My Magnificent Mommy Mound

Yup, that's all me. Well, me and Spawn.

"Magnificent Mommy Mound..." that's what my husband refers to my growing belly. I think it's rather sweet. Better than "great with child" most definitely!

This photo is from a maternity shoot we did this last weekend with me at 38 weeks and ready to go at any moment. They say that by now she's running out of room and should be slowing down in movements... ha! They also say pregnancy is wonderful and a blessing and those are not the first words that have come to mind when describing this bizarre, messy, uncomfortable, exhausting and at times overwhelming process. Her movements now are even more extreme and a lesson in physics... "For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction" meaning when she's kicking in my rib area, that means she's also being propelled downward to head butt my cervix, which really hurts! Takes my mind off my ribs being kicked though, which isn't exactly like petting a baby bunny.

Anyway, back to photos... we've only got a sneak peak at them with the one above and this one...

 

which I also love. Not bad for a guy who has never done a maternity photo shoot before and spends most of his time photographing Ultimate Fighting bouts. He shot our wedding (click on the right to advance, the first batch are us) and we loved working with him and he with us so he was nice enough to experiment with this project. I can't wait to see the rest of them!

Every once in awhile I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and still have a hard time believing that giant belly belongs to me! I've only put on 20lbs total, but luckily it seems to be mostly in front. I've even woken up, tried to turn over and been like "Oh wow, is that STILL there?!!?" Seems like a difficult thing to forget I know, but since it's constantly changing there's always something new to get used to.

So, the bags are mostly packed, the iPod is updated and play lists made, the random baby stuff is assembled and ready to go... and hopefully so are we! Or at least as ready as a bag full of camera gear, massage oils, nursing bras, newborn clothes, and meditating music can make us.

Hyperbole and Three Quarters

First of all, I am freely admitting that I took the much of the following from the fabulously hilarious Hyperboyle and a Half website. When I saw it I couldn't help but change it to fit my current pending childbirth situation. She wrote it upon seeing the woefully inadequate pain scale on the wall of the ER when her boyfriend was there. I wonder if the L&D Nurses and Midwives will find it amusing and/or helpful if I print it out and post it in my room? (Edit: They did! Last time I checked, they still had it posted in their break room.)

You've probably seen some version of that chart before.  You may also have noticed how inadequate it is at helping you.  Based on the faces, this is my interpretation of the chart:

0:  Haha!  I'm not wearing any pants! Possibly because none of them fit, but that’s OK! I’m pregnant!

2:  Awesome!  Someone just offered me a free hot dog! Nitrates be damned, I want some sushi too!

4:  Huh.  I never knew that about giraffes. Or elephants. How long did you say it was? Wow.

6:  I'm sorry about your cat, but can we talk about something else now?  I'm bored. Did I tell you that I’m pregnant? Yes, it's a girl but no, I won't tell you the name we chose.

8:  The ice cream I bought barely has any cookie dough chunks in it.  This is not what I expected and I am disappointed. I may need to pull the “knocked up and shit” card and send my husband for more.

10: You hurt my feelings and now I'm crying! Or it may have been the Animal Shelter commercial with the Sarah McLachlan soundtrack.

 None of that is medically useful and it doesn't even have all the numbers, so I made a better one with all the numbers:

0:  Hi.  I am not experiencing any pain at all.  I don't know why I'm even here. I’m pregnant. Leave me alone.

1:  I am completely unsure whether I am experiencing pain or itching or maybe I just have a bad taste in my mouth. I think she’s just stretching, or maybe has hiccups. I might be leaking something though. Can I have sushi now?

2:  I probably just need a Band Aid. Or some Tums. Or perhaps it’s a fart caught sideways. Hard to tell.

3:  This is distressing.  I don't want this to be happening to me at all. I think my Spawn is punching my cervix.

4:  My pain is not fucking around. It appears my Spawn has become angry with me and is seeking revenge.

5:  Why is this happening to me?? and Who gave Spawn power tools?!!?

6:  Ow.  Okay, my pain is super legit now. Unlike before when I just wanted attention and a foot rub. Not. Why the hell aren't you rubbing my back with a tennis ball right now?

