Titles for this Diary
--Women who love being pregnant and other mythical creatures (new edition includes evidence sightings of rare straight male in impeccable shape who cooks and cleans!)
--I love being pregnant and other lies women tell (sequel to “Of course it was as good for me!”)
--Proof that God Never Forgave Eve
--My Body was Taken over by an Alien: The True Story of one Woman’s Pregnancy
--Surprise! I’m Not Just Fat, I’m Pregnant!
Chapter 1: Finding Out
I found out on a Thursday morning. I distinctly remember it was a Thursday because the day before was a Wednesday. I had enjoyed a glass of my favorite prosecco that night, and I remember it because after the peeing on the stick incident of September 27, I knew it would be the last glass I would have for a while. (September 26 will live in infamy as the last day I did not know I was going to be a mum.)
Sean and I had started doing Natural Family Planning, and it really does work. Unfortunately, our blatant lack of attention to “the rules” had resulted in us using NFP not to avoid pregnancy as we had originally planned but to conceive. This realization came during a meeting with our NFP counselor when she informed us (me…Sean wasn’t there that day) that those three days following a “sign of fertility” should actually be indicated with little babies meaning conception was possible on any of those three days. The take home: you have a 2/3 chance of being pregnant. And that’s all I’m going to tell you about my sex life. Go wash your brain out with soap now.
So, I stocked up on the finest pregnancy tests money could buy[1] and approximately six days before my first missed period, peed on a stick early one Thursday morning. I watched and waited as that little indicator line appeared, the first one letting me know that I was alive, then a second. It was very faint at first and then gradually turned rosier in color. Houston, we have taken alien life on board this vessel.
[1] At Walgreens
“Um, hi, honey. We need to talk,” I said to Sean through my Apple iPhone 4[2]. Appropriately, Sean was nervous, but he didn’t know why. “What’s up?” (Or something like that…who remembers a conversation verbatim?)
[2] Endorsement not paid for by Apple…yet.
“I think I’m pregnant.” This wasn’t an out and out lie. I did think I was pregnant. Or rather, First Response thought I was pregnant. Maybe there was a mistake. Getting pregnant wasn’t on the agenda for another 3 years.
I explained to Sean that I had taken a pregnancy test and it had popped positive for baby. I planned to take another test at work. I mean, after all, was this a mistake? Tests can be wrong? Are we getting …anxious…for nothing? And we were anxious. I am sure that people who are trying for a baby are elated beyond measure when their pee stick has two lines. We were not trying nor were we expecting anything. Interestingly, this was not the reaction we would have had if we unexpectedly won at the lottery…maybe it would be. I would be very skeptical at how it could have happened.
Either way, we were anxious. Certainly, we were not unwelcoming to the idea of a baby, but we were confused and concerned. I could be wrong, but my initial emotion was probably relatively akin to how teenagers feel when they find out that their Arbor Mist-laced post-prom love-fest in the back of someone’s older sister’s Dodge Neon resulted in being knocked up. It was like, how could this happen to us? Weren’t we being careful? No, we weren’t being careful enough. How in the Hell were we going to take care of a baby!? I only had two degrees, a nice-paying full-time job with benefits and two side jobs, and Sean only had a decent full-paying job, was on the path to becoming Top Gun, and was almost finished with school. We had a house, three cars, insurance, and two savings accounts. We were SCREWED!
Yeah, our reactions really can’t be explained with logic or the fact that weren’t totally prepared. After another pregnancy test at work, the handwriting was on the wall, so I called in the big guns, the OB-GYN and made an appointment for the following day. Conveniently, I was due for my annual. I couldn’t wait with this anxiety to find out.
Am I, or am I not, inhabited by a life-draining alien life form of my own creation?
Section 2: The First Trimester
Chapter 2: Man, I Feel Like a Fat Woman
You know how they say that women can be pregnant for months and not tell? I really have no idea how that’s possible. Here’s why:
We found out we were pregnant a week and a half after conception. I was suffering all of the symptoms of PMS that any woman suffers. I was bloated. My breasts were tender and sore. My deodorant wasn’t quite cutting it, etc. Wouldn’t logic dictate that after experiencing those symptoms and missing a period that one might assume one was pregnant?
