Before and after

I am a worrier by nature. When I had a kid, I just simply ramped up the worrying, but that's really because there's just more to worry about. I mean, you get to run the wprry-gamut from whether baby is cold or hot or sick or comfortable to worrying about a plugged tear duct and dry skin and unusual discharge.

And then, on Thanksgiving, there was a line drawn, and I went to a new level.

Baby had some sort of event on Thanksgiving. She had a tremor in her left arm; or some sort of seizure but only involving her left arm. We spent that evening in the emergency room at a country hospital in KY and then in the pediatric emergency room at the University of Kentucky. She spent two days at Children's Hospital. They ran every test*. They all came back negative. So they discharged us with a diagnosis of "dystpnic posturing" which we both googled and got freaked out about and have sworn off the googles because of. I know that's a lot of poor preposition use. Bite me.

We made an appointment with our pediatrician before we left the hospital. We were hoping that it was a fluke of sorts -- after all, there had been no activity while we were at KCH.

And then yesterday, I saw the shaking again. And again today. So either it's simply something she does and we're overprotective or something is wrong and nobody knows what. I keep looking at the pictures we took Thanksgiving when she met her paternal grandparents. They are from "before." We live in the "after," where we're all scared.

*I am not joking. From 10pm on, we were in an episode of "House" -- they did a lumbar puncture, an mri, an eeg, bloodwork. Travis and I were waiting for one of the residents to say "auto-immune."

Scenes From a Marriage, New Parent Edition

I'm nursing Baby Blue, and she makes about the cutest face ever -- while her right hand is clearly flashing the "East Coast" gang sign. I called in my husband, and we chuckled, and I said, "I wish I could get a picture of this."

In no more than THREE SECONDS FLAT, Superdad is standing in front of me with a camera.

And I said, "Um, you're not actually going to take this picture, are you?"

Holy crap you guys, we're getting a new roommate this week.

Another human being is moving in here in the next seven days. She won't be paying rent.

I've organized just about everything, except the areas that I really just can't. (Seriously -- it's hard to crawl into our closets, so those I've been trying to ignore. But now I'm going to have to obsess about them for the next three days, because I can't obsess about the linen closet anymore, because I cleaned it out.)

I'd pack my cats into boxes, except that seems cruel. But very organized . . . .

Speaking of which, my cats are high right now. We put these calming-pheromone collars on them so they don't freak out too much when we bring the tiny human home, and they are in a state of zen most often seen after too many special brownies. So I suppose I did "nest" the cats, although luckily enough for them that just included furminating and a new collar.

I highly recommend. These things kept them calm on a 24-hour car trip, the last four hours of which involved a Very Loud Radio and a driver who was belting every song she knew (I was trying to stay awake by any means necessary.) Needless to say, I lost my voice.

And, to bring this stream-of-consciousness back around, I was pregnant during that move.

So now, we continue to wait for the little . . . .

Talking to baby

I talk to the baby a lot. I find I do it now more in public (before, I just talked to myself, which is admittedly weird but I do it).

I like to tell her I love her when she kicks, and to talk to her about what she's up to, and what I'm up to, and how one day she'll go to UVA and then NC State and then wherever else she wants to go.

But lately, I punctuate every sentence with "please come out."

Please?

I can't sit at a table or desk anymore. I can't reach stuff anymore. I can't sleep more than three hours at a stretch anymore.

My description of myself sounds like a newborn.

Please come out.

The threat of death drives my husband to shop.

Soooo, last week I was tested for pre-eclampsia, because I have very diligent midwives (for the record, my blood pressure was high for me, but not what the medical community considers high. I was feeling some stress.)

HOWEVER, I called my husband after the Midwife dropped the news of the possible complication (and whined like a spoiled brat about not wanting to spend six weeks in bed) and he told me not to google. He did google, however, and approximately three hours later during a text-message conversation wrote: "When I get back, we'll go do some baby shopping." It's how I knew that this was serious. Most of the time, my husband would rather pass a kidney stone than shop.

Last night, he tried some backpedaling, now that we know I'm fine: "It'll be nice for you to get out and shop this weekend."

Note the change from plural to singular.

Pieces of advice I wish I'd gotten about pregnancy.

This will probably become an ongoing thing, because it's not like I can remember all the pieces of advice I wish I'd gotten in one fell swoop. Dude -- yesterday I forgot my zip code, for Peter's sake. And while I entitled this "Pieces of advice I wish I'd gotten about pregnancy" it would probably be better explained as "Pieces of advice I wish I'd gotten about pregnancy or that I had listened to better or that had been explained to me in such a way that I really understood the magnitude of what is happening."

But it occurs to me that there's some stuff you don't really get from the books. I'll try to warn you if TMI is coming, so you can avoid it.