7:  I see Jesus coming for me and I'm scared. I also think she’s tying my Fallopian tubes in knots. Where is my giant bouncy ball?!!? Ice chips, aren't I supposed to have ice chips?!!?

8:  I am experiencing a disturbing amount of pain.  I might actually be dying.  Please help… you did this to me you son-of-a-bitch and I will give you a vasectomy with a rusty spork once this is over. I want drugs. I don't care if you have to administer them intravenously with a turkey baster, I...want...them...now.

9:  I am almost definitely dying. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck the fucking fucker fuck. Tits.

10:  I am actively being mauled by a bear on the outside, and my Spawn from the inside. Seriously. I will come over there and strangle you if you laughed at that. With the umbilical cord.

11: Blood is going to explode out of my face at any moment, and probably my vagina. My Spawn will come shooting out on a geyser of blood and dislodged internal organs. Be ready to catch her.

Too Serious For Numbers:  I probably have ebola.  It appears that I may also be suffering from Stigmata and/or pinkeye. Or I just might be in labor where it’s too late for an epidural (oops!) and I'm ready to push. Isn’t that nifty! Who the fuck talked me into going with a natural delivery? If my child is deformed, retarded and/or subject to explosive diarreah it will be all your fault and I WILL make you pay.

Sausage, Unicorns and Childbirth, Oh My!

So, I think I'm going to be OK with the nitty gritty details of childbirth. Pain, while not a fan, the idea of it isn't freaking me out. Various people interacting with my bajanga for potentially many hours, OK, we're all adults here, do what you gotta do. Bodily fluids, waiting, exhaustion, frustration, false starts, painful endings... I'm trying to brace myself as much as is possible by someone who has never experienced such a thing.

One thing I'm a little paranoid about is the aftermath (and I'm not talking about our daughter here) and my husband seeing this and being scared away forever. Now he has no such worries, he's been trained as an EMT and stuff like that just doesn't bother him. It's just my issue I've focused on for some reason. A quote from Stewie on Family Guy about throwing a hot dog down a hallway comes to mind every time I think about it. Yeah, I've read all the stuff that says six weeks later things will be good as new(ish), but I've also seen several natural birthing videos where women aren't screaming and swearing like sailors as a giant baby emerges from an impossibly small opening and I don't really believe that either.

I'm OK with him watching the crowning, but after that it's eyes up here! It's like that saying about sausage... you may love sausage, but do you really want to see where it comes from? It might forever change the experience for you. Could you go the rest of your life without sausage? Would you still enjoy it the same? I dunno...

Anyway... I believe this little paranoia of mine is what inspired this dream the other night. There's no context aside from me seeing a black chalkboard with white writing on it. I have the impression that I was trying to come up with a t-shirt or bumper sticker slogan. All it says is "Watching your child being born is like looking up a unicorn's ass to see where the magic comes from." Then I woke up.

Make of it what you will, but if it's t-shirts or bumper stickers, I get one and a share of the proceeds!

(By the way, I seriously love Google Images. I typed in "unicorn, ass" and that's what came up. Perfect!)

Bra Shopping In A Virtual (y Crazy) World

Caveat Lector (Let the reader beware, it's another blog post about boobs, but no graphic details).

So the time is fast approaching when I may have to leave behind the more attractive, lacy, sexy bras for, how shall I say, ones that serve a purpose other than keeping me fit for being out in public while at a brisk jog or on a chilly day without causing a spectacle or neck strain. I refuse to use the word "utilitarian," but more multi-functional might be a good term for it. Like a Swiss Army knife bra, but without the handy screwdrivers.

So, I searched for "bra size calculator" to see what I might be in store for now. The first one, found at the site of someone who calls herself the "Bra Lady" tells me I'm a 32G!!! What the hell?!!? There is no way that's accurate. 32 rib cage, 39 bust... http://www.lindasonline.com/bra-fitting-calculator.html That's just insane! I could fit my daughter in the cups of that bra and use it as a sling.

So, to keep searching... this site says 36D, which is what I bought most recently and seems to fit well. http://www.85b.org/bra_calc.php OK then, I'm not crazy and my drawer that has 34-36D bras that seem to fit is not a figment of my imagination.

