pregnancy

homestretch.

In the past 24 hours I have managed to keep down Jello and toast. WHEE!

My belly is very near herniating thanks to a little something called diastasis recti. (The wikiCaseypedia version? This crap hurts something fierce.)

There’s the poop.

And then there’s the sleepy. (Which has actually been vastly improved upon switching from a generic version of my antidepressant to the name brand.)

See also: antenatal depression and anxiety.

So this morning while wallowing in my misery and attempting not to moo or make various beached whale noises I declared that I pretty much stink at being pregnant even though I love it.

So I started to think about all the stuff that’s going right…

silver lining

I don’t pee when I barf, or cough or sneeze. I consider this a victory.

I look pregnant. I have one friend who is so tall and has such a long torso that she never even looked pregnant at 40 weeks, just kind of…puffy.

I also don’t get swollen. (Or haven’t yet.) I can still see my ankle bones, although shaving them has become re-darn-diculous.

Heartburn? Eh, it happens on occasion, nothing that a couple of Tums won’t fix.

No stretch marks. (Again, yet.)

No gestational diabetes.

No other major medical maladies to speak of, well aside from the chronic barfing, but I’m pretty much pro by now.

And the biggest one? I’ve made it to 31 weeks. I am 31 weeks pregnant after trying for over five years to get here. I’m more than halfway! I’m more than 3/4 of the way! And wonderful people have been taking care of me all along. From my friends here locally, to the friends and family all over who have played along in the Mozzi celebration that Emily organized…I am good, I am thankful, I am blessed.

Albeit a little queasy.

Pass the Jello.

xoxo to you all.

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30 weeks.

30 weeks.

41″ circumference.

159 lbs.

70 days to go.

All is well.

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sue sylvester keeps her shark tank upstairs and other gestational realizations.

I am walking a very fine line between “getting through” and “becoming the worst OB patient my doctor has ever seen.” The list of fears, questionable maladies and panic have resulted in a list that is going to blind said doctor come Thursday. To make matters worse it will be my gestational diabetes test as well so not only will I be super! inquisitive! I’ll be hopped up on the sugar drink.

I just woke up from a dream where Mozzi’s foot was poking out right around my ribs, I counted 8 (!) perfect tiny little toes and then my friend dug her foot out, the same way you dig you way through new pantyhose, and we all kissed and tickled it. However when it came time to put the little foot back in it wouldn’t stay. My only choice was to pull Mozzi out and head to the hospital where my water then broke and I birthed all that…other crap. Some doctor found me a crappy bed until Sue Sylvester’s shark tank started flooding because all of her landscaping had given out. Honestly, who puts a shark tank on the second level of their home?  Anyway, the nice lady that fed Sue’s hammerhead shark ended up getting eaten and we all had to abandon the area.

Last week Cody made me go to a quilt show, then he slammed my fingers in the window of a Jeep. I woke up sobbing.

Last night something happened on the streets of New York and I woke up sobbing again.

I have a highly pasteurized tube of sour cream in my fridge that expires April 28, 2011. Normally that would mean “MY BIRTHDAY! IT IS SO CLOSE!” this year it means “A tube of sour cream may outlast the days of me being pregnant.

This is really happening. I’m getting my baby. (And all the weird stuff that goes along with making one apparently.) I am going to have a baby to hold. To sniff. To love. My very own baby that I don’t have to give back. A baby that is going to be born into love clean carpet, good smelling sheets and non expired dairy products. A baby that has brought our family closer together with so much hope, love, support, gratitude and peace.

lemons with a pea card.

77 days to go.

(card available at Robin’s etsy store along with other fine PG-13 rated goods.)

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the cat in my bag.

I am 1.5″ away from reaching the 42″ circumference I achieved at 40 weeks with Addie.

I dare you to get me out of this shirt. I DARE YOU. Because it's not going to happen.

A) holy crap.

B) ow.

I polled some moms on facebook last night about the pain I’m experiencing in the midsection area, I’ve been trying to describe to to Cody, or really anyone with ears who will listen and I think I finally came up with an explanation. (!) The helpful souls of facebook used terms such as “rabid badger! burning! searing! tearing! ripping!”

.

.

.

.

Thanks facebook! A “it’s normal” would have sufficed but you really went the extra mile with all the adjectives!

