THE Labor & Delivery Story, Part One

Alright, alright, alright! You've asked for it repeatedly and I'm here to, you guessed it, deliver...hehehehe. I gave birth to our son, Lucas Decklyn on September 19th. He was one week early (and technically five weeks late if you kept up with my bed rest saga) and there is no other word to describe him other than 'perfect'. Even with blow-out dirty diapers and slobber fo' dayyyyys. Also, apparently I'm one of those moms. The ones that take 700 pictures of their baby within an hour. The ones that can't have a normal discussion with adults unless it's about baby poop, puke, sleeping schedules, or breastfeeding.The ones that we used to make complete fun of before we joined the club. The ones who don't shower for days and don't realize it, or even realize what day it actually is. But before I discovered I was one of "them", I had to get Luke here. And how he got here is nothing short of drama, extreme profanity, and simply the most gross thing I've ever experienced in my life--and I've experienced a classroom full of 10 year olds after recess on a 90 degree day. 

What you are about to read will either confirm what you already knew about me or will change your opinion regarding my less-than choir girl personality. There is no way to describe my labor story without keeping it real because quite simply, SHIT. GOT. REAL. I'll try to keep it as clean as I can (you never know who may read my words and I make a negative impact, I mean, I do still have a day job). But, I'm not sugar coating any of the story. Read on if you wish; just remember, I warned you. 

February 2015: First OB appointment to confirm pregnancy. Baby is measuring a few days ahead of schedule. I go ahead and convince myself on this day that clearly he'll be big and I'll need a C-section. I wanted to go ahead and book the surgeon. 

July-mid August: I'm only interested in hearing labor stories from other moms who had C-sections, nevermind the fact that Dr. Gospodnetic has ne-VER uttered the word to us. 

Mid August-Week 38: Sporadic contractions continue, we plan to be induced Thursday, September 24. And by induced, I thought, "Oh okay, go in and push for 10 mintues, then move me to the OR and take my kid out for me". Easy breezy. 

Saturday, September 19th, 9:00am : I'm wide awake. I haven't slept at night in about a week. I move from the bed to the living room. Get the Kindle and read a bit. Watch TV for a bit. Try unsuccessfully for a nap. We talk about going somewhere and doing something, but we are afraid that the baby will come so we decide to stay put and be bored to tears. 

1:30pm: Because it's my last week of eating ridiculously out of control and blaming it on the pregnancy, I want a meat lovers pizza. So we get it. And I eat it. And it made all my pizza dreams come true.

2:30pm: I take 2 stool softeners. I haven't pooped in days. Weeks. YEARS. 

3:55pm: Maybe some chocolate will help. I go to the bathroom, head to the kitchen to get a popsicle. Mike heads out to the store. I unwrap my popsicle, throw the wrapper away. Head to the living room and sit down on the sofa. 

4:00pm: The popsicle is literally in mid-stride to my mouth, just centimeters away, when all of a sudden there is a "SHABOOSH" and warm, wet something leaks out of me and soaks my drawers and shorts. Holy shit balls, did my water just break? Am I ruining my sofa? We just bought this! We can't afford a new sofa! People will just have to sit on my amniotic-fluid soaked cushion from here on out because this sectional ain't going anywhere for awhile now. Maybe I just peed myself? No. I just went to the bathroom. I read somewhere that you can tell the difference between pee and "water breaking" by smelling it. Pee is sour, amniotic fluid has no smell or is sometimes sweet. I stand, drop my undies and shorts because EW, and walk like I've been riding a horse for a month to the bathroom. 

Okay, it's clear. But my pee is sometimes clear? Shit. I thought there'd be more? I can't sit on the toilet and check anything. If it was my water breaking, shouldn't I have pain? Isn't my kid's head supposed to be like poking out down there now? What if I sneeze and he shoots out into the toilet? I bend over and take a whiff of my shorts. No smell. So, not pee? WTF is happening??

4:02pm: I call Mike and let him know he may want to whip it back around to the house because we got action. God only knows the people he caused to wreak or how many laws he's used to enforcing that he broke on the way home. Meanwhile...

I knew I should've taken a damn shower this morning. This means I won't be able to shower for days and all my pictures are going to have shitty hair. I brush my teeth, put on the "go" outfit (see below, taken approximately 10 minutes after the water breakage!) and linger around the bedroom checking for stuff I may have forgotten in my bag. Mike is sweating like a warthog in the middle of the African desert. We've had our bags packed for a week, but he's literally throwing shit into his bags like the house is on fire. We head into the kitchen and it's time for me to leave Rudy. I squat down to his level and start to cramp pretty badly. Which means this is really happening...and when I come home, it won't ever be the same. Which makes me burst into tears and suffocate my dog all the while apologizing to him and begging him to not hate me when I got back. 

5:05pm: We make it to the hospital in a ridiculously short amount of time. Luckily, I'm only having moderate period-like cramping. Enough to walk in on my own and tour my room. And ask about menus and checking out the snack center. My nurse swabs my fluid to send it off to the lab to confirm I'm in labor before my doc comes in. I get cozy. 

6:05pm: The cramping gets worse. My lab work comes back in and says I'm NOT in labor. Excuse me? I have a puddle of baby liquid floating on my sofa at home and these cramps are not lying. I am NOT leaving this place with this kid in me!! 

7:05pm: My doctor comes in a takes a look at the action that may or may not be happening downstairs. She agrees to not send me home quite yet; but she doesn't put me in the "active labor" category that is apparently the coveted status of all pregnant people. She suggests Mike and I go walk around the unit to perhaps get things on the go. We head out and before I can even make it down the front hall, something snaps and it feels like I've been hit in the gut by a baseball bat. I double over in pain and tell Mike there's no way I'm going anywhere except back to my room. 

So here's the thing. When you're in labor, things are contracting. And not just your uterus. The place that's been holding all my stored up poop for months starts to release the super glue grip it's had on me. Oh, and lest we not forget the 2 stool softeners I had earlier. I have in my will that should I go into labor and can't communicate, #1-do everything possible to get the baby out and #2-do not let me poop during labor. I don't really have a will. But everyone close to me, including my nurses, knew that I could do anything needed to help my kid, but I refused to poop during labor. And if by chance it did happen, I required a blood signature stating that it would never be spoken of again. 

I make it back to my room and go straight to the bathroom. I've heard people, especially men, say that the greatest feeling other than an orgasm is the first pee post-orgasm. I can promise you I did not have an orgasm, but I pooped the greastest poop in the history of mankind. Not to be crude, but okay, this is totally crude, it was the most I've ever pooped in my entire life. I was convinced I had already given labor from just sitting on the toilet. I wanted to weigh myself. And that's saying something when a 39 week pregnant lady WANTS to get on the scale. It was phenomenal. 

My joy was brief, as about 10 minutes after the farewell to the pizza, the cramping went from moderate to knock-you-down. I couldn't sit still, as squirming was the only way to bring me some sort of relief. I started watching the clock and realized my contractions were not even making it five minutes apart. Where in the name of all that is holy is the doctor and blessed EPIDURAL?! Did they miss my shirt? Because I'm pretty damn sure this kid is ripe. 

About this time is when the shaking starts. I'm talking like, Jack and Rose floating in the ocean shaking. The nurse tells me it's from all the adrenaline or something, I'm not really listening. I just know Mike keeps asking me if I'm cold and bless his heart, I want to set fire to every blanket within a 10-foot radius. 