I also had another strong indicator. The Saturday after we found out, I went for a route run in the neighborhood. It started raining, so I high-tailed it home and immediately hopped in the shower. Toward the end, I started feeling dreadfully dizzy and had to summon the Mister for help. After being rescued from the shower, I lay naked on the bed nibbling a strawberry for nourishment and acknowledging reality: the alien take-over had already begun.
Exhaustion
It couldn’t have been more than a week when I started experiencing the tiredness. Exhaustion is one of the few symptoms pregnant women can universally agree on. I guess it’s a good thing because my usual schedule had been to come home from work and cook dinner and kick back for a few hours. Upon having The Sandman whack me in the head with his entire bag of slumber, I was relegated to coming home, lying on the couch, and shuffling to bed at 8:00 or 8:30. I have no recollection of how or what we ate during that time.
You’re Making Me Sick
I was one of the lucky who wasn’t sick. Sure, I had the general sensation of nausea, but I wasn’t dry heaving or tossing my cookies faster than I could eat them. Even when I was nauseated, I could still eat. No need to worry!
Is That Your Skin or the Terrain of Afghanistan?
My skin broke out like I was the pimply-faced kid from The Simpsons. My acne could rival the greasiest little prepubescent middle-school rascal. This is traumatizing enough when you are actually in middle-school, but it is really upsetting when you are an adult who thought you already got past that sh*t. It’s like finding out your nautical-loving stalker got out of jail, and he still wants you to be his mermaid bride.
Dear Fat Camp
No, you’re not showing yet. You’re just bloated. Like Honey Boo Boo’s mother’s face. Welcome to the next year of your life.
What Was I Saying?
Forgetfulness is another interesting symptom of the invasion. I have left the house with candles burning, walked back to my office four times like some kind of deranged one-man Monty Python sketch to get things I kept forgetting, and frozen mid-sentence while teaching my little English 102 students.[3]
[3] Whenever this happened, I would tell my students that I had a medical condition and would explain later. I never did.
Let’s Get Physical
In the 2012 Summer Olympics, one of the bronzed volleyball goddesses was in fact five weeks pregnant during the Games. I was impressed with this news when I heard it as a non-preggo. When I recalled it from my couch during my first trimester, I was beyond impressed. There I was, pasty, doughy, and unable to move; I felt as sexy and fit as Slimer from Ghostbusters. (See Figure 1)
Figure 1
You know what else they don’t tell you when you get pregnant? Apparently, the ovary that contributes the egg (my right ovary, since I know you’re dying to know) develops a cyst after laying the proverbial golden egg. This makes exercise very painful. My strict running regiment was quickly relegated to a brisk walking regiment, and my cyst was promptly named Stewie because I often felt it was trying to kill me. (See Figure 2)
Figure 2
Chapter 3: Men Say the Darndest Things
I love my husband dearly, I truly do. I think any woman would be hard-pressed to find a man as kind-hearted and sentimental (or just mental) as my husband. However, I have come to the conclusion that it is physically impossible for a man to actually understand what it’s like to be pregnant and is therefore physically impossible for a man to sympathize properly. Even the most emotionally sensitive man in the world could not understand. (See world’s most emotionally sensitive man, Figure 3)
Figure 3
The Olive Garden
We had just finished our first ultrasound together –we got pictures, were able to hear the baby’s heartbeat…it was really real. We really had implanted an alien life form into my uterus.
After showing the pictures to my mom and eating an authentic Italian lunch at The Olive Garden[4], Sean and I went car shopping. We had decided to sell his beloved Nissan Z and my even more beloved 95 Jeep Wrangler (I would attach a photo, but it would burn a hole in the page with its awesomeness and glory). We needed a baby-safe vehicle. This was Sean’s first priority upon finding out we were expecting, and he had been talking to me incessantly about vehicle options[5]
[4] We had a gift card.
[5] Hint: Get your woman to agree to anything by talking about it nonstop…until she agrees with you to make you stop. It really does work! Ask me again how I got pregnant. If she starts to beg you to stop, that’s a sign that she’s close to caving and you should keep going.
So, we leave the Olive Garden and pull onto the service road. Exhausted from feeding and growing my alien, I lament to Sean, “I’m so tired. I really could use a nap.”
Without hesitation Sean quipped, “Well, you’d better get your second wind.”
Slowly, my head rotated and tilted as I looked at him. Pause. “If you weren’t the man I love, I would stab you in the head right now.” And it’s true. Any other man would have had a pen jousted through his ear so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him. And it wouldn’t even have been my fault.