Anyway, I finally figured out a way to describe it.

It’s not very ethical. PETA may not like it very much. I will neither confirm nor deny that I have ever done this to a cat. I’m afraid to even search for it on YouTube, because there’s strange people out there with Internet access and video cameras.

And cats.

Anyway, imagine putting a large cat in a plastic grocery bag and hanging said grocery bag from a doorknob.

The stretched bag is my belly, the wiggly cat is Mozzi.

(photo by fen branklin)

Yeah, that looks pretty accurate.

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pregnancy and poop. a tragedy.

Pregnancy and poop.

A loathsome relationship for most any gestating female.

One that no one really wants to talk about.

You either miss it or wish it would stop.

Very rarely is there a middle ground.

I am one of those who misses it, dearly.

There have been occasions where it has come…and I have cried.

Pregnancy, Zofran and iron pills are the trifecta of the anti-poop in my world.

Then again I want to be pregnant, I don’t want to barf and anemia I do not love.

*sigh*

But there is one tiny, fuzzy oval shaped lining in all this…awkwardness.

The kiwi.

my love for the kiwi is boundless.

The kiwi has the ability to make a rough day go a little smoother, without the side effects of gurgle gut, the sweats and your mouth watering (I’m looking at you chemical laxatives.)

Without troubling you too much further with this poop talk…I will end with this.

God bless the Kiwi and the tree it rode in on.

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28 weeks.

28 weeks 28 weeks 28 weeks

I gave Addie my remote shutter release and free reign to do whatever she wanted…this is what she came up with.

She’s six, and I couldn’t be more proud.

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one can’t forget about us.

This is a story I’d never thought I’d tell, either because it was too sacred or it would scare people off. A woman hearing voices while driving on the freeway tends to land her in the “yay! crazy!” sub genre of society. But allow me to explain.

Cody and I had been married several years. I was having some sort of early 20′s crisis over “is this it? this is all there is? an eternity more of this?” Don’t get me wrong, “this” was good, but a lifetime of Hamburger Helper (I didn’t know how to cook yet) and Friday night movies (come back Friday night movies!) seemed…well…boring.

I was talking to a friend about my crisis (I feel the needs to put air quotes around the world “crisis”) and he said “Did you ever think maybe it’s time for you guys to consider having kids?

PFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT!!!!!!!” with a bunch of spittle sprang forth from my mouth. “KIDS? ME? I don’t even like kids! Why would I make one of my own that I am responsible for!?” (There was also an underlying fear that I wouldn’t be able to have kids due to several surgeries to remove benign tumors from my cervix.)

But after I was done talking to him I started to think, “Kids…huh. There has to be a reason people have them.” So when Cody got home I brought the topic up. He was totally not opposed to the idea, especially considering how babies are made. But we were still unable to look each other in the face and say “Let’s make a baby.” So we decided to go to the temple separately to pray for an answer.

My drive to the temple was a sunny one, blue sky, big puffy white clouds. I was mulling this kid business over in my head as I was driving when I heard “Yay! Mom’s going to know about us!” in the tiniest sweetest little voices. To say the wind was knocked out of me would be a dramatic understatement. I’ll also say it was a good thing I was already sitting.

The tears started…”Mom’s going to know about us.” and they didn’t stop. Not when I got to the temple, not when I went through the session and especially not when I was able to bow my head in personal prayer at the end. When I finally lifted my head I noticed I was surrounded by nice old ladies who worked in the temple, worried about when the snotty lady in the corner would finish it up already and “I wonder if she’s really okay?

I mean, there’s being touched by the spirit and then there’s being knocked flat to your knees I dare you to feel any other emotion but the overpowering love of God touched by the spirit. Whew, still wears me out to think of it almost eight years later.

I knew Cody and I had someone waiting for us. He had gotten the same answer but with far fewer emotions attached to it. Addie came into our lives within the next year (not without struggles of course) and we were happy. But I never forgot that those little voices in the car that day said “Mom is going to know about us.” Meaning more than one.

That tiny little moment filled with those tiny little voices carried me through the last six years. Addie was meant to be part of a them. Part of an us. A pair. Of course I was frustrated that I was promised an “us” and that “us” came much slower than any of us expected.