This site says 38B, which is just weird. http://www.afraidtoask.com/breast/brasizeform1.html

This one is 38A, which is even more bizarre. http://www.balicompany.com/fitcalculator.bra.asp Everyone knows an A cup is... rather petite, and that is most definitely not me, and hasn't been for a LOOOONG time.

36C  http://www.bellissimalingerie.com/catalogue/brasize.asp Closer to the truth.

36E http://www.birthandbabyorders.com/shop/categories/1053 (I think, the app doesn't load properly, so I had to do the math the old fashioned way... on my iPhone) Again, I could stop carrying a purse and just stuff my wallet, phone, and Swiss Champ XLT knife into it (never leave home without it!).

Seriously... how is it possible there is such a wide difference between all these? Is it vanity sizing? Can manufactures not figure out if we want to have a smaller or larger bra size? This isn't rocket science or quantum physics. Seems more like string theory. I get that every woman is different, and according to one site, every boob is different, even on the same woman. So are feet, but my shoe size only varies a bit... from 6 to at the most a 7.5. The web sites conveniently say that "most women are wearing the wrong bra size..." well, no duh! When there's such a huge variation in sizing, it's no wonder! Who's fault is that?

I don't want to be one of those women wearing the "wrong" sized bra and looking like I've either got four (due to unfortunate oozing) or one giant mono boob. Or perhaps worse, become that substitute teacher character from South Park in 20 years due to serious lack of proper support. Help!!!!

Luckily, I found this website for maternity wear and nursing bras. Not a bad name for it, Hot Milk? Pretty stuff, doesn't look like the ugly industrial strength over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders you find elsewhere. Although someone should tell the stylist that crimping irons when the way of McHammer pants...oh wait. I heard those were back in "style" too. Ugh.

Anyway... no on line bra shopping for me unless I've tried it on in the store first and know the brand's sizing. I just wish the manufacturers would get their act together... I don't care what the size says on the inside of my bra, I just want it to lift and separate and support and work for nursing and help me get out of speeding tickets. Is that really too much to ask?

Lucky, Lucky Me

I have been bitching about a lot of things on this blog and I wanted to switch things up for a bit and rave about how lucky and extraordinarily blessed I am to have the husband I have. Especially now, at my most vulnerable, awkward, irritable, and (potentially for some men) the most unattractive phase of my life, he is a serious daddy-to-be-stud.

When I read blogs and books from other women talking about their experiences being pregnant, I am often horrified by the way the men in their lives treat them. One got offended and accused his wife of farting on purpose around him (when you have a little spawn sitting on your digestive tract and randomly kicking it, this is truly not something you can always have a lot of control over). Mine just laughs and blames the dog, regardless of what other room he may be in. Many are completely helpless (and unwilling to try) when it came to anything related to food preparation that didn't involve first picking up a phone. Mine is a better cook than I am. Some gave them a hard time for breast feeding as they didn't want to "share" what they felt was theirs. Others were grossed out by the entire ordeal, refused to learn anything about it, and left the details and all up to her. Mine was trained as an EMT, has no weird body issues, and may in fact be more comfortable with the birthing process than I am (which might be easier to do since he's not expected to squeeze an 8lb parasite out of his penis any time soon).

Wow. Of course, I highly doubt that the rest of their relationships were a bed of roses, but it seems that pregnancy brought out the worst in them. I think my pregnancy has brought out the best in mine. He is even more considerate and patient than usual (though isn't afraid to laugh at me when I struggle to bend over and pick something up), very empathetic when I need to vent about my various aches and symptoms (with foot rubs virtually on demand), supportive in reading the books I suggest (well, he's working on that part), attending the classes I've signed us up for, and is constantly worshiping my belly and telling me how beautiful and sexy he thinks I am. He's indulged me in my furniture refinishing ideas, nursery preferences, and ranting about bad parenting stories I read about with nary an eye roll or sarcastic comment. I'd like to think that my lack of dramatic mood-swings/freak outs and 2:00am cravings for mango chutney and doughnuts that he MUST GO GET NOW OR DIE because YOU DID THIS TO ME YOU ASS, AGHHHH!!! might have made his job easier... but even if I'd turned into ranting psycho pregnant chick (I still have 9 weeks!) I think he'd still take it all in stride.

