Stretch marks are of the devil

When I found out I was pregnant, I bought some anti-stretch mark cream knowing full well that it wouldn’t work. But I diligently rubbed it on my belly every day in the vain hopes that maybe it might do a little bit of good.

Yeah. It didn’t.

I have so many stretch marks that, when two of my college friends (Leah Lar and Minneapolis-Friend-Who-Now-Lives-in-Pasadena- And-Shall-Henceforth-Be-Known-As-Professor-Lapp) came over for dinner on Tuesday and I showed them, they visibly recoiled in horror. I showed them because they were asking me questions about what life is like post-partum, and I may have inadvertently scared them away from ever having children. They both read my blog, however, so it may comfort them to know that my mother said I have more stretch marks than anyone she has ever seen, and she was an OB/GYN nurse. It may comfort them, but it doesn’t comfort me.

But to anyone who might think that stretch marks can be avoided if you only firm up your belly through exercise, I pose the following question: How, pray tell, was I supposed to firm up my belly button? Because last night I discovered that there are stretch marks inside my belly button. And, seeing as how my belly button has shrunk back down and returned to its former state as an innie, these stretch marks are all compacted down and therefore very dark, and now my belly button is a completely different color than the rest of my skin. Frankly, my belly button looks filthy.

But it’s not as though I’ll ever be wearing a bikini a short shirt ever ever again, so I guess it doesn’t matter. And, perhaps as karmic compensation, I am currently two months post-partum and wearing pre-pregnancy jeans despite my lack of a rigorous workout routine.

I am also wearing a long shirt.

How do you spell relief?

Every once in a while, it strikes me that I am currently not experiencing acid reflux, and it’s all I can do to keep from audibly sighing in relief. Aside from snuggling the snuggly baby, the lack of acid reflux may very well be the absolute best part of not being pregnant anymore. I had it almost constantly for the last month or two of my pregnancy, and, as hard as it may be to believe, acid reflux was the worst part of my pushing experience. I’m sure that the contractions would have been the worst part had I not elected to have the epidural, but as it stood, that damn reflux was unbelievably distracting. It kept drawing my focus to my throat, which was exactly the wrong place to focus. I believe that acid reflux was at least 25% responsible for slowing down my progress.

The good news is that you are allowed to have Maalox while in labor. The bad news is that Maalox does not do anything to lessen the actual labor pain.

Ill-fitting pants

Internet, today I tried on a pair of my pre-pregnancy pants, and THEY FIT! MOSTLY! (I think that at the end of the day they'd be tight, but I will take what I can get.) In a frenzy of excitement, I then re-tried on some pre-pregnancy jeans, but they are still way too tight. As are the rest of my pre-pregnancy pants. After trying them all on, I remembered that the pants that currently fit (mostly) were actually kind of too big before I got pregnant, but STILL! Wooooooo!

This is doubly exciting, because all of my maternity pants are pretty much too big (except for the magical Mimi Maternity jeans which were SO WORTH the $70 as they are by now at a per-wear cost of less than $1), and my transition one-size-larger jeans are a little too big, so I look pretty schlumpy all the time. Yesterday, Emily and I had an email conversation about our current problem of ill-fitting pants, and I told her that I can't wait till I get the doctor's all-clear to work out again. Not for my health. Not for my vanity. No, my sole motivation for working out and getting back to my pre-pregnancy size is my white-hot hatred of having to buy new pants. Finding pants that fit is just second only to finding a bathing suit that fits in terms of painful shopping ordeals.

In unrelated news, yesterday The Husband and I got DirectTV because they were offering a phenomenal deal in combination with Verizon DSL. So today we called Comcast to cancel, and Comcast got very concerned and asked why. We ended up in a bidding war between Comcast and DirectTV but decided to stay with Comcast because they agreed to give us the three-for-$99 deal that they've been advertising.

