The Truth About Having A Baby

I read so many of blogs and Facebook posts about pregnancies, birth stories, and the early days with babies. Everyone seems to have had such lovely experiences. I think that's why I never wrote anything of substance about mine: other than the outcome -- my delightful daughter -- my experiences were not pleasant (understatement of the century). I had a challenging pregnancy; I had a long, painful, and traumatic childbirth experience, the high point of which was the surgical intervention; my first few weeks with my daughter were painful because of complications from surgery and panicked because of breastfeeding difficulties. None of it was pretty, and almost a year after the baby's birth, I am still traumatized.

Don't read any further if you're squeamish.

Week 40

We've made it in to our 40th week, and all is relatively well. I am ready for the pregnancy to be over (and the parenting to begin); the baby seems to be quite comfortable staying where she is. L says that she gets the stubbornness from my side of the family.

At the doctor this week, we picked out an induction date, just in case the baby doesn't budge. I'm glad there's an end in sight, but I really thought that things would get going on their own.

Honestly, I have to admit that I'm a little bummed that there's no sign of the baby yet today. I mean, how perfect would it be for a mom born on one all-American holiday (Thanksgiving Day) to have a daughter born on the other (Independence Day)? Then again, my sister was born on Christmas, and while my nephew was due around Easter, he wasn't born that day either. Maybe I should stop looking for patterns in these things....

35 Days of Solitude

And so, with the chicken pox mostly behind us, on Sunday, L left for a five-week work training program in Little Rock, Arkansas.  When we first found out that this class was possible, it freaked me out a bit.  I mean, he was going to leave me alone for the end of the seventh month and most of the eighth.  But the alternatives were worse -- I don't think I could handle being left alone with a newborn.

And so, here we are.  I'm hoping to use the alone time to get stuff done in the house, but let's face it -- I don't have the energy to do a lot right now, and I'm slow as molasses.

Pregnancy and Public Transit

I've been living in the greater DC metropolitan area for almost 12 years now, and I've never lived further than a few blocks from the Metro. I've never wanted to live further away. I love the Metro. I love the idea of public transportation. I love the convenience. I love not having to sit in traffic or pay a small fortune to park my car. I love being able to sit down with a book and relax. I never thought anything could change my mind -- not delays, not broken air conditioning, not even annoying springtime Cherry Blossom tourists.

Except now, being pregnant on public transportation is making me reconsider. I hate Metro. I hate that there's always a delay, or a broken escalator, or malfunctioning air or heat. And I hate the crowds. I hate the fact that, in the morning, I can't get a seat because of all the perfectly healthy young men that don't look up from their book or newspaper or iPad to notice an uncomfortable pregnant lady trying to hold on while the train lurches. I hate the rushing people in the evening, particularly the older men that push me out of the way, in fear that the slow pregnant lady will keep them from getting a seat. I hate the looks from the younger women when I sit or stand near them, as if being pregnant was a contagion.

For years, I've politely offered my seat to visibly pregnant women on crowded trains, thinking that one day, the gesture would be reciprocated. But no, not once. In fact, a few weeks ago, I gave up my seat to a young girl who was significantly more pregnant -- and noticeably more uncomfortable -- than I, while hordes of apparently young, healthy commuters either ignored us, or worse, looked on.

Then again, maybe it's not the Metro: maybe it's people. Maybe having this baby is making me notice what assholes people are.

A love letter to stretchy waistbands

This week, we went back to the doctor, I went back to prenatal yoga, and I got my first maternity clothing.

As you know, I was very anxious about buying maternity clothing, but, last week, I realized that I had no choice, unless I can figure out a way to go to work in my pajamas and/or foldover waist yoga pants.

So, I ordered a few pairs of pants from the Gap and Old Navy (they carry petite lengths!), a few blouses, a dress from Japanese Weekend, and then, some pants and a sweaterdress from Ann Taylor Loft. Internet shopping!

The pants were the first to arrive. I tried them on, and I almost cried.

For joy.

Stretch waistbands are the best thing ever.

Well, maybe that's an overstatement, but it feels true if you're 16 weeks pregnant, and all of a sudden, you have a giant tummy and no waist. I didn't know how uncomfortable my regular pants had gotten until I tried on the maternity pants. And they're not ugly. Win-win.

Now if I could only find a maternity sports bra for prenatal yoga. . .

Prenatal Yoga

Last night, Cletus and I went for our first prenatal yoga class.

For the record, I've been doing yoga on-and-off since I was in law school a billion years ago, so I thought this would be no big deal. I've done pretty much every kind of yoga, from the kinds with gentle movements and focusing on breathing, to the kind where you move every second in a hot room and get more of a cardio workout than a good stretch. I like yoga -- or at least I think I do.

Anyway, last night's prenatal yoga class was a surprise to me in many ways.

The first was that, in a big metro area filled with lawyers and other professionals, I did not really think that 36 was old to be having a baby, despite what all the books say, and despite the fact that my doctors keep gently reminding me that I'm "high risk." Last night, I got the message. I was positively geriatric compared to most of the women in the class -- and many of them were on baby #2 or baby #3. Maybe it's because the old ladies like me work too much to go to prenatal yoga. Sigh.

Second, I realized once again that I am positively huge for fifteen weeks. Gigantic.

Third, and perhaps worst, I realized that I am now completely inflexible. Positions that I could do with no problem a few months ago are now completely outside my range of motion. My old bones just do not want to move.

So, when L came to pick us up, he asked how the class went. I told him I hated it, which is an exaggeration. I really did not enjoy myself. But I'm going to keep going, because I think it's good for Cletus.

Heartburn and Muumuus

Last night, L had a cold, and I had horrible heartburn.  I've read the books (and the internet), and I know that heartburn is a very common pregnancy symptom.  And, to be honest, I've had heartburn in varying degrees pretty much since we found out about Cletus.  (I think it kind of makes up for the fact that I haven't been very pukey, but my sister would probably disagree and then threaten to punch me again.) 

But last night was the kind of heartburn that made me realize that my kishkas are all moved around where they're not supposed to be, and OMG it's only the end of week 14 and I have 26 weeks of this shit to go, and I'm just going to get more gigantic, and the heartburn is only going to get worse . . .

So yeah.  I'm a big fat baby, both figuratively and literally.

Anyway, this brings me to my real topic:  weight gain and maternity clothing.  As in, I am getting really fat really fast, and I'm going to have to get maternity clothing soon, and I am scared to death of the idea of it.  And to think that about 3 years ago, I was the same size that I was at 22, and I will probably never see that size again.  So I'm probably going to have to clean out my closets and drawers and get rid of all sorts of things that I've been holding on to, beautiful things that I am fairly certain will never fit me again.  Sob.

I'm going to have to replace all of my cute stuff with baggy shapeless muumuus.  SOB!

L, because he is wonderful and positive and optimistic, is, naturally, excited about the whole process.  He looks forward to my "bump" (oh, how I hate that word!) looking more bump-like and less like I've spent the last three months eating nothing but pie -- WHICH I HAVEN'T, but that's what it currently looks like.  (Note:  I have gained less than 5 pounds.  It's just all in my midsection.)

So, anyway, I feel like a giant, round, blimp already, and I have six months to go.