Oh, and don't get the idea that he's a doormat. Not at all. If I suggested we should seriously look into baby helmets, bubble wrapping the furniture, spraying down all potential guests with Lysol, or some other such whack-a-doo idea, he'd speak up in a hurry. He's just good at picking his battles and (seemingly) believes that I'll wind up in the moderate center on my own once I back away from the web for awhile.

While part of me would like him to be a little more freaked out about this life-changing project we're taking on like I am, most of me cherishes how grounded and unflappable he is as it makes a good anchor for me to cling to after reading another article about the "792 Things In Your House That Could Kill or Seriously Maim Your Child In Under Two Minutes, While You Sleep!"

If he's half as good of a father as he's been a husband through out this process (and I know that won't be the case!), then our daughter will be one lucky girl too. Lucky, lucky both of us.

My Lovely Lady Lumps

My Eyes Are Up HERE!!!

 I have had an unusual relationship with my breasts. We've run the gamut, them and I, in a way I think most of my friends haven't. (Dad, if you haven't already, you might want to stop reading now. None of this is top secret stuff, no surgeries, tattoos, or piercings but really, how much do you want to know about your daughter's boobs?)

When I was about 13, I started getting a little concerned. My best friend was all ready well endowed in 7th grade, and I had (of course) nothing. Not unusual for a 13 year old white girl. However, my Mother told me many times that I shouldn't expect to get breasts until (if ever) I got pregnant, as that's what happened to her. So, I was resigned to being flat chested... although that didn't stop me from experimenting with stuffing my bra, duct tape, and the miracles that a Wonder Bra could provide. I gave up on the stuffing quickly though when, after carefully placing two cotton balls in each cup of my training bra before a co-ed dance in 7th grade, a boy I was dancing with gave me an "accidental" boob graze and I was positive he could tell what I'd done. Yeah, right, because 13 year old boys have so much experience with that type of thing. For all I know, he still thinks back fondly to the first time he "copped a feel." Ha!

I turned 16, still nothing much. I had nick-named them (ironically it turns out) Itsy and Bitsy. My best friend was now a D+, and a couple others were gaining fast. We joked about getting a transfusion after graduation so that we'd wind up somewhere that would make us both happy. We were only half joking.

I moved to Seattle and TA-DA! The boob fairy came! Yea! She wasn't especially generous, but at least it was something. I went down and visited friends in LA at age 17 and at least got guys to talk to my chest instead of my eyes for a change, so that was nice. I wound up with a 34B and was pretty happy with things. Still passed the pencil test, found bras in regular stores that fit, had cleavage, and could get away with wearing something backless without a bra. I liked my breasts, they were the perfect size for my frame. Not to brag, but  in my late 20s I dated a guy who, how do I put this, had worked with many lovely women who were often semi/mostly nude for professional reasons, and he told me quite honestly and without provocation that I had the best rack he'd ever seen. I thought that was quite the compliment!

Then, the Boob Fairy came again. And again. And again. Between the ages of 31-35, I went up two cup sizes. I'd also put on about 20lbs, but it seemed most of that was on my chest! So now, button up shirts wouldn't stay buttoned up and were in danger of sending a button flying off into someone's eye, bras were a requirement, men (and even some women) were much more easily distracted around me, excavating was required when laying face down at the beach, an exercise class without a sports bra was a painful, distracting, and nearly revealing mistake, and I was now the girl among my friends who had big boobs! How the hell did that happen?!!? I really just couldn't see that for quite awhile, I was still so caught up with my image of Itsy and Bitsy and just being thankful of my 34B... but 34D?!!? That's crazy talk! There must be a mistake, like how a size 6 is the new size 2. It's vanity bra sizing, right? Alas, no.

The thing is, I never wanted to have big boobs. I saw how my friends with big chests were treated by others, and how they saw themselves as a result. We couldn't shop at the same stores, because tops for teens weren't made to stretch that far. Adult men treated them like adults because all they saw were adult sized boobs and their eyes never made it that far north to see that they were still kids. The beach was a hassle, between bathing suit fiascos, excavating to lie down, and more unwanted attention. Their boyfriends were often obsessed with them to an annoying degree. They had unhealthy self-images and unhealthy relationships with men as a result. I was just fine with my second letter of the alphabet, thankyouverymuch.

