Posts Tagged ‘
pregnancy perks ’
Monday, January 28th, 2013
38 weeks/9 months
While wrapping up an interview with a psychologist for a pregnancy related article I’m writing, I kept coming back to her advice, “Just like a good wife never complains about her husband, a good mother never complains about her pregnancy.”
I’ve often heard that saying in regards to husbands, it’s one I subscribe to, but I’ve never heard it applied to pregnancy before.
With my pregnancy nearing the end and this unique opportunity to chronicle so many aspects of pregnancy, I can’t get her words out of my head.
I think back to the posts I’ve written and the way I’ve captured pregnancy and I hope that while honest and humorous, it’s also been positive.
There are only so many times a woman is pregnant in a lifetime and it seems cavalier, even detrimental to spend it complaining.
While some may find it arguable, I think it true, a good mother never complains about her pregnancy. Not because it’s easy or she’s being inauthentic, but because like with a marriage, what good comes from it?
The thing is pregnancy is finite. Not even a year in the long span of years we call a life.
Sure, this is the hard part. At 37 weeks, it’s uncomfortable, it’s mentally tough, physically excruciating at times but then, before I realize, the miracle will be over and there is nothing like the miracle of pregnancy.
I am truly grateful to be pregnant. I will miss this belly.
There are a limited number of times a mother feels her baby kick. There are a limited number of times a mother watches her body grow a baby. There are a limited number of times a mother gets to hold her new infant for the first time. These are the moments I want to remember.
All I’ve wanted to do is focus on the things I like about pregnancy. I’ve been afraid to openly say, “I love pregnancy” because I care too much what people think of me. “She’s annoying.” “She’s naive.” “She’s hormonal.” “She’s not being real.” “Her pregnancies are easy”…etc. But I don’t care anymore.
I am a woman who loves pregnancy.
For me, pregnancy is the grandest example of the body’s amazing capacity to grow life and the soul’s ability to love someone without ever meeting.
While this may be the last time I am pregnant, I hope that it is not. Regardless of what happens in the future, I want it written, documented, remembered, the things I love about pregnancy:
Baby kicks. The feeling of a life, a being, a healthy little babe inside of me is something I wish I could box up and save for the rainiest of days. It cannot be recreated and it is hard to conjure when pregnancy is over, but it is the most incredible sensation.
A constant companion. I love the fact that where ever I go, she goes. She’s with me day and night, sharing secret indulgences, silent tears, and sweet movements. To carry her is to love her.
Talking baby. I love discussing the new addition with family, friends, and even strangers. I love discussing how excited we are to meet her and hearing thoughtful congratulations. Babies are to be celebrated and the best way I know how is to talk about how much we already love her.
My husband falling in love with our baby. His worries indicate just how much he already loves our daughter. He’s protective and thoughtful. There are few things more beautiful than a man loving his children.
Envisioning our future family. I am hopeful when I think of our future. I look forward to the noise and chaos of multiple children. I welcome milestones and find fulfillment in the thought of trying to raise happy, helpful, compassionate children.
Picturing my daughters together. I find so much joy in at the thought of my daughters loving each other. Their shared kisses and toys and secrets is one of the things I look forward to the most.
As I’ve focused more on the things I like about pregnancy, I’ve realized how much their really is to love about it.
Image: My 37 week, full term belly
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Monday, November 19th, 2012
28 weeks/6 months
My baby is the size of a head of cauliflower, my uterus is the size of a basketball, our pets heads are falling off! Ladies and gentlemen, we’re officially in the third trimester. Let’s all stand up and give it a well-deserved slow clap.
This means it’s countdown time. Okay, maybe that’s a little premature, but I’ll be honest, the third trimester is my favorite. Sure, it’s the most brutal, but it brings me closer to the end, which means I’m one step closer to snuggling a fresh baby from heaven.
Maybe I’m crazy for loving the third trimester. I mean, let’s look at the facts and let them speak for themselves.
The first trimester is marked by bloating and nausea but it pales in comparison to the excitement of discovering you’re pregnant and telling your people you’re having a baby. Plus, reacquainting yourself with shiny hair and superior nail growth is always a win.
The second trimester usually gets the best rep and it’s noteworthy “go tell it on the mountain” characteristics include an energy resurgence along with belly be poppin’ and booty be poppin’ adorableness. Basically, it’s the trimester that makes a girl feel like Beyoncé. “All the ladies if you feel me help me sing it out…”
The third trimester is characterized by what feels like and quite possibly could be, the jolliest and fattest Santa sitting in the ol’ uterus. Phrases like mucus plug, leaky breasts, dilatation nation, start to enter your vocabulary. Sexy time gets awkwardly creative as you progress from the more manageable fruit and veggie comparisons (cauliflower) to the more daunting, and unbelievable, pumpkin and watermelon. You’re on level red severe risk of stretch mark attacks and suffering from a serious case of waist envy. Most important of all, it’s impossible to dance Gangnam style with your toddler without peeing your pants from all the super classy jumping around. Have I sold you on trimester tres yet? Yes? Nailed it.