The interesting thing is that I called to ask for that deal a few weeks ago, and was told that we were not eligible because it's only for new subscribers. I said, "Well, what if I told you that in that case, we're going to cancel our internet and switch to DSL?" The Comcast rep was sorry to hear that, but the offer was only for new subscribers. The Husband told the new Comcast rep this story, and he could practically hear the guy's eyes roll.

Long story short, the DirectTV installer wasted a lot of time yesterday drilling a completely unnecessary hole into our wall, because we've decided to stay with Comcast, whom I now really wish we had called to cancel service before setting up DirectTV.

42 weeks

Although I don’t intend this blog to become 100% baby 100% of the time, there’s not a whole lot else going on in my life right now. Also, I’m only two weeks postpartum, so I think I get to talk about the baby a bit longer.

Two things have surprised me about having a baby. First, I did not expect the recovery to take so long. Naively, I sort of thought that by now, I’d be flitting around town, happily toting the baby with me, taking long walks, and going to visit my mom, my mother-in-law, and my sisters whenever I wanted. Instead, I am feeling pretty damn proud of myself because I managed to clean the bathroom yesterday and today, I went to CVS and I voted. And I walked to the polling center (which is not, as the previous sentence might indicate, located at CVS). It’s, like, an eight-minute walk. Granted, it’s about a four-minute walk for a normal person, but still. Riding high on endorphins here. Now, though, I have to lie down for awhile and rest. All that voting really took it out of me.

The other surprising thing is how very quickly I forgot what it was like to be pregnant. I curl up on the couch just like I used to in the bygone days before Jack and don’t even notice what I’m doing. The feeling of beached whaleness are but a distant, hazy memory.

40 weeks

By some miracle, I am already down one size above my pre-pregnant size, and the jeans that are one size larger are even slightly loose.

42 weeks

Please believe that this drastic drop in size is in no way attributable to my virtuous pregnancy exercise regimen, because my pregnancy exercise regimen consisted of parking sort of far away from the lab, but only until they told me I could have the company space close to the door. I also talked a lot about going for walks. I didn’t go for walks, mind you. I just talked about it.

Apparently, I can thank breastfeeding for shrinking my uterus, and possibly my pre-pregnancy exercise regimen served me well. But mostly, I think I’m just lucky. Arwen is already back in her pre-pregnancy pants, and she thinks maybe it’s God’s way of saying “Sorry about all that nausea you had for the first four months.” Maybe that’s true, and applies to me as well. Whatever the reason, I’m not complaining.

Not about that, anyway.

Quick update

Yup, still pregnant.

Man, I can't BELIEVE I was three weeks late. Two days late is killing me.

I think that Carly Simon song is about me, actually

First of all: The baby is still firmly ensconced in my womb and appears to have no intentions of budging. I am not writing this from the hospital, nor am I on my way to the hospital, nor do I have any reason believe I will ever get to go to the hospital. So if you’re here for the baby check, consider yourself updated.

But the good news is that I did get to go to the wedding yesterday without giving birth at the reception. And surprisingly (at least to me), I did get some “Wow, you look fantastic” compliments. And I also got cake. All in all, it was a pretty good day.

There were, however, a few problems. After I finished doing my hair and makeup, I got dressed, put on my shoes, and walked out to the car. The mistake here was putting on my shoes. Because, you see, I am far too vain to wear the sensible flat black loafers with my dress and sparkly jewelry, so I wore my silver sparkly heels. Three inch heels. Three inch skinny heels.

I am a moron.

I figured that I’d be fine because I would mostly be sitting, but the brief walk to the car combined with the act of actually getting into the car – I never noticed before that The Husband’s car is much lower to the ground than mine – pretty much did me in. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to bring the sensible black loafers with me, so I only wore the fancy shoes while in the church. Even so, my back was pretty damn angry with me for the rest of the day.

But it’s just that the silver sparkly heels are so pretty! And the sensible black loafers, which I wore at the reception and therefore had to wear in the formal picture of the choir, looked truly ridiculous.

So, basically, what I’m saying is that even knowing how quickly the heels caused me terrible back pain, I’d wear them again. Because I am just that vain.

Except I’d bring them into the reception with me and wear them in the photo.

