Whew!! Three words: I made it.
39 weeks of cranking, complaining, hurting, and whining about it… and babykins has made his grand entrance into the greater world.
Baby Evan was born via c-section on June 11. He was 9 lbs, and 20 inches. Guess that diabetes diet actually helped (first boy was just shy of 11 lbs and 23 inches, so this one is relatively tiny).
He’s darling. I’m exhausted. My stitches still hurt a little, and itch a lot. But I’m very happy to finally meet my sweet baby, and thrilled that the preggo part of this journey is done. Now I just need to figure out how to breastfeed while keeping my toddler alive…
One more to file under Bizarro Pregnancy Side Effects: a bright-red, all over flush that comes and goes randomly.
I look like a lobster. A very, very pregnant lobster. (Perhaps more like a fat crab? That fits, too.) Sometimes I get hot flashes, but that doesn’t necessarily reflect my appearance; the red-faced flush can show up without me feeling any differently. I’ll look into the mirror after peeing for the 300th time in a day, and lo and behold – BRIGHT RED. It looks like a combination of vicious sunburn and extreme embarrassment.
At least this is one of the few side effects that doesn’t really hurt. Unlike my super-sized stretch-mark-encased belly, achy back, stuffy nose, sinus headaches, heartburn, and insomnia. Or my sugar-restricted diet. Now THAT one really hurts.
Seriously. Does the agony never end? One of the things that no one ever likes to talk about, but is probably VERY common, is the nonstop constipation and resulting ahem, “flareups” (aka raging hemorrhoids) that accompany this rather nasty side effect of bloating up like a small hot air balloon.
I am in the final weeks here, so at least there is light at the end of the tunnel. But I do remember that after my first son was born (via cesarean) that it was terribly painful to use the toilet for the first few weeks. So… I suppose I can look forward to some relief right around… what, August?
I cannot wait to have this baby.
Okay. It’s official. I’m down to about one week’s worth of clothing that fits. I have exactly three pairs of maternity jeans that still stretch all the way ’round (two cropped, one full-length pair). I also have one pair of stretchy maternity shorts that fit, two pairs of leggings, and exactly two pair of yoga/sweat pants. That’s my entire bottom-half wardrobe.
Now that the weather is heating up, I am very limited on tanks and tees that fit. But I don’t want to buy any more maternity stuff! If I never set foot in another maternity clothing store, that will be just fine by me.
My mom recently bought me two dresses that she thought would be comfortable for the warm weather. The style — and I use the term loosely — is your basic, huge 1960′s caftan. I believe they call them muumuu dresses in Hawaii. In plain English, I think the term “Tent Dress” sums it up nicely.
I’ve been resistant to the tent dresses. I mean, really – who wants to look BIGGER at this point? With all that swishy fabric? And of course one of them is floral. (Big. Floral. Swishy. Tent. Dress.) For Pete’s sake, people.
Then again, I have less than one month left. I don’t want to buy any more huge clothes. And I’m not at all interested in squeezing my swollen self into anything that isn’t comfortable. So who cares if I look like Casper the Colorful Ghost? Sure, I’ll walk around in a bedsheet.
I have no dignity left. (waddle waddle, swish, swish).
So I was going to the pool for a few weeks, trying to get a little exercise. Swimming is about the only thing I seem to be capable of, exercise-wise. (Waddling around the grocery store and baby superstore don’t really count, do they?)
But I’ve noticed two things that now have me hanging up my swimsuit.
1. People look really freaked out when they see an 8 1/2-months-preggo chick awkwardly lowering herself into the pool. Are they worried that my water will break, and they’ll get cooties? Do they think I’ll sink to the bottom? (Actually, the belly is sort of like a big, round, protruding flotation device.) Are they scared that if I go into labor, they’ll need a forklift to get me out?
2. Two words: bikini line. I can still manage to shave my armpits, and can even manage — barely — to keep my lower legs relatively hair-free. But the bikini line? C’mon! I can’t SEE my bikini line, let alone manage the necessary upkeep of that particular nether region. And I’m not going to be sporting a swim suit with some crazy ’70s-porn-star look, either. I have zero interest in getting my roly-poly self waxed right now. (Um, kinda thinking that the “landing strip” look is a bit silly with a stretch-mark-covered beach ball sitting on top of it.)
I guess the whale is officially beached.