Ladies, your men, sweet and loving though they intend to be, will say stupid things. However, they impregnated you and therefore love the alien that is sucking the life out of you. I have yet to experience this myself, but you will want them alive for after the baby is born. Refrain from killing them in deserving times such as these.
The Dominos Effect
Sean had drill. I had spent the day working on school work for a PhD program that I quickly regretted almost a month after starting. I lay on our fantastic king-sized bed in a state of repose. My respite was interrupted by Sean’s return home. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, depositing his bags in the bedroom door and swooping over for a greeting.
In case your short term memory fails you, recall that I am laying on the bed like a corpse alone in the dark. I am pregnant. Recall, too, that this is among the first three things out of my literate, able-bodied husband’s mouth when he gets home.
“There’s some ground beef in the freezer.” It was the only meat in the house. Since being feebled by el fetus, my grocery shopping priority had slipped well below other major focal points, like daily survival.
“It’s still frozen?” Yes.
“You could always go pick up Hungry Owl,” I suggested. (It’s important to note that Sean and I live in Theodore. It is the home of the least-educated yet most avid Alabama football fans known to mankind. The “stores” up the road from our house are ongoing yard-sales and flea markets. When I was in my OB-GYN’s office the day they drew blood to determine I was pregnant, I was in a waiting room with four other pregnant girls, all of whom attended Theodore High School. I once taught a student from Theodore who proudly told the class that she had her baby while in high school and –thanks to the Pell Grant, Welfare, Food Stamps, and WIC, was able to attend college. She wrote her final paper about getting drunk at San Miguel Hacienda Tequila’s staff Christmas party that year. Did I mention she was 19? So, the only locally-owned restaurant (that wasn’t a southern greasy-spoon) open at that hour was Hungry Owl. Great food, terrible service. The only gig for miles, so overall, a successful business.)
Picking up Hungry Owl would take 15 minutes to drive to, possibly 40 minutes for them to cook, and then another 15 minutes to schlep home. So, in total, we probably wouldn’t eat for at least an hour. In that time, the beef could have been thawed. “Breakfast” for dinner wasn’t appetizing either. Dammit, why wasn’t the beef already thawed. We could go get Hungry Owl together? If I was too sick to cook, why did I feel like schlepping to Hungry Owl? We could eat there? It would still take an hour. I swear to God, that damn ground beef….
Desperate to end the circle of indecisiveness, I braved territory I had yet to since I was a bulimic singleton. We could order pizza delivery. After this suggestion and a brief pause to ensure satellites would not fall from the sky or that flames wouldn’t start shooting out of the Earth, we called Dominos, and all was well. Mediocre, but well.
Is That a Baby in Your Belly or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
One Friday toward the end of my first trimester, I came home and removed my coat. Sean looked at me and said, “Awe, you’re at that stage where you can’t tell if you’re pregnant or just getting fat.”
Asinine Arguments
We will, like any couple, argue about stupid things. However, even when I beg him to stop, he will continue ranting like a lunatic, which invariably stresses me out. Unfortunately, a consequence of pregnancy is not having the ability to self-medicate. That said, we are not ever going to speak of four wheelers again unless our child brings it up. Also, we will continue referring to the bar and buffet as a “hutch” because men do not see these as separate entities. Even sophisticated ones like my husband.
Terrible Twos: You’re Not Going to Tell Me What to Do
On the way to Mississippi, I was talking to Sean about some interesting research pertaining to why one’s child should not watch TV under the age of two.
After I explained the consequences in some detail, Sean thought for a moment. He then said, “You know, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you telling me how we’re going to raise our child. That’s going to be a pretty miserable existence.” Or something like that. He also threw in the colorful description that he had no intentions of abiding by “BS liberal Psychology Today gibberish”…or something like that.
I paused, bemused and shocked and then chose my words carefully (I was no longer with a sane man…I was with an emotional father-to-be….as a pregnant woman, it was my job to calm his emotions). “While I agree that PT is biased (and it is) in some of their information, I will say that I’m smart enough to distinguish unbiased research from other. Further, I didn’t even say I got this information from PT.”
Pause. “And, I don’t want to “tell you how to do things” either. I would love it if you would also read some of the literature on child rearing, so we could have an educated discussion as opposed to me just explaining everything to you.”
Because I strongly feel that I won that exchange, I do not recall what was said afterward. This may be because the subject changed or because some idiot driver became a distraction, thus saving us from a potential argument.