But I grew up, I changed, I learned. I was shaped by the experiences and the people I met and even now I am learning more and more about my capacity to love and hope and dream. Both of my babies have been trapped inside my broken body at some point. While they’ll never remember the experience, I will. There are times when I hug Addie and remember how we made it through one of the darkest times of my life together, literally.

The same will be true of Mozzi. That first moment I hold her I will be able to look at her and say “we did this, together.

I was talking with a beloved friend this last week and she mentioned that her first baby was her heart and her second baby was her soul.

Addie is my whole heart and everyday with Mozzi inside me the capacity for my soul to thrive grows.

moosh 1.0 t-shirt and moosh 2.0 onesie

I will never be able to thank them enough for letting me know about them before I even knew of my capabilities and blessings that would result from being their mom.

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silver underwire lining.

The average bra size in America is somewhere between a 34B and 36C. In fact 72% of ladies fall within the B/C cup realm.

I was complaining the other night that the underwire on my 34D bra was entrenched between my ever expanding belly and my enormous pregnancy rack. It’s pretty much the pregnancy equivalent of wearing too tight pants that make you fart.

Very uncomfortable.

Twitter suggested I get thee hence to Nordstrom for a proper fitting, so last night I did just that.  As soon as I took off my shirt so I could be measured, I heard “Oh honey, what is this a C cup?”

“It’s…it’s a D.”

“Oh honey, that D is tired.”

She measured, poked, prodded, asked about my underwear and went out to gather up some possibilities.

She came back with a pink lacy bra that could have easily caught fallen trapeze artists at the circus and slingshot them back up to their starting point.

I’ll admit, once it was on it looked nothing like my old bra. Instead of cleavage coming up to my chin I had two perfectly lifted and separated ladies. (I also admitted in the dressing room that my ladies are named, Mildred and Unis, apparently it’s not normal to name them, or at least if people do they don’t admit it while a stranger straps them into a couple of pink shopping bags.)

I took a deep breath to look at the price…Nordstrom isn’t exactly the cheapest place to buy bras, but damn they know their stuff.

When I looked at the tag I didn’t see dollar signs. I saw five different sizes in five different languages.

what I've been reduced to. (enlarged?)

All of them proclaiming me to be so far past average I had entered the porn star realm of chest sizes.

Suddenly I could hear a faint but distinct cheer from the children’s section where Cody was patiently waiting with Addie.

I had completely skipped several letters of the alphabet, while my band size stayed the same. When I let out a horrified gasp my fitter said “Oh honey, you’re not even done either, just wait until you come back for your nursing bras.”

The “Oh, honeys” really took the edge off, it was as if she were standing there staring at my 39″ belly, my giant fun bags and sending out a sincere “bless your heart” to my back.

She brought in more bras to try but the hilarity of their enormousness overtook me and I had to get out.

The one I bought fits on my head like a strange little Lycra helmet.

Addie woke up at 5 am today to play with a new Barbie that Tiny Gramma had given her. Shortly after I got Addie back in bed with threats of Barbies sleeping with the fishes when played with at 5 am I crawled back into my own bed to a sleepy cheer, apparently Cody was excited about his new toys too.

I fell back asleep attempting to appreciate my newest blessings as much as my darling husband and I came up with a few bonuses.

- Cody now has two pillow pets, whereas Addie still only has one. (Don’t tell her though please.)

- When this pregnancy is over and they’re back to their deflated belly button skimming position, I’ll have an excellent reusable cantaloupe/honeydew/pumpkin/watermelon carrying bag.

- Maybe this time they’ll work for the purpose Mozzi requires of them, they never did work with Addie, more on that one later.

- The more I have in front the smaller I look in the back (optical illusions!)

- Given gravity, the amount of time I spend horizontal is only doing my ladies (and my back) giant exponential favors.

- Cleavage is natures pocket for when you don’t want to carry a purse. My pocket has been upgraded to a mid size SUV.

Alli has been demanding that I be pushed around the Opryland Hotel (compound) in a wheelchair this week at the Blissdom conference. My pride says “NO WAY ARE WE BEING PUT IN A WHEELCHAIR!” However everything below my neck says “SCREW YOUR PRIDE AND SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN.”

And right now I can tell you that my boobs alone are bigger than my pride.

(look! me upright (wishing I weren’t) speaking at the monthly Social Media Club meeting in Indianapolis! photo by Joe.)

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