asleep halfway through movies, then pop awake right at the end demanding to know “what did I miss?” and will be ultra suspicious of “wireless internet.”
And how careful should I be? I don’t know. Can you BE too careful when you’re a bicycle built for two? I let a cold run its course, medication-free, for the first time in my life (a full seven days of fuuuuuuuuuuck.) I used to sit on bare mall toilet seats, comfortably, all devil may care about the possibility of germs. And I am not a squeamish person by nature, unless it involves watching surgeries on TLC during dinner (MOM!). But now, oh but now. If there was a toilet seat cover within spitting distance, I would have laid half the pack down like the princess and the pee. Because I’d be damned if I became the first case of having a driplet of stranger piss evaporate up my vagina and cause some type of facial infection on my kid, so that it came out glowing bright yellow with six fangs and blood red eyes. Even my patron saint mother-in-law would have difficulties snuggling that bub without gagging or wearing protective body gear.
Today I sneezed and a little pee squirted out.
Lesson 80 - Panty liners are your close friend and confidante. And really, when you see a friend get accidentally whipped in the face with a whip bought in the parking lot of the Taj Mahal, I think a small squirt of pee in your pants is totally worth the great laugh that accompanies it.
Next installment – getting practical and ruing the day I didn’t properly research midwives.