7:45pm: My doctor comes in and checks me again. 4 cm dilated. Where did you get your medical degree? Are these measurements in English? Or customary yada yada yada? Or metric?  I'm sure I've passed centimeters an hour ago and it's the circumference of an elephant's head down there. And last time I checked, I AM NOT AN ELEPHANT. As soon as she puts her hand in, the same warm rush I felt at 4:00 happens again and I soak the bed. It's official, the REST of my water broke and she puts me in active labor. Bitch, I've been in active labor for like seven hours. Where the everloving Jesus is my epidural?! 

The pain is too much for me to talk more than a word or two at a time by this point. My nurse tells me they've put an order in for my epidural. She also tells me there are 8 other women on my floor in active labor. I don't give a flying monkey how many women in the WORLD there are, I just need this pain to go away. WHY WASN'T THIS ORDERED IN FEBRUARY WHEN I FOUND OUT I WAS PREGNANT?! I will never complain about period cramps again. Wait, can't they just take out everything when they grab the baby? Any cramp-inducing part down there needs to be extracted!

8:30pm: I start trying to come up with little things to try to distract me from the pain, which is crazy-intense and is happening about 2 minutes apart. I count ceiling tiles. I try to come up with names for every letter of the alphabet. I can't be still. I've got the sheets wrapped up between my legs and I'm squeezing them together whenever a contraction hits. I also find that every time I squeeze, a little pee comes out. Possibly other things too. And I don't even carrrre. 

I never had lamaze, but all I kept saying to myself was "breathe" over and over. I remember the movie Knocked-Up. I remember thinking, "Why is this chick screaming like that? Is she being over-dramtic or what?!" No. She was NOT. Katherine, I feel you. I think my robe has come undone and I think my boobs are out. If Mike asks me one more time if I'm okay, I'm going to rip the side of this bed off and throw it in his face! I can't do this. I can't do this! Yes you can. Jamie's sister in 'Outlander' gave birth in her bedroom with no medicine and no doctors. But she had whiskey. WHERE THE F*@! IS MY EPIDURAL?! Is there a mini fridge in this room? Can somebody get me a shot? If 1700's women got drunk during labor, then I might as well. SINCE NOBODY IN THIS MOTHER LOVING HOSPITAL CAN GET ME AN EPIDURAL. Melanie from Gone With the Wind did this in her bed. In Atlanta. In the middle of summer. Why did they all have on long sleeves? I'm in AC and am half naked but my blood is literally boiling, I'm positive!

Count to 10. 1. 2. 3. F*@! thisssssss. I moan. Out loud. It's official. I'm one of those dramatic laboring women. They can't get me my meds, I'm going to let them hear about it. IN ALASKA!!!! What number was I on? 17? 18. 16. 12. 2- The nurse comes back in to tell me the epidural is on the way. I ask her "how long" (at least I think I say something along those lines, I lost all coherent speech capabilities 900 contractions ago.) She tells me 45 minutes. 45 mother f*@!king minutes? Get the hell out of here. GET OUT. What kind of place is this? What is happening. Does this kid have teeth already? Because it literally feels like he's ripping my insides out. Breathe. Breathe.

9:30pm: I'm on my side and basically making out with the railing with the fancy tech stuff on it. There are buttons in the shape of a triangle. I can't read them because I can't focus enough to, but those buttons are what I stare at. There is no relief now, so it must be time. I'm just in one big, never-ending contraction. I can't do this. I can't. I figure the only way to get out of this situation is to talk to the one person who got me into it in the first place. Dear God, I. Can't. Do. SQUUUUEEEEZZZEEE. This. I-I-...I'm in so much pain I can't even string together a prayer. For some reason I think about Kelly in 90210 (I must have been delirious at this point) and I remember when she was in the fire and started reciting the Lord's Prayer. If Kelly, who we all hated, could talk to God, then surely I can too. Our father, who art in heaven.. Is it are? Or is it art? GOD, I CAN'T REMEMBER THE REST OF THE PRAYER!!! Help me, Jesus, God, Buddha, Santa, whoever is out there and can hear me, help a sistah out. I can't do this. I can't. Seal him in. I'll be pregnant forever. 

10:00pm: I don't remember much after I failed at life and couldn't even say the one prayer in the world even atheists know. I just remember it was pain so severe I couldn't function. My nurse comes in to tell me the man is just down the hall and is coming to do my epidural. She needs me to sit up on the side of the bed. Bitch are you trippin? I can't lift my hand, much less my body. And who gives a shit about the meds now? You all were supposed to prevent me from having this pain. I might as well keep going without. Wait, what am I saying? Am I talking out loud? Stop. Come back. Come back! I can do it. I can! Give me the meds. Oh, I didn't say it out loud because I can't talk. With the help of my nurse, she redresses me and somehow by miracle, I get sat up on the edge of the bed. 

Then this man walks in. A MAN. Are you effing kidding me? Who sends a male in here at this point? He's doing the epidural? He's sticking a needle into my spine? What does he know about this? HELP. ME. Jesus, I know I forgot the prayer. But if you are out there and can hear me, can you hear me? I'm trying to think REALLY LOUD because I REALLY need your help. Keep me calm. I've got to get this kid out. They obviously don't know what they are doing so it's up to me. Help me. I can do this. I can! 

The guy comes behind me and tells me he needs me to sign something. Get the F*@! outta my face. I can't hold a pen right now! Are you joking? The nurse takes my hand and somehow throws some sort of scribble on the sheet. He tells me to sit as straight up as  I can and to be extra still. Impossible, you jackass. I'm in the middle of giving birth to a field of watermelons. It can't be just one in there. They missed the second embryo on all the ultrasounds. I've got Godzilla pushing out of my body and you want me to be still? I hate you. I HATE you! I guess I couldn't do what he needed me to, because the next thing I know is this guy is saying, "Kristin, I really need you to sit still so I can get this into you and give you some relief". Mildly attractive man, I REALLY need you to try and push a tennis ball out of your penis and then come and tell me to sit still. Only then will you understand the true hell I'm in. I don't know how long this process actually takes and I also don't know the horror of nasty things I said to this gentlemen, but I know it worked. Somehow, some way, deep down inside of me, I found the strength to be still long enough for it to kick in.   

10:45pm: I wish I could describe the pain leaving my body. As quickly as it came on, it quickly started to go away. It was like my contractions were coming back and I could get some relief between them. There were angels singing. Choirs rejoicing. (Although I don't know why, I forgot the prayer, for cryin' out loud).  They sent Mike out before the guy got there to administer the epidural. After 45 minutes of pure torture, they let him in. I fixed my new no-pee-pee sheet like a sickly old southernly woman and turned the bed clothes down nice and neat, nevermind that 15 minutes before I was withering away in pain and begging the Lord to take me but save my baby. It had come to that. I try to do something with my drenched head, but realize like my modesty, sanity, and ability to do this ever again, it's a lost cause. Mike walks in and I'm a different person. There is no pain. I'm flipping through channels and thinking about what I want for a midnight snack. I could smoke a cigarette and I don't even smoke. I finally calmed down enough for my doctor to come back in and recheck me. I'm assuming she does her shove-in but at this point, bombs could've been going off around my cookie and I wouldn't have felt a thing. 

With one arm hidden under the sheet, she grins up at me. "You're at 10 cm! Let's PUSH!"...FML.

**The saga continues in my next post, "THE Labor & Delivery, Part Two (& the first week home!)** Stay tuned. 

Not Ready to be Not Pregnant

A month ago, I left you with the burning saga of me being put on "bed rest" at Week 33, with the imminent arrival of my kid set to happen at any moment. 

Here I am at Week 38...at the end of the final season of Will & Grace, waddling around in my granny panties on a diet of stool softeners and Caffeine-Free Pepsi, and you guessed it, NO KID. I'm basically a retired 70 year old. 