Despite all of the above “pleasantries” this last part is my favorite because all of it just brings me closer to a baby. It’s all part of the “having a baby” deal and I’m okay with turning into (for a limited time) a blubbering bowling ball filled with gas. Hit me with your best shot, third trimester. Bring on the hemorrhoids, the Braxton Hicks, and the belly gawking and belly droppin’. This mama bear can’t wait to meet her baby.
Image: Watermelon belly comparison via PonomarenkoNataly/Shutterstock.com
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Wednesday, November 7th, 2012
Pardon my french but they are a total witch sometimes. And by witch I mean pull the 5th grade trick and change the “w” to a “b”. Yeah, I said it.
They do a lady so wrong. They can turn even the nicest of gals (I’m looking at you Kate Middleton, you can’t be immune too because then life really isn’t fair), into the world’s nastiest grumpasarus or the largest producer of saltwater west of the Atlantic.
Here’s a scene for you. It was a lovely Friday morning. The husband and I were at adorable Jack and Jill sinks, simultaneously brushing our teeth, our babe happily running amuck behind us, pretending to brush her teeth as well. Picturesque. Then the Rands had the audacity to say, “What are your plans for today? I don’t know what you guys are up to.”
What the h? Enter dramatic, hurtful tears. I mean how could he? Is it just me or is that an obviously insensitive question? Oh, it’s just me. And my hormones. Poor guy. He didn’t see it coming.
Fact: I have always been a crier. It is my go-to emotion and now with pregnancy, we’ve got sad tears, happy tears, endless tears.
Last week, when some crazy goat lady overly chastised my daughter at the state fair and threatened to spank her, (for doing little wrong, legitimately, I’m not being biased, she was just trying to give your goats a little hay ma’am), I just started to bawl. The mama bear in me wishes I would have said something just as rude to the lady but no, my hormones made me want to turn into a second-grader, crying giant, big, pathetic tears and uttering unintelligible sentences between sobs. Luckily, we kept our dignity intact by walking away and letting the goat lady sort through what I’m hoping was just a crazy hormonal surge as well.
Another fact: I am a dam waiting to burst. Just one television commercial away from losing it at any moment. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had to pause Grey’s Anatomy because my husband can’t hear over my blubbering. And don’t even get me started on Parenthood. In addition to parental warnings, they need pregnancy warnings on television shows. But then again, who knows what sets a pregnant lady off. I never knew there was more to The Voice than Christina Aguilera’s ample bosom but now, that show moves me…to tears, obviously.
Whether your hormones require you to be pre-emptively incarcerated like a wolfman or a blubbering ball of wasteless space, dem hormones, they real. With my now nightly surge of hormones, cravings, and feelings, I’m pretty certain I’m keeping the cereal companies afloat. Those Lucky Charms really are magically delicious when I need to eat my pregnant feelings.
The thing about hormones is they always feel so real. I mean, even if you know you’re being a crazy lady (I’m looking at you goat lady) you still feel angry, hurt, pissed, TO’ed what have you, and it’s hard to talk you down. I think my feelings about hormones could be best expressed by the 1980s power ballad, “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore” because it speaks to my moody soul. I can’t fight these hormonal feelings anymore.
The silver lining in all of these hormonal outbursts? My daughter and I have plenty of applicable material for discussions about feelings and understanding the different reasons people cry. Yes, Harper, I’m crying because dad finished off all the Lucky Charms…
Image: Wolfman via Christos Georghiou/Shutterstock.com
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Friday, November 2nd, 2012
If peeing your pants were an Olympic sport, I’d be Michael Phelps. I’m serious, people would line up to endorse me. I’d like to openly brag that my daily record has reached a new personal best, 4 times. I know Bob Costas is about to dial up my digits to schedule my heartwarming montage video/interview of humble beginnings to peeing champion. I’m ready for my closeup, Bob.
Prior to birthing a baby, I didn’t have the best non-pants wetting record anyway (just not a talent I was blessed with). Enter birthing a baby, and all bets were off that I’d be able to keep dry all day. Now, post-birthing a baby and what I can only assume is the little lady sitting on my bladder laughing uproariously as she causes me to pee every nanosecond, I have no hope of a pants free of pee day. Jokes on me for thinking adulthood is a sure bet when it comes to bladder control. I will never make fun of a Depends commercial again.