T-minus 0 days. Hah.

Nope, no baby yet.

Nesting Schmesting

Just got back from the doctor's. No progress.

I'm going to be pregnant for the rest of my life.

So this is nesting

Well, I just spent the morning dusting. This is highly unusual. I’m either nesting or brain damaged. If I find myself ironing, I will have to call the authorities.

This could also be the so-called “burst of energy” my mother told me about that kicks in right before labor, so maybe I won’t be making that wedding after all.

T-minus 4 days, supposedly

Well, I’m no longer going to work. I was going to go till Friday, but the hour-long commute each way just became too hard to take, so I gave up today. I am officially on maternity leave.

This does not mean that I have a baby yet. Nor do I expect to have a baby by Saturday. Based purely on a hunch, I think this baby o’ mine is going to be late. Possibly it will be retribution for my own late arrival. I was three weeks late, people. THREE WEEKS. My poor mother. I knew this fact growing up, but until now, I did not realize how long three weeks can be. I cannot imagine being pregnant for another month. And although this baby will not be allowed to be three weeks late, there is no reason to expect him or her to be on time. And I don’t.

But, since I am home today, I watched the Today show, and Deepak Chopra was on plugging his new book. I mention this only because he was wearing a black suit and bright red sneakers. It was fairly awesome.

To be honest, I don’t actually want the baby to come until Sunday or Monday, because one of my church choir friends from Grad School is getting married on Saturday, and I really want to go to her wedding, even though she was so inconsiderate as to choose my due date for her big day. I mean, really. She should have checked with my reproductive schedule before planning her own major life events. Some people.

The good news is that, should I go into labor at the wedding, there will be at least two pediatricians (one of whom is the bride), two brain doctors, a nurse and a midwife in attendance, and at least half of them, notably the midwife, will probably at my table. Still, I’d rather avoid that particular drama, since I think I read in Miss Manners that going into labor at someone’s wedding is an even greater faux pas than wearing white.

I, myself, will be wearing black, and looking large. It is the same very forgiving and stretchy dress I wore to Brother-in-law’s wedding in July, but I don’t think I’m going to get as many surprised sounding, “Wow, you look fantastic!” compliments as I did then, back when I was small. I think that instead, I’ll be getting comments like, “Yikes! Why don’t you sit down? Here, take my chair.”

FYI: Due Date

By the by, People of the Internet, my due date is October 21. Which is 6 days from today. I don't think I ever actually told you that.

Phantom leg cramps

During this pregnancy, The Husband has been very good to me. He gives me no flak whatsoever when I play my trump card and sit around instead of doing the dishes like I said I would. And I play this card pretty much all the time now, as I am incapable of performing any tasks without resting for at least an hour before and after. Today, for example, The Husband went grocery shopping, which he hates, and cleaned the tub, which he also hates. And he will rub my back and stroke my head upon request and is just generally awesome. Of course, The Husband has always been awesome, so this is not surprising. There is, however, a dark side to the story.

Being pregnant has increased my proclivity towards leg cramps. Many many times over the past nine months, I have stretched my leg during the night only to be awakened by an intense, shooting pain in my calf muscle which has become locked in the contracted position. The only way to stop the pain is to flex my foot and stretch out the calf muscle, but this is something I am completely unable to accomplish while lying down, gasping in pain.

When this first started happening, I would shake The Husband awake and say, “Ow! Ow! The Husband! Ow! My leg! Ow! Please, can you – ow! Ow! My foot! Ow! My leg!” while uselessly waving the afflicted leg in his general direction. Having just been pulled from a deep sleep, he naturally had no idea that this incoherent gasping translated into, “Please pull my foot back and stretch out my calf muscle.” And he would be kind of annoyed with me.

After this happened a few times, I decided that we had to have some practice runs during the day, and I explained to him that I woke him up like that, I needed him to pull my foot back and flex it for me. This improved matters dramatically, as I was able to wake him up and simply say, “Ow! Leg! Left!” and he would know what to do. But in his sleep-addled state, he still tended to get annoyed with me for waking him up and being incoherent.