People who say teachers don't do anything need to be body slammed and punched in the throat. I'd made it through half of the third trimester with NO PROBLEMS, went back to work for two days, and basically started premature labor. Taking me out of work has been quite a challenge for me, but it clearly saved my baby from any potentially harmful medical issues from being born too soon. The first two weeks at home were filled with busy work. We had done noth-ing, noth-ing to prepare for a newborn. Call it procrastination, call it laziness, call it us being in denial that this was actually getting ready to happen, but we had just pushed things to the end thinking we still had weeks to get stuff done. In those two weeks, I perfected the art that is online shopping. 

I'd say my retail expertise has increased from a 4 to an 9.2. I'm on a first name basis with all area UPS, USPS, and FedEx men. They've all seen me in my pajamas, or lack thereof, and with no make-up. We are pretty much a family. But let me not forget all my regulars at Food Lion in the middle of the day. Betty, Ethel, Harvey, and Cornelia. I don't know if these are actually their names or not, but it's who I shop with for an hour at 11:30 on weekdays so I named them and they are my friends. Sadly, our combined age average is 64, yet they are the ones who end up helping me take my cart back in or picking something up from the bottom of a shelf. 

This brings me to a very significant problem I've been having lately. 

I'm not sure if I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore. 

My due date is September 26, next Saturday. I've been going to my doctor once a week since mid-August and for 4 of those weeks, nothing had changed. I was still dilated the same, my weight stayed the same...UNDER my allowed-pregnancy-weight-gain-goal, may I add (GASP!), and we pretty much left his office each time feeling just down right pissed. How dare you tease me and make me (Mike) work like a dog for days at a time preparing for a baby who apparently doesn't want to leave the awesomeness that is my uterus!? I had even told people that I was thinking of switching doctors if we decided to do this again because of his flippant attitude here lately. Then we went to the doctor this week and my pissiness came to a grinding halt. 

When I stepped on the scale Tuesday, I had gained 4 pounds. 4. FOUR. 4 POUNDS. I mean, for the past two months I'd been eating whatever, whenever, however, and it was all well and good because every time I went in, the scale wouldn't move. My BP was excellent. All was right with the world. Then BAM! My head exploded when the number after the "1" wasn't what it had been saying, it was the next number up. Then they took my BP, which was really good, but slightly higher than what I'd been running. Then it was time for the "Shove-In Show" with the good doc, and I had dilated another centimeter. Then it was all, "let's induce you next Tuesday, if you make it that long". Um, hellllerr?? He'd been all non-nonchalant and hush-hush about my status and I'd convinced myself he was one of these hippie doctors who would just let me stay pregnant til like, Week 47, then he's says I will be taking a live human that bursts from my vagina within the week, BEFORE his due date? Shut. Up!! 

That's where we are. I'm being induced next Tuesday morning, if I even make it through the weekend. We have everything that can be possibly ready, ready. His room is ready, our house is ready. The bags are ready. GAHHHHH. So what's wrong with me?! Why am I sad about this? I thought postpartum depression was just that, POST. People are so friendly to you when you're pregnant. Everybody smiles and awws and coos at you. They lie and tell you how good you look, constantly. Who wants to be rid of that? We worked so hard for years for this, and now, it's getting ready to be taken away. I'm sure the thought just crossed your mind, "how selfish of her". And you're right; to an extent. People with fertility issues only ever say, "I can't wait to be pregnant" or "If I could only get pregnant" or "If I could only stay pregnant". For me, that was more of my mantra than, "If we could only have a baby", I guess because I was the reason we couldn't. You build yourself up on that mantra for so long, when you finally get it and it's about to be over, it's a little sad. I guess it's like what Olympians go through? They train so hard to win gold, then they do, then...well, what do they do after that? Oh, change diapers and clean up projectile vomit. That's what. 

Let's move on from "sad" to "gross". I have found something that people avoid talking about almost as much as miscarriages. And that something is hemorrhoids. I had a little dose of this condition way back in the first trimester. It passed. Not a big deal. Then over the past few days, I started to HURT. I couldn't sit, I couldn't stand. I was using the baby's Boppy to sit on on the sofa because my bum was on FIRE. I'm talking, P-A-I-N. All I kept thinking was, what am I going to do if I go into labor like this? I mean, I just learned about "ripping". Oh yes, the ripping. Ms. Ghee in 8th grade Health taught me how to put a condom on, but she neglected to tell me why women should avoid pregnancy all together in the first place: RIPPING AND HEMORRHOIDS. She should've shown the class pics of THAT up on the over-head projector and I can't speak for all, but THIS girl wouldn't have had to worry about penis getting anywhere NEAR her. Ever. 

When I was first made aware about ripping, I was all, "Wait, excuse me, what? It actually TEARS from that to...THAT? What? How does it go back? HOW WILL I PEE?! HOW WILL I DO...ANYTHING EVER AGAIN?! Tell me you're joking. SHUT. UP. Ew. EW. I want a C-section. I WANT A C-SECTIONNNNN, SCHEDULE IT NOW!" Then you throw this little bundle of grapes into the mix and now there's ripping and grapes exploding during my labor and PAIN, and you know what? I just can't even think about this anymore. I'm going to move on. I'm going to be positive. I'm going to FREAKING GET THIS KID OUT OF ME. With drugs. Lots and lots of miracle, numbing DRUGS. Somebody bring me my 5th grade D.A.R.E. t-shirt because I may D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs, but I sure as hell am allll about giving them to pregnant people. 

I may be scared. I may be grossed out. I may faint during labor, which is fine with me, just wake me up after they lay Bae on my chest and he stares up into my face and goes, "So you're the face of the most annoying human on the planet who clearly thinks nobody can hear her perform Reba's "Fancy" when you're in the car alone". Then I can say back to him, "HEMORRHOIDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And all will be right with our world. 

Because we truly are tickled...BLUE...about our baby's arrival, all horror and depression stories aside, I decided to share some of the awesome things his awesome parents dorked out over for his nursery. Enjoy what our baby will be staring at for the next (at least!) 18 years ;) 

My original theme (probably since the first trimester) was 'pandas'. Then, I found these pictures on Etsy and I couldn't get them out of my mind. So, Baby Star Wars nursery theme was born! We wanted something totally different from the traditional "boy". I'm obsessed with it.

 Can we just talk about this retro-classic Star Wars clock I found? It's the perfect accent over this Lego Star Wars shelf near the crib. Don't give me a theme because I will go above and beyond. Holler.

 Some of you may recognize the left picture as my childhood/teenage/young adult chester drawers. Although, you may not because it isn't covered with Jonathan Taylor Thomas/Justin Timberlake-circa blonde tips Bop magazine cut-outs. Mike Annie Sloan chalk painted the hell out of them and the right pic is the finished product. 

 I, (like my father), am a Redskins fan and Mike is a Packers fan. My dad worked as an Ambassador at the Redskins Training Camp this summer and got access to a personal autograph session. He took a onesie with him and had as many players (like, ones that actually play and are important!) sign it as possible. Then he got it framed for the nursery. This is why my kid's Papa is cooler than yours. 

As if you haven't done it enough for us over the years, please, please keep up in your prayers over the next few days. Everything is set to go smoothly, but...you know me ;) 

Straight Outta...This Body

Why hello, my long-lost readers! As it turns out, I'm way less interesting as a pregnant Kristin than a trying-to-get-pregnant Kristin. I've been more or less the same for the past few weeks with nothing new or exciting to share. Time is FLYING by; my due date is almost one month away. My hatred of all things "underwear" and "pants" is still holding steady. We had our week 33 ultrasound and check up last week and everything still looked right on target and is measuring appropriately. So why am I not at work and why am I currently writing this with my feet propped up at home, where I'll be for the next eternity until this kid makes his appearance? 

