moosh in indy.

I think something is wrong.

Logic and the many people surrounding me tell me otherwise.

I am only one entity while the logic and people surrounding me are countless.

Who to believe?

I know who I want to believe, but I also know I’m the only one living in my body.

Logic says I have entered that mythical second trimester where the crippling symptoms of early pregnancy are magically lessened and I can actually begin enjoying myself without the constant need of a bucket and antiemetic drugs.

My body says otherwise. Or is that my brain saying otherwise?

I had this overwhelming feeling a week after my positive pregnancy test (okay, seven positive pregnancy tests) that there were only three ways this pregnancy could end, miscarriage, stillbirth or a baby. All of them come with their own pains and difficulties and there is no way to escape emotionally unscathed.

I have already begun to develop a shell around my heart. I haven’t heard a heartbeat, seen the flickering of life on an ultrasound screen or felt the tiny little bubbles of a baby moving inside of me. There is an odd comfort in this. Maybe I can trick myself into believing it was just the stomach flu and some serious bloat if something does go wrong.

Or maybe this really is that second trimester myth coming true. Maybe there was no need to verbally berate my pregnancy app for asking me if I felt better two weeks ago. Maybe I am going to gain weight this time, maybe my ankles are going to swell and I am going to become the beached whale of pregnancy lore.

If I were to say the previous 276 words out loud right now they would be met with “I’m sure you’re fine, there’s nothing wrong, this is what is supposed to happen.” Chances are I wouldn’t even be able to get past the first 5 words before I was being comforted and cajoled with stories of other pregnancies that ceased with the sickness at 15 weeks and ended babies at 40, as if there’s no need to acknowledge all that can and quite often does go wrong.

I know I’m not alone in these fears and feelings. Whether it’s seeing my friends lose babies they wanted so badly, the residual anxiety of finally becoming pregnant after so long or just plain old worry, I actually have a visceral need to say them out loud without being cut short by optimism.

Don’t get me wrong, I love optimism, but I don’t love keeping my feelings to myself simply because they sound silly, ridiculous or illogical.

I’m getting my first passport stamp today…

Just to give you a little idea of how it’s going to go down at the airport…

“Passport please.”

The TSA agent will then look from me to the passport, and from the passport to me. This will repeat several times. He may even call a buddy over to confirm just how wrong said passport photo is.

“Ma’am, you’re aware it’s a federal offense to travel with another persons passport?”

“It’s me, I promise, you see, I had my photo taken and when I took it to the post office they said that my head was too big and that I had to have it retaken RIGHT THEN only I was especially sick that day from this whole pregnant thing I have going on and I didn’t have any makeup on and my hair, wow, I know right? Not to mention I’ve lost about a dozen pounds since that photo was taken and I’m just absolutely sure that the photo was steamrolled in photoshop before it was attached to my passport.”

“Ma’am, are you accusing the U.S. government of tampering with passport photos?”

“NO! It’s just, I’ve never had that awful of a photo taken, I know it doesn’t really matter, I mean, you’re the only one that sees it. You should see my drivers license! Talk about a good hair day! Besides, with my passport expiring in 2020 I’m sure I’ll appreciate this photo someday in the next decade. So…can I go now?”

If all goes well I’ll end up in Toronto, Ontario with only a slight ding to my confidence.

***

Guess what? My video made it to the final three to win a Tempurpedic bed! WHEE! Thank you for watching it!

Guess what else? The Indy IABC likes us! (us being Daniel Incandela and me.)

GUESS WHAT ELSE? I LIKE YOU!

Fadra is giving away a Tempurpedic Cloud bed.

When Cody and I go on dates we generally end up in mattress stores spooning on Tempurpedic beds.

I do not lie.

It makes the sales people very uncomfortable.

But if they don’t want us lying on them then they should A) not make them so comfortable and B) not leave them out so people like us can get to them.

I am currently awaiting the delivery of Tamales to my Chicago hotel room.

This really has nothing to do with anything, I’m just not entirely sure I’ll ever be in this particular situation again and I feel it needs to me mentioned, because honestly, has there ever been a time in your life where you were waiting for tamales to come knocking at your hotel door? (Actually I’m hoping the tamales don’t actually knock, because then I’ll probably wake up on a plane realizing I was only dreaming about tamale delivery to a hotel room en route to Chicago.)

Why Chicago?

Butterball, yo. I’m back for a second year learning everything there is to know about preparing the perfect turkey.

Only this year I’m pregnant, so when all the raw turkey prep work goes down in the morning I’ll most likely be huddled in a corner with a roasting pan filling in for my usual bucket. Or not, I have high hopes that even Zofran can get me through the scented terror that will be 20 raw turkeys in one room.

My ears perk at every set of footsteps that go by, maybe those are my tamales! You see, since Zofran hopped on board I’ve been able to eat more food. Even enjoy it on occasion. However I’m finding that after losing 12 pounds thus far (boo) my body is attempting to make up for lost fluids with intense salt cravings.

Seriously.

If I could find salt flavored salt I would spread it on bacon, wrap it around pickles and dip the whole mess in fry sauce. I had to physically restrain myself from drinking a twee dipping bowl of leftover soy sauce after lunch. (Turns out my California Roll craving was simply a craving for an efficient soy sauce delivery method.)

I’ve also been able to keep down much more fluids. Which means that instead of the fluids coming back out the way they came in, they’re coming out the way they’re supposed to come out which means I am back to that pregnant lady stereotype of having to pee every 15 minutes, give or take. Let’s just say if I had to pay per flush? We’d be eating nothing but squash all winter, and last I checked there’s no such thing as salt squash.