1. No matter how much you think you will not have a problem doing what you normally did, you will. Case in point: at eight weeks pregnant, I became unable to (1) run and (2) wear high heels, ever.
Prior to the infant, I could run 2-3 miles 3-4 times a week. After infant, I suited up for a run and made it ten feet before my knees ached miserably and I was winded. As for the high heels -- let's just say I used to be able to handle working a ten-hour retail shift on a stone floor in four-inch heels. I mean, my feet ached a little afterwards, but I could walk the next day. At 8 weeks, I wore my favorite comfy stacked-toe four-inch heel Wonder Woman boots and could barely limp around the apartment the next day. At now 8 months (or 7, depending on which book you read) I am unable to cross my legs without regretting it, sleep more than 3 hours at a stretch, tie my own shoes properly, bend over to pick something up without having to make a plan, lie on my back without it becoming painful, and sit or rise from a sitting position without some struggle and prayer. I am a graceless hippo wearing mascara.

2. If you don't know where the bathroom is, you should not go to that location. In fact, you should be able to get to a bathroom in no more than thirty minutes from the last one. Or you should invest in adult diapers. Because you may think you can hold it, but you can't.

3. Stretch marks happen. Research indicates that they are genetic, and you will get them no matter what happens in terms of weight or creams or what-have-you. That said, if it makes you feel better to rub an expensive cream on yourself, go on. Do whatever soothes your brain, because you will be anxious about stuff. Which brings me to:

4. Anxiety. You will be anxious about things outside your control (OMG WHAT IF I HURT THE BABY WHEN I TRIPPED OVER MY OWN FEET AND FELL ON MY STOMACH ON THE BED?) and things within your control (WTF HOW DO YOU BATHE A BABY IN THAT RIDICULOUS TUB?) Mitigate stress by being ans immediate as possible with things within your control. So I felt some bathing-baby anxiety. And I bought the tub to look at and play with and googled "giving the baby a bath" (BTW, don't do that. There are sickos in the world) and asked a nurse at one of our "How to Have a Baby and Not Screw Up Too Badly" classes. I suggest you do the same. Because you can't get rid of all of your stresses, but if you can mitigate some of the smaller ones, you will be much calmer. Oh, and my midwife is pretty sure I didn't hurt the baby by landing on my stomach -- when I told her about it, she laughed.

5. Speaking of anxiety, nest. It will also mitigate your anxiety. Once, during a particularly stressful time, my husband found me in the baby's room moving around her clothes, and then moving them back. And I knew this was ridiculous. But it calmed me. So my husband came in, and sat down, and watched me rearrange the baby's wardrobe and then put it all back in its original places. You'll be aware that what you are doing is illogical, but then again, it's calming. So do it.

This is me, about to explode.

So. A while back I signed on for some "Future Moms" program with my insurance company that essentially means I allow a nurse to call me three times over the course of this pregnancy and tell me stuff I already read. Also, Ihave to see the dentist. For the annoyance, they waive my hospital copay.

Today was one of my phone call days. I'm only active in the convo for the first ten minutes, and then things disintegrate into the nurse telling me a bunch of stuff I know ("to keep your energy up, eat protein at every meal and snack!" "the doctor will check your blood pressure at this appointment!" (it is checked at every appointment.) During my "active talk" time, the nurse asked if I had a carseat (yes) had it installed (um, no.) knew how to install it (I know the basics, and it comes with instructions, right?)

And then she started rattling on and on ("try to visualize your contractions like a waaaaave"), and I thought, "Imma open thishere box and get out the instructions and read them so this 45 minutes isn't a complete waste of time. Also, it will keep me from laughing at her."

So I opened the box that was supposed to contain my brand-new super-awesome deluxe plaid Eddie Bauer travel system (side!-impact! tested!) to discover a used, filthy, BROKEN graco stroller.

I am losing my mind. I've been promised by a chick at Target that I can return it, but here's the problem I keep coming back to: even if it was the correct stroller/carseat combo, it was RETURNED. RETURNED SAFETY EQUIPMENT FOR A NEWBORN.

How is that even possible?

You know what I've got?

I've got a daughter who gets the hiccups a lot.

And they tickle. Which means that occasionally, I just start giggling because somebody's tickling me on the inside.

A lot.

Imma tell you a little something

about being pregnant in the South in the summer.

You don't need to tell me it's hot. I know it's hot. I am currently carrying around my own personal heater who kicks.

Or, for an analogy that will make sense to those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine an extra twenty pounds on you. Yup. That's a lot of padding.

Here's what I want: I want a totally empty pool. I want to get into water up to my neck and just stand there. Forever, maybe, or for at least an hour. Maybe I'll walk around. Maybe I'll just stand there.

You know. Chilling.

Motherhood Lesson No. 1* (Okay, probably not the real first one I've learned, but definitely the first one I've blogged.)

I am starting to wonder why my bulging stomach means there is only one topic of conversation I can have.

Motherhood.

Subcategories:
1. How bad labor and delivery is. I won't go into too much detail, but "tearing" has been said to me more than once. Way to pump up the mom-to-be.
2. Women who have catastrophic things happen during labor and delivery.
3. Stories about their pregnancies and experiences as a mother. Mostly the pregnancy stories are negative (except for my friend M who always tells me how much she loved being pregnant and that really does make me feel somewhat sunnier about my swollen extremities and acne) and the motherhood experience stories run the gamut.
4. Breastfeeding.
5. How I'm going to deliver this baby (currently, I'm planning on a walking epidural, not that it's any of your business. Not that you have been nosy enough to ask, but people have, and I feel like the only people who have a right to ask that are the Merry Midwives.)
6. Diapers. For the record, disposable, and if you hate it you can suck it. I've done extensive research, and cloth really isn't all that more environmentally friendly, what with the energy wasted in washing and soap and stuff.
7. (And this is my favorite) How big my stomach is.