Because it's ME we're dealing with here, basically. And anything that has to do with me is going to be different from any plan that was ever put in place. That's why. 

Sunday I woke up to go to the bathroom for the 7th time in an hour only to stare down at the toilet paper post-wipe to find it covered in blood. Of the bright red variety. Every morsel of my being froze in time because the last time I checked, I'm pregnant at 34 weeks, not 4 (or 5, or 6) when I usually wipe and find RED. I had absolutely no pain or any indication that something was wrong. I called my doctor and he wasn't overly concerned. This is something common for late pregnancy, probably broken blood vessels as the cervix begins to expand and open. Um, excuse me? I have to walk around with an open CERVIX for the next month? Anything can just fall right out of that thing. I teach science. I know a thing or two about gravity. The rest of the day, I just wiped a snotty, sinus-infection type substance and no sign of any blood. It was just a random thing. 

Until Monday morning when I woke up and thought I had started my period because I was cramping. Let me just say, I'm an expert at my body and KNOW when something is out of sync. I also have a high tolerance for period pain because, not to be morbid, but I've had 4 miscarriages that squeezed outta me and a little crampy feeling down there isn't something I stress over. I called the doctor again to be safe, only to be told to come in ASAP as they were pretty darn tootin' sure I'd lost my mucus plug and the period cramps I was having were CONTRACTIONS and NOT cramps. Hold. The. Phone. 

When you hear "contractions" you think of labor. Labor isn't something I've allowed myself to think of. It's just week 34! Are you kidding me? I'm not ready for this kid. I haven't had my showers where people could sit and stare at my giant pregnant belly for an hour where I freak out over burp cloths and 75 different styles of fleece blankets. I've waited and worked extra hard to be able to reach that stage of awkwardness! And talks of mucus plugs and dilation? I was counting on at least week 37 before I had to Google Image those things. (Who am I fooling? I'd already Googled both things and let me just tell you: DON'T.) 

We head into the doctor's office and after he literally shoves his entire arm up my cookah, it is determined that I've "opened", he's "dropped", I'm a little over 1.5 cm dilated, and my contractions-not-cramps are happening about every hour. Let's go back to the "entire arm up my cookah". Being hugely preggo, that's an area that hasn't seen much action from medical professionals. I'd gotten used to having my belly Nickelodeon Slimed at every appointment. Having a hand take a dive down there isn't a pleasant feeling, ladies. I'm pretty sure if I hadn't dilated any, after that was over, I surely WAS. Jeez Louise. 

Obviously, it's a little early for this baby to come into the world. I'm actually questioning if it was really MY embryo that was implanted because I've never been early for anything IN. MY. LIFFFFFE. How can this be my kid? We'd like to make it to at least full term, heck, I'd like to make it til at least week 36. The best choice for the safety of the both of us was for me to come out of work and be put on modified bed rest. I can move around, but I can't be on my feet for long periods of time. Which isn't a problem for me, because sometimes the pressure is a bit much...as if I could look down and see the top of his head. No joke. 

There have been numerous women put on bed rest for many reasons, so my anxiety level hasn't gone through the roof just yet. I'm aware of every move I make. I have thoughts of, "What if I go take a shower, how will I know when my water breaks?" or "LAWD I need to repaint my toes because that is gross" and "What am I going to change into when the time actually comes?" and other vain, important things like that. I haven't even had time to get my labor and delivery gown made that says #EPIDURAL in giant letters on the front. 

We do have our "go-bags" together and ready. I spent much time reading about exactly what to take and luckily, I found my soul-mate blogger who I knew had the perfect go-bag list. She had me at, "Always put your make-up bag back in the go-bag instead of the cabinet so you'll be able to greet your many hospital guests with a face that covers up your pure exhaustion and perhaps you won't look like total death shit in every picture your child will have from his birth". Or this gem of advice: "Make sure you take a bag big enough to steal extra things from the hospital so you won't have to waste your stuff. Babies are freaking expensive". Watch this quick sketch below that nails exactly what Mike will experience if I find one unpleasant picture of me posted post-birth. 

If this video doesn't play, I apologize. I tried embedding it, but sometimes technology repels me. Here is the link you can copy if you reeeeally want to see this clip:. https://youtu.be/dViMtGK63zk

I'm hanging in there and the contractions seem to have stopped for now. There's nothing for me to do except release control over situations I have no control over. Story of my life. I've taken the past two days to adjust that this is real life and I'm having this baby very soon, maybe even sooner than I realize. With all the effort we put into making him, my body is just so happy with itself that it's contained him so far that it wants to meet him. Slow yo roll, uterus. Bottom line is, it doesn't matter how unprepared we are, how I'll look when and after labor hits, or when it decides to happen. This kid has had a purpose since the moment he was created. And he clearly wants it to be made known; sooner rather than later. 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tubeman

While most Americans were celebrating the fourth this past weekend, we were celebrating the third on the fourth...the beginning of the third trimester, that is!!! I spend most of my time sitting around thinking, "I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is happening." While I never truly gave up on the hope of this becoming reality one day, there were times I accepted I may never see my belly grow. But, grow it has and we are approximately two months away from being parents. 

Readers have been on my case lately about why I haven't posted that much during my pregnancy. There are two reasons for that. One-I don't want to be one of those people who are all "in your face" with, "LOOK AT ME, I'M PREGNANT". I can't do the weekly chalk boards with the changing produce every week. It doesn't make sense to me how one week the baby is the size of a corn cob and the next, baby is the size of a rutabaga. First of all, if my kid looks like an ear of corn, I don't want to advertise it. I want to seek medical attention ASAP because something is CLEARLY wrong. Second of all, WTF is a rutabaga? If I have to Google Image the vegetable that my kid is compared to, it's a waste of my time. And last but not least, unless the fertility clinic mixed up Mike's sperm with a member of the Fruit of the Loom crew, I feel fairly confident my rapidly expanding mid-section contains a human baby. Or at least something that remotely resembles one. 

Most women who I see doing these things are first time moms, just like me. I get it. We are beyond thrilled our dream is coming true. We want to share it with every single person we meet. I feel like I'm a part of this secret pregnant lady society because whenever I see another random pregnant person, we give each other a little wave or a sly smile. It's like when I'm riding with Mike in his big, jacked-up truck. When we meet other big, jacked-up trucks, whether he knows the driver or not, they give each other a wave. I mean, do they have secret big, jacked-up truck meetings they attend? Are they card-carrying members? Sheesh. 

I don't want to hate on those soon-to-be moms for taking every advantage of letting the world know they are about to become parents. If anyone has a right to do those things, it's me, for cryin' out loud. I just feel like it's too much for the women who are still suffering to have to see every waking second of my pregnancy on their newsfeeds. Whenever I leave the doctor's office, especially if I have ultrasound pics in my hand, I hide them in my purse instead of gushing over them while making my next appointment. We've been the couple standing next to them who were just told they'd lost another pregnancy. It's tough. 

The second reason I've been slack with the posts is because...I'm not the first nor only girl to be pregnant. SHOCKER. With every new symptom I come across, I share with other female friends or family. Their response has always been, "well just wait, it gets worse" or "uh-huh, I remember that". Having heard these responses for weeks now, it seemingly has taken me down a few notches. I haven't experienced anything different from what anybody else has. None of it is exciting to other women who have kids. Things that baffle me make my mom-friends roll their eyes with boredom. I just have to face facts and the fact is: I'm not a special case anymore. I'm just a big, waddling human whose body has to take one for the team in order for our kid to make it here. 