I can honestly tell you it’s much more enjoyable being the stereotype (PEE! PICKLES!) than it is being the sob story (barf. IVs.)

My tamales are here and they beg my full attention. I hope you are well. I know a lot of you (me included) are gearing up for a long cold winter full of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Pull out those SAD lights, make sure they’re ready for when the gloomies hit. A couple of you have had miscarriages. I hope you’re being well taken care of. One of you (that I know of) is going through Lupron hell. Some of you are going through divorces. Some of you are just having a crappy time because for some reason all the crap in the world hit you square in the face.

I hope you know that even if I don’t know you (or even if I do), I have a special little place in my heart for you. It’s lit with glittery holiday lights and there’s comfy pillows all over the place. You’re always welcome there. Because I know you’ve opened your hearts up to me when I’m not doing so well for whatever reason, it would be selfish not to do the same when I’m doing so well for the moment.

xx

Have you ever looked around and felt as if you are in a swirling vortex of negativity and complaints? The last few weeks have felt that way for me. (I mean, it’s pretty much my fault for writing about religion, accepting others, pregnancy, teddy bears and politics within a week’s timeframe. That’s practically begging for naysayers and namecalling!)

I asked twitter for suggestions of what I could write about that NO ONE would have a problem with.

Some people said things like “Cake! Cupcakes! Chocolate! Donuts! BEEF!” In the back of my head all I could see was Jillian Michaels making the gagging face she always makes on Biggest Loser, which then makes me think of all the people who would have a problem with me watching reality TV. Or TV in general. Or with the existence of Jillian Michaels in general.

Other people said “New shoes! Vacations! Massages! Shopping!” Sure, all of those things are great! BUT WHY ARE YOU SPENDING MONEY ON SUCH LAVISH THINGS IN A RECESSION WHEN PEOPLE DON’T EVEN HAVE A ROOF OVER THEIR HEAD? I have become a cynic over the joy that is saving up for and finding the perfect pair of leather boots. (Leather? ANIMAL RIGHTS YOU BABY SEAL CLUBBER!)

Then there where the people who said “Hugs! Kisses! Being in love!” To that I say “HERPES! LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD! LOVE IS FOR FOOLS!”

Really the only things that didn’t set off the tiny little cynic in my head (sidenote, the cynic in my head is a middle aged woman with a cigarette in an old yellow barcalounger.) were the suggestions of “Baby giggles! Orgasms!” I dare you to be cynical about baby giggles. The other one? I’m not going there…the cynic says nice girls shouldn’t talk about such things. But I say the cynic needs a good romp in the sack with her husband. (Wait, now someone’s offended that my inner cynic is a woman and that she’s married to a man and I just suggested they do it.)

I have a love affair with quotes. I have had different ones on my business cards for the last year. One said “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else.” -Erma Bombeck and the current one is “Character, like film, develops in darkness.” -Yousuf Karsh (This one means a lot to me after spending the last year recovering from Lupron.)

I have the quote “Everything will be okay in the end, if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” -Anon on my bathroom mirror.

I have a bracelet that reads “Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave.” -Indira Gandhi

My name, Casey, means brave. One of the biggest things I have worked on over the last few years is forgiveness. Not only forgiveness of others, but forgiveness of myself. I am not perfect. Not to mention there are people who have no problem pointing out how imperfect I am. Some people even save up months of ammunition simply to point out just how awesomely imperfect I am.

People can be shockingly mean and grumpy.

There’s no need to add to that particular subgenera of society.

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” -Mahatma Gandhi

Next time you want to be mean to someone? Don’t. Smile. Walk away. Scream into a pillow. Listen to a baby giggle. Have an orgasm.

And be sure to let me know how that works out for you in the long run.

There comes a point in every HG pregnancy (let me know if I’m wrong) where IVs become little vacations. Especially when done in those really fancy hospital arm chairs with nurse call buttons and warm bags of saline wrapped in blankets to snuggle. IVs mean you get to feel partially human again without having to play stomach roulette, attempting to find a food and/or beverage that is willing to stay down. Bonus points if you get a Zofran chaser and can manage to chow down on a hospital provided snack before leaving.

I have reached the “IVs are fun!” stage of the sickness.

I’m not quite to the “Nasogastric tubes are my homeboy” phase however.

When I’m not looking Addie bites Saltines into the shape of hearts for me.

I certainly never received this particular level of service with my first pregnancy.

(I also guest posted over at Mom it Forward today about shooting things with my mom.)

There’s a certain type of photography I envision in my head. Today I stood under a tree and made Cody stand by me as I explained my perfect picture (of course I didn’t have my camera, but trust me, epic.) I remember a post that Zack Arias wrote about seeing a picture he was about to take from five miles away, my photos don’t come to me in miles, more like inches.

Without corrective eyewear I am twice legally blind.

This also means that without my contacts in I see everything in bokeh, more specifically with an f stop of about 1.4.

For those of you who don’t speak camera…I see things like this…(literally)

It’s honestly not a bad way to see things, focus on what you want to (assuming it’s within six inches of your face) and enjoy the lovely blurry shapes and lights everything else makes. This time of year the sun comes right into my bedroom window in the morning filtered by the mess of trees in our backyard. To me it looks like thousands of soft orange fairly lights. It’s quite lovely.

Cody has said for years that as soon as we could afford it, I could get Lasik. This week was the first time I questioned the benefits of Lasik. Sure, I wouldn’t need contacts or glasses as much, but I wouldn’t ever be able to enjoy the bokeh coming in my bedroom window ever again, well, unless it was through my camera.

My camera would have to speak bokeh to me, because my eyes wouldn’t be able to do it for me anymore by default.

Yet another reason my camera is as important to me as breathing.