So, now I'm pregnant, and here we go again. The Boob Fairy has earned enough frequent flier miles coming to our house to get her a trip to Europe, first class. And the fun is just starting! They say you can go up as much as TWO additional cup sizes once your milk comes in. I think I might refuse to admit to being an E (if things go that far) and just refer to it as DDD. I know things will go back down again (hopefully!!), and I might even be back to a 34B again, but it won't be the same. I do plan on breastfeeding, 6+ months, and that just takes a toll on things. As a trade off though, I will hopefully have a happier, healthier baby and have shared an amazing bonding experience with her in the mean time. I suppose failing the pencil test will be worth that. (Sigh) If I can keep my chest point average above a 2.0/C, I'll be content.

Itsy and Bitsy my ass.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

If I could take a brief break here from my usual sarcastic, dark humor, I wanted to talk about something serious. Regularly scheduled programming will resume soon.

Recently, right before the holidays, a friend of mine had tragedy strike. Her step-mother was 2 weeks from full term and one day wasn't feeling her baby daughter move any more. A quick trip to the hospital revealed that the baby had passed, and was delivered still-born.

My friend was reluctant to tell me this news, not wanting to upset me given my current condition. While I appreciate her consideration, I'm glad she did. Not only so I can offer her condolences and sympathize, but because it has made me appreciate every kick, jab, and wriggle that much more. It hasn't gotten painful yet, but when she starts in on my ribs or various organs, I'll grin and bear it that much easier just being glad that she's moving around in the first place.

It also inspired a conversation with my husband about what we'd do if something like that were to happen to us. I've read about an organization (that hopefully you, or I, or anyone we know will never have to use) that has photographers who volunteer to take photos of stillborn babies for the family to remember them by. If you need a good cry or are feeling too optimistic today, you can visit their site here: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I would want this. I would always have the option to not look at the photos, but never to take them again.

She wasn't sure if it would be "OK" to tell other pregnant women about what happened. I told her I think it depends on the woman. I appreciated knowing, but wish that they knew WHY it happened. Knowing why gives us a feeling of empowerment over the situation, however realistic it may or may not be. A close friend recently lost his three month old nephew to SIDS. Tragic, certainly. However, it sounds like the baby was put down in his parents bed (for various reasons), not his crib, and the extra bedding and softer mattress may have been a factor. Even if it wasn't, at least we can say "We'll never do THAT!" and feel better about our chances of avoiding a similar fate.

I had a friend (Tyler) in high school die from sleep apnea, which some think is just a more adult version of SIDS. One day he was here, the next he wasn't. If there was ever perfect timing for something that tragic to happen, he had it. The day before my Drama class (of which he was a part of) had a day long field trip to a local school to teach improv and perform. We were all good friends and several of us were especially close with Ty. I (after this sudden and unexplainable urge) had brought my camera and documented the day, including lunch at Crossroads Mall afterward. I seem to remember we then wound up at someone's house and watched movies and played pool. It was a great day spent with a bunch of great friends. Any other day would have been just another school day or weekend where we wouldn't have spent nearly as much time together, or had as many reasons to take photos. The next day, he was gone.

That was a rough way to deal with mortality at 17, and there was nothing and no one to be mad at. No drunk driver, no cautionary tale about drugs. Just... sleeping. However, in retrospect, there were some warning signs, mainly that he snored like a truck driver and when teased asked "have you ever woken up and realized that you haven't been breathing for awhile?" Yikes! We certainly wished we'd taken that more seriously, but what teen thinks they're that vulnerable, especially in regards to... terminal snoring?

So since then I've encouraged, nagged, begged and frightened several friends and family members (and even some total strangers) to go get tested. Several of them either had surgery and/or sleep with a machine now, and it's transformed and even possibly saved their lives. That's the silver lining I take out of all of this. So, here's my PSA... put your babies to sleep on their backs on an approved crib mattress, with no pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, bumpers or other things that can get near their faces, and if you know someone who snores like an angry, drunk bear, and/or stops breathing while sleeping or wakes up coughing/choking... they need to be checked. Their friends and loved ones will thank them, and so will Tyler and my friends' nephew and sister.

Peace and love to you all. ~S