You all know I'm a major fan of lists. I can't function if I don't have numbers or bullets or icons. I have lists for my lists. The concept of Buzzfeed was stolen from me, I'm positive. Today, I'd like to showcase some of the concerns (via you guessed it, a list!) of the "Only If You're Pregnant in the Third Trimester in July Club". This is for my summer pregnancy sistahs who are currently out of breath just from sitting there reading this. 

My Concerns During the Third Trimester...in July: 

1. Landscaper for Hire: I like to keep things in tip-top shape, down there. Much like coloring, I like landscaping and keeping everything in between the lines. However, what is a girl to do when she can't see the...down there in order to keep things in order? There is no propping up of the legs in the shower. There is no bending. FOR ANYTHING. I don't know if shower sweat is a thing, but I get it every time it's a shaving day because for the love of cookies, I can't find the right position. You can't go at it blind either. What woman can confidently put on eyeliner with her eyes closed? Um. You wouldn't want to blindly take a razor to the nether-regions, either. I was in the shower the other day for thirty whole minutes looking just like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tubeman from used car lots or in an episode of Family Guy. It was a filthy, hot mess. 

2. CLOGGED: The Wizard of Oz is just THE BEST movie to line-drop during certain situations. It's classic. The song the Scarecrow and Tinman sing to Dorothy when they first meet has been in my head fo' dayssss. To refresh your memory, it goes something like this:

With the thoughts you'd be thinkin'

You could be another Lincoln

If you only had a brain...

I would dance and be merry

Life would be a ding-a-derry

If I only had a brain...

Now you remember? Can't get it out of your head? You're welcome. Here's my version: 

Oh the pounds I'd be losin'

Less fiber I'd be choosin' 

If I could only go and poop...

Oh it's much less whimical, I know. But it's a true story. I don't want to hear another single piece of advice for how to cure this. I've tried high fiber, greens, healthy dieting, horrible dieting, softeners, water out the ying-yang. There is no hope, Obi Wan. Just know that hopefully within the next few weeks when the heavens open up from the clouds and you can hear angels singing out, it's because I've had success during a bathroom visit. Moving on. 

3. Underwear or Underwhere? There is so much advice for essential maternity clothes (how much you'll need, where to buy from, etc.) But nobody wants to talk about maternity underwear. I'm a boy-short kinda girl, therefore, I've been able to get by with the low-cut just under the belly style for trimesters one and two. But things started to stretch, so I started to investigate. Maternity underwear is expensive. I don't mind dropping a dime at VS during a semi-annual sale, but I sure ain't dropping one for draws that I can only wear for two months. I ventured to Target and bought two packs of granny panties in a larger size than what I normally wear. First of all, I haven't bought underwear in packs since Ariel's Little Mermaid panties were a must-have when I'm pretty sure I was 10. Secondly, the granny panties are NOT a help. The low-cut bikini seem to suck the life outta my hips, which are not lying these days. The regular bikini come higher up on my belly, but once I sit down and then stand back up, they seem to take a missing. Then I have to dig and adjust, which can make for awkward public situations. Finally, somebody suggested I go commando. I don't have a problem with this, however, this is where the particular "pregnant in July" concern comes into play. July means heat, which means sweat. Shower sweat is one thing, but commando sweat is a whole new ballgame. 

4. Dribble: I'd heard that some women towards the end of their pregnancy experience the inability to control their bladder. I thought this was a myth. It is not. Don't make me laugh unexpectedly. Pray I don't sneeze without clinching first. And for cryin' out loud, hope I don't choke or catch a frog in my throat. Coughing is strictly on the no-fly-zone until this kid is out. That is all. 

5. Royal Treatment: It started with simple door-holding. It escalated to traffic stopping as I tried to cross a street or parking lot. It's like this huge bump is holding the Queen of England. At Chick-fil-A, the guy behind the counter refused to let me carry my food on a tray (because clearly, it is very taxing to walk ten steps while holding chicken nuggets), so he came from behind and escorted my food (and me) to a table. People who normally wouldn't bat an eye my way stop and openly stare at my stomach, smile, then go out of their way to let me in front of them, etc. (Or they could be asking that age-old question: Is she pregnant or is she fat?) Lawd forbid if I drop something. It's like a swarm of bees around me refusing to let me bend over, not that I actually could. I don't think I'm going to be able to go back to being un-pregnant. Because being (obviously) pregnant has it's perks. It brings out the best in people. And it's the get-outta-anything ticket for me. 

I don't want to jinx myself by writing this, but overall, my pregnancy experience so far has been a pleasant one. Karma was probably like, "Aw, let's let her have something easy for a change". Some of the things on my list have been trifling, but I'd take dealing with them for the next 12 weeks over never getting the chance to deal with them at all. And that, my friends, is saying something--coming from a member of the Only If You're Pregnant in the Third Trimester in July club. (Or AARP for that matter, because the symptoms I'm having could qualify me for either...eek!)

Babies R Not Us

Such a discouraging title this week for somebody who is 22 weeks pregnant...You'd think I'd be beginning to get myself together considering we are more than half way done with this pregnancy! Since my last post at 16 weeks, I've accepted that this is really happening. There is a forreal baby inside me right now, tumbling around (probably because there is a laptop on top of him; I'm sure it's a big no-no on the list of things to NOT do while pregnant, but hey, I won that award weeks ago according to my daily newsletter from What to Expect While You're Expecting.) 

I have been feeling SO good this trimester! I'm sleeping, eating, have energy, eating, my skin looks PHENOMENAL, eating more, and have basically grown to the point where I can no longer see my nether regions. To give you a better picture (not of my nether regions, get your mind outta the gutter!), while I get dressed in the mornings, Mike comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my belly while quoting one of our Top 5 favorite movies of all time, Airplane, "And Kristin's gettinnnnggg LARRRGGERRRR". 

The first few times was rather humorous. Now if looks could kill, my kid would be fatherless. 

One symptom I'm experiencing a little early is frequent urination. I had this somewhat in the first trimester, but as things are shifting, my blatter takes a daily beating. There is a rap song that gets played on every Gatorade commerical ever created and at every basketball game played that goes like, "All I do is win, win, win, no matter what!" All I hear every hour in my head is, "All I do is pee, pee, pee, no matter what!". #pregnancyproblems

Let's talk about the daily newsletters I mentioned. I'm a little concerned about the words "fit" and "pregnancy". Especially when used in the same sentence. What is this trend and how did it get started? WHO. DID. THIS. I've been proud of myself for trying to walk at least 5 times a week for about 30 minutes. I sleep well and I feel better afterwards, but during...Holy Christmas cookies. Last summer I was running miles and this summer I can't walk from the porch to the driveway without shortness of breath. I can't walk across my classroom to the trashcan without having to take a break. How are these women running and lifting and doing this insanity?! All I can give them is props because the only way I'm going to improve my regimen (and lack thereof) is if I walk a mile with a team of doctors riding in a van behind me with proper oxygen equipment on standby. 

Also, who in the name of Santa came up with sizing your baby each week to produce? Last week, I was at a spaghetti squash. The week before I was a papaya. What are these things? Do they even grow here? I had to Google Image them to reference the size of my daggone baby. Why can't they reference foods most Americans will understand? "This week your baby is the size of a Lay's Snack Pack bag of BBQ chips" or "This week your baby is the size of an apple turnover from McDonald's". I finally just had to find an actual ruler to visualize the actual size of the baby using the measurements. If I had to resort to using math skills, then it's officially time to change the produce equivalents, you pregnancy expert people.