Found out this week that I have gestational diabetes. I’m also anemic. The anemia is an easy fix: iron and vitamin C supplements. The diabetes? Not so simple.
I’ll cut to the chase. NO MORE SUGAR. How much does that suck? Seriously. My one happy moment of the day has been when I sit down with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and get to snarf half of it in one sitting, with only mild feelings of guilt.
So much for that. I have had a serious preggo sweet tooth – cookies, cake, ice cream, super-sour bubble gum. (I know, that last one’s weird, right?) Now I’m not even allowed to eat any kind of fruit before lunchtime. No jelly. No maple syrup. No hot cocoa on a chilly spring evening. Definitely no chocolate bundt cake from the Corner Bakery. Not even a Coke with my low-fat, low-carb, no sugar dinners.
This freaking sucks.
Oh, and did I mention the four-times-daily bloodletting? Yes, that’s going to be a blast.
I’ve got at least five of the seven dwarfs covered.
Dopey: I’ve been chronically sleep-deprived and generally exhausted for months now.
Sneezy: I have the unfortunate and gross pregnancy side effect of complete nasal stuffiness, turning this experience into a 9-month sentence of mouth breathing.
Sleepy: See “Dopey” above.
Grumpy: Sleep deprivation + hormones + physical pain = general ongoing bitchiness.
Bashful: I don’t want to look at my own swollen, lumpy body, and I certainly don’t like other people staring at my blimpy, puffy, stretched-out figure.
So there you go. I guess I can throw Doc in there, too, since I spend an awful lot of time at the OB/GYN office these days. The only one missing? That’s right.
Happy is MIA until baby’s arrival.
Apparently, I have hormone-induced mad organizational skills. What some would call “nesting” seems more like obsessive organizing to me lately.
First, I tackled my old office. I had to clean it out, organize it, and move it all into what is now “THE office” since hubby and I now share a home office. My old office has become my 3-year-old’s Big Boy Room. It literally took weeks. I had to go through every stack of files, paperwork and mail bit by bit. I dusted off old books and knick-knacks, and dumped a ton of oddball items off at the local Goodwill.
Next up, decorating and organizing the toddler room. It’s amazing how many weird, half-broken toys one small child can accumulate in three short years!
Now I’m back in the nursery, cleaning out the closets and drawers, and pulling out stacks of baby clothes that I saved from Kiddo #1.
Meanwhile, I’ve been re-doing my own closet, and thinking it’s time to organize the hall closet, storage room, bathroom cupboards, and perhaps even my jewelry box. Not to mention the garage, garden shed, under the kitchen sink, and just about every other cluttered corner of this house.
No wonder I’m so exhausted. It never ends…
It’s official. I have become a beached whale.
I have to squat to reach things off the floor – such as the gazillion toys my toddler trails behind him throughout the house. I find myself leaning sideways to get into kitchen cupboards. And I’m sitting farther and farther away from my desk and keyboard lately. Getting up and down off the floor (once again with the toddler – we must play trains, and puzzles, and read books, and hide eggs — all of which seems to require Mommy here to lurch myself onto all fours and then groan my way slowly upright as I balance the precarious watermelon belly back into a vertical position. I sort of have to swing one leg for momentum to get myself out of bed (ten times a night or so) and then I literally roll up and out like Humpty Dumpty or one of those old Weeble Wobble toys.
All I can think lately is: are we there yet? I remember now that this was really the worst trimester for me with my first pregnancy. Huge, hormonal, exhausted, and constantly uncomfortable and cranky.
And I have officially given up on healthy eating and moderate weight gain. At this point, I’m already huge and totally unhappy, so if eating ice cream all the time help me feel a little better? Well, to hell with watching the scale. Let’s feed this hungry hippo!!
Here’s how my day started.
Girl at bakery counter: “So you must be due really soon!”
Me: “Well, mid-June. It’s getting closer.”
Girl: “So then are you having twins? You’re so big!”
Me: “No, just one baby.”
Girl: “So, is it just what you’ve been eating, then?”
Me: (getting irritated) “I really don’t know why I’m carrying this way. Can I just place my order now?”
Ugh. Obviously, I am huge. Like, massive, should-be-carrying-multiples large. But I KNOW that, okay? I don’t need to be told by the teenager at the bakery. I just wanted a banana muffin already. And I happen to have a small frame (and a very large belly).
Yup. I’m sticking with my story. Small frame, big baby. Ten more weeks to go…