I felt like such a hypocrite potty training my daughter when really, I’m the one who needs to be trained. She loves to tell me she’s a big girl because she goes potty in the toilet. I’m not really sure what that makes me then. Definitely not the boss of my toddler since among other things, she schools me in bladder control everyday.
I understand now that the monster of a nagger I became during potty training stemmed from my shortcomings as a pee-er. I’d literally ask her every 15 minutes if she had to go to the bathroom because well, I did. Birthing babies and pregnancy made me completely incapable of remembering how long a normal, non-pregnant, kegel strong, individual can hold their pee. 3 hours? 4? Those seemed like such unattainable goals. Memo to me, memo to me, for future potty training attempts, do not do so while pregnant.
Let’s clarify, when I say “pee my pants” I’m not letting a river run down my leg multiple times a day. By my definition, peeing my pants can mean a few things. It means a dastardly trace amount trickles out when I do any activity that engages my pee muscles (read: dancing, running, talking, breathing). It means the tricky trickle that escapes after I thought I was all done going to the bathroom, did my hygienic duties, hiked up my trousers (with stretchy waist of course) and naively believed I was fresh and clean. Let it be known that the bladder has a leaky mind of its own and is no respecters of trousers.
Peeing my pants can also mean overestimating the amount of time I can hold it until I actually get to the bathroom and no matter how much potty dancing, sitting on my foot, or bending at my mid-section while clenching my booty together, can stop the flow from sneaking out before I get to the toilet. Oh, the glamorous life of a pregnant lady.
I have no shame about it anymore. How can I? I pee when I sneeze, I pee when I laugh, I pee when I pass gas. Bless my husband’s heart for learning to sleep through my nighttime groggy, stupor of a shuffle to the porcelain throne. And by bless his heart I mean, he’s a lucky son of a gun there’s no baby dancing on his bladder, interrupting his slumber.
Since writing down my deep thoughts on pee, I’ve peed twice. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions whether I was able to make it in time to the toilet or not. I never knew that staying dry was such a luxury before pregnancy and birth. Now, trying not to pee my pants? That “ish is cray” as the young kids say. I am an optimist, however. I’m six weeks clean of pooping my pants…but that’s an over-share for another day. The toilet beckons.
Image: Potty Cartoon via Cartoonresource/Shutterstock.com
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Friday, October 12th, 2012
22 weeks/5 months
While at the park the other day, I caught myself staring at another mom’s chest. Now before you denounce me a creeper, let me explain. I was admiring her bosoms. That didn’t make it any better did it? I’m really not some sort of pervert, just a pregnant lady looking forward to having a little bit of rack back.
My chesticles have always been on the less endowed side and it’s never bothered me before, but after nursing did an unkind number on mah girls, I’ve been missing them dearly. Nursing for a year completely robbed them of any type of A-cup status they were trying to pull off. I mean they weren’t just flapjacks after breastfeeding, they were concave!
Nursing is so rough on the boobies. Just when you think pregnancy can’t make them any bigger, a miracle of Biblical proportions occurs and they become functioning dairy farms the size of Kilimanjaro overnight. And then they deflate. They go from boobies to droopies before your very eyes. And let’s not get into the plethora of bras necessary to house those shape-shifting fun bags and the cash money that must be parted with so Oprah doesn’t give you a bra intervention.
No, I don’t need my milkshake to bring all the boys to the yard, but I do need a reason to force me to put a bra on in the morning because most days, social convention just ain’t strong enough. I also don’t want to be Dolly Parton or have people secretly admiring my breastesses while they’re supposed to be innocently playing at the park (such a double standard I have).
I do want to feel like a woman and not my seventh-grade self who only donned a bra because I was the lone wolf in the girls’ locker room without one. I want to feel like a woman dangit, because between my daughter’s erroneous trajectory of pee and being her personal booger-blowing handkerchief, sometimes being a mom ain’t sexy. I just want to enjoy some decolletage for awhile before they become another babe’s playground. Is that too much to ask? Sure, they may be covered in human byproducts but at least I have cleavage to cover in human byproducts.
I’m petitioning you to pardon my admiration of another mom’s ladylicious chest, because my growing girlfriends mean I feel more like a woman and less like a teenage mother.
While I’m still young and pregnant and the boobs aren’t a milk factory or saggers and draggers yet, I’m reveling in what those of us who suffer from booblessness like to think is actual cleavage. At 22 weeks, that ain’t much, but I’m dreaming of bigger and better bosoms that will maybe make the 9th month of pregnancy sexier than the grannie panties and elephant brassiere I’ll inevitably be sporting.
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