Last weekend we decided to go to Babies R Us to make our baby registry. There were tears. There were talks of divorce. There were feelings of helplessness. Mike and I are pretty intelligent people, but when you put two intelligent people in a world where they know nothing about their surroundings, tensions will rise. We might as well have landed in Bangkok.

I'm the oldest of seven grandchildren so I remember how to change diapers and how to hold babies and how to feed them. But the youngest grandchild is now in high school and I'm 29. It's been a few days. Now, you can't use powder on babies? WHAT? They have wipe-warmers? WHAT?! There are bottle warmers so you won't burn your wrist while checking milk temperatures. WHERE AM I? Is this real life? There were carriers and strollers and carriers that went with strollers and carriers that you could buy in addition to matching strollers that already had carriers. It was as if someone took apart every part to my car and left them in my driveway then told me to rebuild it. Total shock and confusion. I plan to breastfeed (I think, o.O) so we went down the bottle aisle. Insanity, I tell you. Pure insanity. There were 7,000 types of bottles. 8,000 types of nipples. Accessory kits. Starter kits. Kits for kits for kits that I don't even know the purpose for.

I just wanted to channel Prissy and scream "I DON'T KNOW NOTHIN' BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES, MISS SCARLETT!!!!!!!!!!!!" right in the middle of the crib aisle when I found out you do in fact have to purchase the mattress separately from the bed. Help. Me. 

Meanwhile, there are these moms that kept showing up on the same aisle as me either with their children or with bellies much further along than me. They all looked like they knew what they were doing, going directly towards an item with confidence. I'm standing with glazed-over eyes in a state of shock while Mike is taking 25 pictures of this ridiculous Batman car seat, so I started to shoot daggers at the expert mommies with my eyes that said, "How dare you be more pregnant than me?" or "My kid will be way cuter than your kid!". Green with envy, it turns out, is not my color. 

We pretty much spent two full hours in the store and added 300 items to a list. Of the 300 items, I'm confident I know how to use 10 of them. Maybe. I can already hear my son in his Mikey from Look Who's Talking voice saying, "Mommy, that wipe is too cold on my bum! Why were you so cheap to not buy the wipe warmer?" And me with my frequent response, "Son, your bum may be cold for 30 seconds, BUT DID YOU DIE?" I'll go ahead and join that hashtag chain (#butdidyoudie) because I feel like it'll be a mantra at the Peebles Family Household. 

We've worked for years to get to this point. We both want children so we can teach them and take them places and mold them into the best versions of ourselves. But you start that when they are toddlers. It's like 3 years I have to keep this kid alive for until I start to know what I'm supposed to do! We went to war with infertility and we won, but it's like an entire war about to start all over again. I'm the walking-talking professor for knowing what to do to get pregnant, but when it comes to knowing what to do when he actually gets here, I might as well be the stoner drop-out guy from college that was in all of your classes but you never understood why he was there and how he managed. 

I'm praying all these people are correct in the assumption that things will come naturally to me once he gets here. If not, I'll go ahead and work up a schedule and sign-up sheet for my readers that have been there, done that and are willing to come and change my kid's diapers. But preferably without powder and with the use of a diaper warmer, because, DUH. Everybody knows that...

Hooooo, BOY!

I'm currently in Week 16 and it. has. been. FABULOUS! I reread my last post and was so disappointed in myself...I don't even recognize the miserable old coot that wrote it. With the second trimester brings a second wind, so to speak. So far in my "normal" pregnancy, I've followed the classic pregnant-lady symptoms to a T. First trimester: fatigued, nauseous, and severely crabby. Check. Second trimester: lack of symptoms other than a growing mid-section, renewed energy, and glowy-baby-dust happiness. Check.

During Week 15, we saw a perinatal doctor. It was recommended to us by our fertility doctor that we have an amniocentesis done. There are no direct correlations between birth defects from IVF (well, there are plenty of inconclusive arguments regarding that), but we are actually considered "IVF-ICSI" (pronounced ick-see) which puts us at a teeny-tiny bit more slight at risk for potential problems, more specifically, Down Syndrome. I never really discussed ICSI (Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection) when we did it, because for once, this isn't an issue with me. It's a sperm thing. To make doubly sure that the sperm broke the egg and fertilized on its own to grow into embryos, we had a special procedure where the doctor put Mike's sperm into a needle and injected it directly into my egg. It worked. But clearly, that's never been a problem before either. At least 4 times. 

ANYWAY. Before it actually worked, one would say I'd become a wee bit obsessive-compulsive regarding all things IVF. My perinatal doctor took a look at my chart and said, "Ah! I see you had several graduate courses in infertility". Um, homie, I GOT MY PhD IN IT. Recognize. 

Now that I've achieved what I wanted, I'm struggling with research. There is literally an article about every speck of pain, symptom, and potential problem during pregnancy. They all mean impending miscarriage or my kid will have birth defects, basically. And when you start to read said articles, they start contradicting themselves. Pretty much, every single pregnant person that ever lived is different, therefore, the things I read aren't worth it to me to investigate. I don't like contradictory. I like straight-up facts. The facts I found about amniocentesis were scary, so we went into the perinatal center with shall I say, a shady outlook. 

Once we were called back, I had my very first on-the-belly ultrasound. Up to this point, all of them have been vaginal. This was very reassuring to me; it meant my kid had grown enough to be seen without a doctor digging around inside. The tech spent like, 45 minutes checking every single part of the baby. It was the best experience I've ever had. We've been under a gray cloud since my confirmed pregnancy test (and I'm sure it'll still be floating around until we actually have a live birth). After seeing the human we actually created move around, blink, wave, cross his ankles, well, there just aren't any words!! I hadn't been emotional about finally being pregnant up until the point when I could actually count five fingers on each hand and hear the tech say test after test  "all clear" or "perfectly normal", therefore no need for further testing. It was an incredibly moving experience. 

Then the tech asked if we wanted to know the gender. DUUUUHHHH. Do you know how long it will take Mike and I to decide on a name? We'll need at least 5 months to do that. She flicked the screen over from the top of the head view to the between the legs view. And there in all it's glory, was the most perfect little penis you've ever seen. (Let's not get pervy, that's my little boy we're speaking of for God's sake). 

When you're a girly-girl like myself, you spend your life dreaming of your wedding, your kid's name, and all the ways you're going to girlify your own little girl. While I realize I've known what the gender is from the very beginning, I still had a glimmer of hope for PINK. So when reality hits and you're staring at boy parts on the screen and there's no chance of mistaking THAT, it's a rude awakening. At least it was for me. There were visions of me in my kitchen with a 5-year-old running through the back door with a bucket full of frogs yelling, "Look, Mommy", followed by me fainting and the kid getting worried and knocking over the bucket and all the frogs jumping out all over me and the kitchen floor. I saw me throwing down at a little league game because somebody hit my kid with a ball. I saw Mike with a mini-Mike beside him peeing off my front porch because, God forbid, it would take too much time to walk 10 feet to the bathroom right inside the door. And I saw me writing letter after letter to all children's clothing companies because OMG have you seen how boring little boy clothes are?! 

These were the thoughts running through my head as I lay there on the bed. Meanwhile, Mike has fist-pumped the air fourteen times to the point he has pulled a muscle, has shot off confetti in all corners of the room, started passing out champagne and cigars to random nurses, and has sent off an application to the Green Bay Packers Training Camp to pre-enlist our child for some sort of NFL-related future. 