One time in particular, as he attempted to pull my foot back and unlock my cramped muscle, he said to me, “Stop fighting me!” in exasperation. You see, my leg cramp was so strong that he thought that I was actually pushing against him with my foot, purposely not letting him stretch out my leg.

The next morning, I asked him about this. “You secretly think I’m making up the leg cramp thing, don’t you,” I said. “There’s actually a part of you that believes I’m waking you up and pretending that I can’t pull my own foot back to stretch out my calf muscle.”

The Husband gave me a sheepish grin. “Uh… yeah,” he said.

But I don’t hold it against him. He came around and believes me now, and he’s been taking care of so many other things that I wouldn’t dream of complaining. And he never makes fun of me when I take off my pants because they’re too tight and take off my sweater because I’m too hot and write blog entries in my underwear.

You know, hypothetically.

It's not a race, which is good, because I'm losing

OK, everyone in the entire world who was pregnant along with me has had their babies. The Husband's cousin, due a week after me, had her baby on Tuesday. So did his other cousin, also due after me. And Emily, due the same day as me, had her baby on the 10th. And now Arwen, due four days after me, had her baby today! But I feel confident that I will give birth before Maggie, since she is only 10 weeks. (For the record, Emily also finished her bathroom remodel first even though she started it several months after we did. I'm not quite certain I've forgiven her for that.) What is up with everyone being early? I thought first babies were usually late.

Of course I am very happy for everyone, but I can't help but feel jealous. Because I am ready. I bought a diaper pail last Monday, and that was the last thing we needed. The bathroom and pantry are fully functional. Our last birthing class was today. The clothes have all been washed, the nursery is set up:





And I can't wait to dress the baby in these:





We are ready.



So, baby, come on out! I'm dying to meet you! And also to have you stop kicking me in the spleen, or whatever tender spot that is! You know the spot; it's where you like to put your foot when you stretch.

So, any time now would be fine.

Really.

Any time.

Being dead inside really cuts down on household clutter

A few weeks ago, at Babies ‘R’ Us, The Husband and I noticed a display of bronzed baby shoes with a little information card that we could take in case we were planning to bronze our baby’s shoes.

“Is that something you think you’d want to do?” he asked me.

I regarded him, an amused expression on my face. “Me? You think I would want to do that? I, the one who is willing to sell her engagement ring for the right price? No. No, I think we’re all set.”

“Good,” he replied.

Trump card

On Saturday, The Husband and I tried to go to our last birthing class, but it turned out we had the wrong Saturday. We’re sort of scatterbrained lately, can’t imagine why. At any rate, as we were leaving the hospital, The Husband said, “Well now I can get a head start on all that stuff I need to get done. I think I’ll start with mowing the lawn.”

“I think I’ll start with putting my feet up,” I replied. Because, you see, I’ve decided to begin playing my “Nine Months Pregnant” card. Until now, I think I’ve done fairly well with holding that card back and doing the chores that I have been capable of doing: laundry, baseboard-painting, shopping, nursery-setting-up-ing, etc. But on Saturday, I suddenly felt about two months more pregnant than I was on Friday, and I just couldn’t face the idea of chores of any kind.

“Oh, the ‘Nine Months Pregnant’ card?” said The Husband. “So maybe I should make you some index cards that say ‘Nine Months Pregnant’ and you can whip them out whenever something needs to be done?”

“That sounds fine,” I said, “as long as you know that I still get to keep the card after I’ve played it.”

“I can play my ‘I Built a Bathroom’ card, though, right?” asked The Husband.

“Sure, but whatever card you try to play, it will be beaten by the ‘Nine Months Pregnant’ card,” I replied. “When you can build a person, you get back to me.”

So I spent the day largely – no pun intended – on the couch. I did manage to put together the shelves that we are going to hang in the bathroom, and I think I washed some diapers. I didn’t fold them or anything, though, because that would have involved effort. Otherwise, I watched some TV and took a nap.