And in General
The majority of the time, Sean has been pretty good to me; however, he seems limited in his ability to understand that when I say that I am tired or have a headache, it means I want to rest and / or sleep. It does not mean that I want to or am capable of making him a snack, scratching his back, or scratching his other insatiable itch. He does not physically comprehend how I am incapable of doing these things. And, allow me to explain, I am capable. If it were matter of life and death or perhaps, inheriting several billion dollars, I could muster the enthusiasm to be the back scratching culinary sex-goddess I am whilst not pregnant; however, these are dark days. He just doesn’t get it. I think he feels that by acknowledging that I am pregnant and in need of some extra sympathy, I will no longer even attempt to perform the afore mentioned tasks. I may never know if that theory has merit.
A Few Kudos
Sean has been amazing in the following respects: He washes the laundry, he vacuums the floor, he keeps the bathrooms clean, he cleans the litter boxes and cleans up the cat sick (there’s a lot). He goes for walks with me. He sold that Z of his. He has even cooked a couple of dinners including one pretty darn tasty hamburger and one somewhat disturbing fish. He will be an interesting and excellent father. I hope that he would say the same about me, only with the term mother.
Chapter 4: Other People Reacting to Your Baby
Seeing as this was our first child and also the first grandchild on both sides, a text message or singing telegram was not the way to inform family that we were –to use a Tudor expression—in pup. Or something like that.
Amy’s Parents
We told my mom and dad first. The information was delivered the week I would have otherwise had my cycle. Their neighbor’s house had caught on fire, and the selfish rescue personnel had prevented my parents from leaving for church. So, we just met at Zeas. My dad asked what was new, and Sean immediately launched into a half-hour monologue about flying.
When he paused for breath, I took my chance and explained to my parents –using the same careful phrasing and serious tone one might use to tell a child that his mother had cancer—that we were expecting. They were elated, mom announcing she had already purchased baby things (from Avon, but still, baby things).
Sean’s Parents
We met Sean’s parents at The Olive Garden (our baby is going to love that place!) in Mississippi (our baby is not going to love that place). I don’t remember the guise other than the fact that we wanted to see them. We also had a birthday gift for Sean’s mom –a rather tasteful silver Pandora bracelet with black onyx stones, if I say so myself, so that looked like the reason for the meeting.
During a conversational lull, Sean asked, “So, do you yall want to be called grandma and grandpa or memaw and peepaw?” with the same casual air as though he were asking if they the breadsticks with more or less garlic salt. His parents blanched and then his mom –who later said she did not recall this—asked, “Are you pregnant?” I responded by nodding. They, too, were elated.
Our Friends
Rachel and David got pregnant during their honeymoon immediately after their June 2 wedding. I told Rachel via text and we conspired to do dinner to tell David after a night of Mellow Milers. Somewhere in the conversation at their house, Sean was talking and slipped in, “Ever since we found out we were pregnant,” to which David froze, eyes wide, mouth agape, like he had just been shot in the butt with a slingshot and then shouted with excitement hugging both of us and his wife at once (I think). (If it didn’t happen that way, it should have.)
I don’t remember how I told my friend Alison, fellow lefty and wine-lover, but it was in my office a negligible time following us being sure we were with child, and she hugged me, very excited and supportive. Deep down, I think we were both sorry that I wouldn’t be able to celebrate the Halloween block party or the Kentucky Derby party with gusto this round, but hopefully we were both thinking the same thing: next year. Alison offered me the most valuable advise yet: There will come a time after the baby is born that you will want to kill your husband. Restrain yourself. She’s my Yoda.
Becca and Courtney I told over the phone since a trip to Virginia or South Florida before the arrival of June Bug seemed unlikely. Both, of course, were very excited, and I know Bug will be lucky to have two lovely Aunties and a friend in Courtney’s baby (due January 1, 2013).
Nicole and Alex were told at Mellow Mushroom. They were both very excited for us, and after enduring some of Alex’s funniest commentary to date (something about how little girls make him uncomfortable), Nicole concluded it might be a while before they join the baby-making trend. I hope they join soon.
I told Daniela at Greekfest (I almost passed out buying jewelry; it was pretty terrifying). Daniela hugged me, lifted me off the ground, actually, when I told her, and even cried a little. It was a very sweet reaction, and I am excited to have spawned a playmate for her darling Sofia.