Needless to say, some of us are beyond ecstatic with the news of our gender reveal. And some of us are...adjusting. I know you're thinking, "She should be thankful for whatever she gets" and you're completely right. But let's be honest, women are partial to girls and men are partial to boys. It's human nature. Or maybe its just my nature? In the end, you love WHATEVER it will be just as much as you would have loved the other gender. It can't go unsaid that I haven't had visions of sweet boy cuddles when he's sleepy or him running to me when he couldn't have his way with his Daddy.

Plus, let us not forget I've got 9 babies on ice. One of them is just BOUND to be a girl...

Scared Straight Program

**Written on March 31, 2015**

I'm currently in the middle of my 14th week. The last time I posted was in the middle of Week 10, so needless to say, things have come and gone with a bang. Weeks 6-11 were TEXTBOOK pregnancy symptoms. It's so weird for me to actually be considered "normal". For so long, I've had to take alternate routes to figuring things out for myself because my case has been anything but. 

I had gotten SO spoiled with my treatment. Every time I went to the doctor, they had to do an ultrasound and I got to see my innards, whether I wanted to or not. I went to my Week 12 appointment, waited like 45 minutes to see the doctor, only to have his nurse whip out a heart monitor, listen to the baby's heartbeat, and let Dr. G "wham-bam-thank-you-mam" me and my pelvis. Which took all of 7 minutes. When I vented about this to literally every woman I know who has ever had a child, they looked at me like, "Um, not every appointment is an ultrasound". What? WHAT?!?!?!? I haven't seen my kid since like Week 8. What if it's a unicorn? I just can't get over how things are so "come back in 4 weeks and we'll take more of your money but not really tell you anything exciting". Ugh. Sometimes it sucks to be spoiled. 

On a more exciting note, I VOMITED ONCE DURING WEEK 11!!!!! It was truly the greatest. Luckily, I really only ever dealt with serious nausea sans vomiting. Towards the end of the first trimester, I was still pumping estrogen and progesterone into my body--the SAME body that was already pumping out estrogen and progesterone on its own. Naturally, with the double dose I was getting, it was only fair that I should feel the effects from it. I had had about 4 days in a row of the worst nausea known to humans, or in other words, basically: "Sugar, step away from Mrs. Peebles cuz you bout to have a story you can tell at your high school graduation about how you always suspected your fifth grade teacher REALLY did not care for you". 

On the 4th day of misery, I was sitting in my chair trying to take attendance and I just said to myself, this is INSANITY. I started to make myself have that extra spit form in my mouth--you know what I mean--so I jumped up from my chair, grabbed the first adult I saw and told them to cover me, and ran to the nearest bathroom where I promptly and spectacularly threw up. It was the most excited I had been in the longest time. I puked from being pregnant! Do you know how long I had waited for that?! 

Since my lone-puking incident, there have been many instances that would qualify me to be a spokesperson at a high school about pregnancy. And not for the obvious reason: make them feel guilty about easily having a kid by telling them about my struggle. No. I want to just be flat-out REAL with the girls. And not even about the obvious pregnancy symptoms, either. Nausea, vomiting, yada, yada, yes, that happens...

But I'm talking about the symptoms nobody really tells you about. Like when you wake up in the morning and not a single pair of pants fit anymore. But they fit yesterday! What happened?! I had a pair of simple button/zipper dress pants that literally would take Ponce de Leon and his crew to leave the button side of the pants and explore the ocean of belly to the other side where the fastener was. My mom friends told me, "Oh, just use a rubberband and attach them" or "buy the belly band and you'll be fine!"...um, WHAT? My stomach literally expanded overnight. I do not trust my organs enough to NOT move during the day and pop the band off and hit a kid in the face. And just who in the hee-haw heck came up with the "pregnancy glow"? The only glow this face has seen has been from the sweat that broke out on my forehead from trying to zip up my dang britches. This is real pregnant life, y'all.

Also, has anybody taken a gander at maternity clothes lately?? I'm so glad we've evolved from the basic moo-moo I remember seeing pregnant women wear when I was a kid, but let's face it. There are extremely limited fashionable maternity clothes available. Let me rephrase. There are extremely limited AFFORDABLE, fashionable maternity clothes available. The slim-pickins at your regular Gap, Old Navy, Kohl's, etc. are less than to be desired, while the adorable, stylish maternity clothes found in boutiques are pretty much "$68 for this t-shirt". I'm carrying the spawn of a teacher and a cop. Let's face it, I'm used to stretching $68 into 3 t-shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, and a necklace. From Target. 

How about achy, bleeding gums? Oh yeah. Sexy. Around Week 5, I had my regularly scheduled dental cleaning. I complained that I noticed when I was flossing that my gums were bleeding. My hygienist told me that it was a pregnancy symptom and it would probably get worse. She didn't lie. After having braces twice and enduring jaw surgery, I take much pride in my oral hygiene. I brush and floss religiously, thank you very much. I also wear my retainers EVERY SINGLE NIGHT(<--- speaking of sexy). Yet I find myself waking up in the middle of the night with achy teeth and have to take my retainers out, which causes my highly sensitive gag reflex to kick in, which grosses Baby Daddy out. Then I would dream my teeth were falling out. I couldn't let this weird situation go, so I consulted Google. Apparently, when you dream you are losing your teeth, it's because, ironically, the dreamer can't "sink his teeth" into a situation. Bless you, Google. Of course I can't "sink my teeth into" the fact I'm in my second trimester. 

Lastly, I'd like to just say to the teenagers, "Oh you enjoy eating food? Go ahead and get pregnant, cos sweeties, your appetite is more varied than yo' mood swings". Not exactly sure why I'd talk to them like I'm a veteran black lady cop, but it seems to be more intimidating, so let's go with it. While the first trimester really messes with your taste buds, the second trimester brings back some of your cravings for your favorite foods...until you eat your favorite foods and they set your ass on fire. I have so many treasured stashes of Tums at my house that it would take Ocean's Fourteen, Fifteen, AND Sixteen to break into them. My former favorite meals and restaurants are currently the things I can't stand to even think about because of the repercussions. When you do indulge in things less than healthy, you read daily pregnancy tips from the apps on your phone and they make you feel like you've earned whatever the opposite of the "Mother of the Year" award is. First they tell you to drink milk and eat veggies and fruits and whole grains, while in the next sentence, they say too much of these things will cause imminent death for your kid. Eat this, not that. Drink this, not that. Do this, not that. I may have had a graduate course in how to GET pregnant, but BEING pregnant has turned out to be more reading and studying than I've ever hoped for. There's no time for extracurricular activities; you sleep for 22 hours a day, eat for one, and then read about what you are and are not supposed to be doing for the last. Now, just what teenager do you know actually LIKES to read?!

We all know I've mastered the actual first stage of pregnancy: getting pregnant. I seem to have made it successfully through the first trimester. Now it's my job to spread what I know with the ones who struggle with the concept of "I shouldn't be having a kid right now". I'm pretty sure I exceed the qualifications. Somebody hook me up with tour dates and an RV with the slogan, "Coming to a community center basement near you" next to a picture of me with no make-up on, oily 2-day old hair, and a baby bump showing out of my faded yoga pants and a tank top that should have retired with Michael Jordan. This is life-changing, motivational stuff, folks. Life. Changing. 

Pilot Light

**Previously written on February 28, 2015**

This post has probably been the most anticipated update since the beginning of my blog 3 years ago. I've been playing out how I wanted to write this if the day ever came, yet it's officially here and I'm rather at a loss for how to continue! My emotions are all over the place and for every sentence I write, I seem to delete the next one. This is basically the see-sawing trend of events my life has taken on since November. Teetering emotions? Why, that's just the tip of the iceberg that is pregnancy, my friends. 