Interesting thing: During my nap, I let out two sudden snorey snorts. I know this, because each time, I woke myself up. In case that is not clear, let me say it again: I woke myself up with my own snores. Apparently, I’ve been snoring a lot lately, but The Husband has been kindly keeping this information to himself. We think it’s because of the pregnancy-induced increased blood flow that has caused my blood vessels to constrict my nasal passages. I’m sure I’ll return to my natural, ladylike self after the baby is born.

Yeah, that “Nine Months Pregnant” card comes in handy.

I was also in charge of the dead plants that I hid in the side yard

Plants I was responsible for caring for:

Impatiens. Supposed to grow well in this climate. Just need watering.


Plant The Husband is responsible for caring for:

Plumeria. From Hawaii. Very touchy, difficult to grow in the wintery north.

So. Who should be responsible for feeding the baby?

Baby heads are jam-packed with pheromones

I have been spared the supposedly common pregnancy-induced cravings for things like pickles and ice cream. Instead, I have become somewhat obsessed with the smell of baby heads. You could even say I crave it. I remember babysitting as a teenager, rocking a baby to sleep, and being amazed at how good his little head smelled. I could have sat there all day, perfectly content just to sniff his head while he slept. And it was not that his head smelled of baby powder or perfumes. No, a baby head has a distinct, lovely, happy smell that is independent of soap or powder. It’s special.

So when it recently occurred to me that soon I will be able to smell my own baby’s head, I got excited. “I can’t wait to smell the baby’s head. How about you?” I said to The Husband. Imagine my horror upon discovering that he was not, in fact, looking forward to it, because he has never smelled a baby head and had no idea it was something to be excited about.

Well, that about did it for me. I became very eager to witness The Husband’s first smell of a baby head, knowing it will be even more special because it will be the head of our very own baby. Now it seems that all I talk about is the smell of a baby head. And for some reason, I insist upon using the word “baby” as an adjective. I never say “Wait till you smell the baby’s head,” I say, “Wait till you smell the baby head.” Is that weird?

Perhaps this particular thing is symbolic to me of The Husband’s relationship with our baby. Seeing The Husband act as a dad could very well be what I most look forward to once the baby is born. He’s going to be a great dad. He’s going to be the kind of dad who knows everything, and he’s also going to be completely whipped. It’s probably going to be hard for The Husband not to spoil this child, because he’s going to want to give him or her everything in the world.

It’s going to be amazing to watch, and it’s going to start with that first whiff of baby head.

Clumsiness: The secret shame of pregnancy

Last Sunday, at my baby shower, I decided to pour myself a cup of milk. I managed this without incident, but ran into problems when I attempted to drink some of it. You see, I picked up the cup of milk and immediately dropped it. No one bumped me or anything; I just… let go of the cup. I’m still not entirely clear what happened.

After that, I got in trouble because Big Sister #3 asked me to “toss her a paper cup,” and I did, but it fell onto the cake. I guess she didn’t mean “toss” in the literal sense.

I was only trying to make her happy.

At least it’s not tight in the back

Yesterday I wore one of the new, gigantic (size XL-maternity) shirts that I bought last weekend. It was a loose blouse, and I was a little concerned that I would look really sloppy, as my style tends towards more fitted clothes as opposed to baggy stuff. So after I put it on, I asked The Husband, “Does this look too tenty?” I was remembering the days when I first tried to wear a maternity t-shirt, and it just hung out on all sides like a tent.

The Husband regarded me with pity, trying to work out the best way to phrase his response. Looking down, I realized why. “Oh. It’s not tenty at all, is it. It is actually skimming my belly,” I sighed.

And that t-shirt that used to be way too big?

It’s too small.

Sadly, I am just standing normally

Last night as we were installing light fixtures and outlet faceplates in the bathroom (The end is so near! So! Near!), The Husband tried to get by me to go through the door into the kitchen. He glanced at my giant mound of a belly and said, “You’re sticking that out on purpose, right?”

I stuck it out to demonstrate the difference.

“Woah.”