And I love my daughter. When she kicks, I pretend like I'm annoyed (and occasionally at 5am I am annoyed) but mostly I love it when she lets me know she's there. I'm so happy I'm having her, and I've started planning her nursery and buying teensy little hats and socks (the socks will break your heart) and a blue corduroy stuffed elephant because it looked like it needed a friend.

But I have been growing frustrated with the general public's inability to see past the protuberance and realize that I have a brain.

However, today I think I figured it out.

So I'm visiting my in-laws, and we stopped to pick them up some Subway. I'm in line, and I've already got my milk in my hand. There's a woman in line ahead of me about my age who looks at the milk, then me, and smiles. I smile back. It's nice to have a good choice acknowledged.

She orders a sub and a pizza, and requests an extra box to use when she splits the pizza amongst the kids. We chat about what a good idea that is. I get my husband to hold the door for her on her way out.

We order our food. As we're leaving, I see the mom and her husband and kids picnicking in the parking lot. She catches my eye again and waves like we're old friends. And that's when it hit me.

I'm in the Motherhood Sisterhood now. My application is signed and accepted and sticking way out in front. I'd been inducted and all that is happening in the mommy chats is, essentially, woman's wisdom to me, the neophyte.

So while I reserve the right to be annoyed, I am also grateful. It's nice to be in a club like this -- membership is international. We'll know each other just by sight -- no special handshake needed.

Oh, and when I am inducting new members, I promise to be more like M. Some (okay, a lot) of stuff will suck, but it will be worth it. And some of it will be awesome. I will tell you the truth about the stuff that sucks, though I will not focus on it, and I will do my best to help you focus on the awesome.

*I promise this won't become a Mommy Blog, though it will be hijacked from time to time (probably with increasing frequency through the end of this year.)

A blog update, courtesy of an email

Yes, I emailed most of this to my friend. Don't judge. I'm grading and pregnant and sick. That's right -- I have a cold right now (for which I can use nothing stronger than OJ and a humidifier -- sucks), and I am also trying to dig through a massive pile of papers to grade. Massive. Next semester, my policy on late work is officially changing to "if it ain't on time, don't bother turning it in, unless you have a note from a doctor, a judge, or a coroner." But on to the update:
1. I hate being sick.
2. Baby is probably okay, except that I can't see it, so it's hard to say for sure. I look like I have a beer gut, and while I hadn't told my students as of last week, some of the sharper knives in the drawer figured it out on their own. All medical checkups have been good (only hiccup came when I told my midwife I was having leg cramps, at which the most laid-back person I've ever met ramped all the way up to a mild raise of the eyebrows, and told me I needed more calcium. To put this in perspective, I equate this to another medical professional yelling "WHAT! GO GET SOME ICE CREAM RIGHT NOW!" Which is what I did.) My first cousin, who is approximately the size of a very tall cricket, is also pregnant, and still has her waist. I am doing everything not to let this get to me, since I've had to escape to maternity pants already.
3. Let's talk about maternity pants. Lately, I spend a lot of my time walking with my hands in my pockets, because most of the time I feel like my too-big mommy pants are falling down -- and sometimes they are. My mother, ever-helpful, suggested suspenders which I'm sure would make me feel so much better about this. But I read somewhere that anything tight on your waist (tights, pants, whatever) contributes to nausea and back pain, and I had/have both, so I chose to swim in my clothing.

What's going on with you fine folks?

Nice shoes, lady! or, a blog about vomit.

I'm pregnant.

I feel that this would have been obvious to the average person who knew me pretty well and saw me on a day to day basis -- if you had been working with me for the last two months, you would have undoubtedly noticed that I (1) stopped wearing all high heels and (2) stopped wearing anything with a waist, and (3) perhaps the most obvious -- I am not drinking coffee like it's a life support system.*

This means, of course, that I'm down to five outfits and three pairs of shoes. Maybe my new coworkers think I'm poor. Or that I don't care what I look like. I mean, they've seen me on wild hair mornings when I just don't have the energy to dry my hair -- or when I think the hair dryer might make me hurl.

You know, pregnancy is teaching me a great deal of humility. I had to tell my boss earlier than I intended for a number of reasons, most notably that the fall schedule was already being created and because I figured I should tell him in case somewhat reports that I am frequently in the ladies' ralphing.

The problem ultimately is (if you'll let me whine) that people are really happy for me. And I'm really happy, too -- but all I can feel right now is sick. Like I have the stomach flu all the time. So when someone comes up to me and is really overjoyed and says, "CONGRATULATIONS!" mostly all I can come up with is a wan smile.

Seriously, folks -- I will do an overwhelmingly gooey, happy, overjoyed post. Just as soon as toothpaste stops being disgusting. Promise.

*I swear Starbucks is going to send my husband a condolence card soon.