And pregnant is what I am (forreal, with pictures and errrthang)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Ten weeks today, to be exact. Do you know how hard it has been to keep this secret? I have gotten asked multiple times in multiple ways on a daily basis since January 1st. I knew in late November the date of my transfer: January 9th. We knew it worked on January 19th and saw a heartbeat on February 9th. Since then, things have worked like they are supposed to in early pregnancy. I had spotting off and on for about three weeks which caused mild panic and serious doubts, but other than that, I've been nothing short of a model of a perfectly normal, healthy, baby-carrying female. The thing about going through this for the fifth time is that there is a lack of excitement when you find out you're pregnant. You can stop reading here, if you wish, for what I have to say isn't the rosey-rainbow gushing of praise about finally being pregnant. 

First of all, let me throw out my disclaimer, even though you know me well enough that I shouldn't even have to make this statement. I realize how monumentally lucky, blessed, fortunate, etc. we are. I don't remember the numbers precisely, but the percentage for IVF working on the first cycle isn't that high. We did the first time, SPECTACULARLY, I may add. I was considered the perfect case for a single-transfer (meaning, the odds were in my favor, highly, of us transferring just one embryo and it working). We decided on transferring two, though, not because we were greedy, but because if the fates allowed us to have more than one child, why not do it at the same time and be done with it? Okay, so that's what I told the doctor. Selfishly, I figured if we transferred two, got one, perfect, got two, even more perfect, and then I'd call it a day and have them take out ALL my parts, the end. I'm the poster-child for things not working out as planned, so, one embryo stuck, therefore resulting in a successful IVF cycle with one healthy, singleton pregnancy!

I've read too many other stories of women who have had success and they suddenly forget they ever went through any hardship to get there because they are blinded by the baby dust. And the thing is, I don't want to forget what I've been through just because we finally seem to be getting what we've worked so hard for. Since I first went to a fertility doctor, my world has been covered in "ifs". "If this works" or "if I stay pregnant" has been the constant mantra. I've made it to ten weeks, more than double the time I've ever made it before, I've seen my baby 3 times, and yet Mike and I still find ourselves saying, "if we make it until September". It's very frustrating but it's very real. And you all know that while I lean toward the label "optimist", I'm a realist before anything else. 

I even have slight guilt over actually being pregnant because I know there are so many women out there still trying (and failing) for the same thing. I've been there and I know what it's like to hear about that one more pregnant person that isn't you. One thing that I wouldn't let happen to myself is turning my pilot light out, and therefore that's my greatest advice for people who are struggling just like I did. When things were at their bleakest, you still have to have some sort of glimmer of hope that things will eventually work out. With my first pregnancy, I had flames so bright shining off of me that I should have had a "FLAMMABLE" sign tattooed on my forehead. And with every miscarriage, the flames dimmed. Whenever I wiped blood here recently, I stopped and said to myself, "This is just a test, if it's going to make it, it will". Things have progressed as they should; my pilot light grows brighter every day, right along with this baby.

So! While I'm still quite scared of things working out for the better, even though I've been told everything is perfectly fine, there have been no shortage of pregnancy symptoms that have taken over my 29-year old body. At this portion of the program, you may find yourself thinking pretty lowly of me, as this is going to sound ungrateful and complain-y. But remember, as I do, OFTEN, not only have I prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed for this to finally happen, I also PAID for it to...

1. Can we just look at my boobs, please? While they are sore as snot and I will quite frankly body-slam anyone who remotely puts an appendage in the vicinity of my chest, they look FABULOUS. Sadly, I've never understood what women talked about when they mention their boobs "from their 20's". WHAT? My boobs from my twenties have been small, lumpy, and kinda droopy to the sides when I lay flat. My not-pregnant boobs of my 20's had been replaced with the boobs of my future 70's. As a matter of fact, my 75-year-old grandma has a pretty righteous pair. Clearly, I wasn't swimming in the same gene-pool as her when I should've been. (I was probably at the concession stand getting a hot dog while those traits were being passed down). My pregnancy boobs are bangin'. Not too big, but they fill out my bras (the way they SHOULD be, because I've been known a time or two to buy a bigger cup-size for appearance purposes). 

2. Irritability. I can not stand to be in public places for more than ten minutes. Or at work. Or at home. I'm not sure how I've ever tolerated people while not pregnant. A man at the ATM in front of me this morning took for-ev-er to complete his transaction. I was huffing and puffing and griping and moaning and all but blew my horn at him to hurry up. Yet I was in my pajamas and had nowhere else to be for the rest of the day. 

I can't stand the music that comes on the radio. 

I screen shot like 100 Facebook statuses a day and send them to my friends so I can whine about how ridiculous people are being.

I made a playlist the other day and the following songs made it: Out of Touch by Hall & Oats, Forgot About Dre by Dr. Dre, Kerosene, by Miranda Lambert and If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher. (<----You have not LIVED until you are in a car with me when that one comes on). Obviously, nothing satisfies me at the present. 

3. Let's talk about the mother of all symptoms: food aversions, cravings, and NAUSEA. Week 6, Day 1 I woke up, ate breakfast, and sat on the sofa. 30 minutes later, my head felt funny, like I couldn't move it without feeling like I could puke. There have been 3 total days since Week 6, Day 1 where I haven't felt constantly nauseous. I haven't vomited, and I realize I'm quite lucky in that aspect, as women I've known have spent their entire first trimester in a toilet. But being so sick that you can't move your head, well, I don't know which is worse. Ironically, this feeling intensifies when I've gone awhile without eating...yet most of the time the thought of any food makes me squirm. It's a vicious cycle. 

All of my favorite foods in the world have taken a back-seat. The thought of them makes me want to hurl. There are about 5 things I can tolerate: peaches in a cup (the fully-loaded syrupy kind), Pizza Hut Breadsticks, Little Debbie Oatmeal Creampies, anything sour, and Goober Grape sandwiches. In every single pregnancy book I've read, the diet I should be adhering to looks like the government's version of the Food Pyramid. The authors of these books were MEN. They MUST be. I couldn't eat a piece of broccoli right now if somebody covered it in chocolate and called it Chris Hemsworth. The decision of "what's for supper" at my house is like trying to pass a bill in congress. A suggestion might grab my attention, but then I think of the smell of it and I have to change my mind. I'm a giant pain in the rear to live with, so please give Mike Peebles a pat on the back when you see him.  

There are SO many things about being pregnant that I need to gush about, but I'll save it for another post. Besides, from the looks of things, I'm going to be at the height of my pregnancy during the summer, which means I'll be inside next to an air vent with people cooling me down with palm leaves. There will be plenty of time for writing. You might have thought that since I officially clocked out of my job at the "Fertility Theme Park" that I wouldn't have anything to write about anymore. You thought wrong. This is only the beginning.

I'll leave you with these pictures, sort of mementos from our transfer and the time after... 

These were the 2 embryos we transferred. The one at the top had already started to hatch, which makes me think he was the one to stick. Also, he looks like a bully. Overbearing. Has to have all the attention. Probably shoved the other one out. Definitely my kid.

This is my, "PUT THEM IN MY UTERUS RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF CHRISTMAS COOKIES" selfie.

 This is right after leaving the lab following the transfer. I wanted the embryos to like me, so I gave them a chocolate chip cookie as sort of a house-warming gift.

 This was Day 3 of bedrest following the transfer. Rudy liked to keep them company.

            

And this was my last visit at Dr. Edelstien's office when he officially released me back to Dr. Gospodnetic, my regular OB. I was crying. Horribly. I didn't want to leave. Mike was mortified at my behavior, I'm sure. Don't zoom in, I have ugly-cry face.