I realize that I just posted yesterday but today my heart is laden with a heaviness with which I need to make peace. Writing usually enables me to organize my thoughts and feelings so I figured, what the heck?
Only a few short days ago I found that an acquaintance, who was only a week further in her pregnancy than I am in mine, gave birth to a very tiny little boy. Unfortunately, he was way too small to survive outside of his mommy and he died. My heart broke for her and I wept as I imagined the tiny toes she would never kiss, the gentle, gurgling coos that would never sing out to her, the first smile that would never spread across his tiny lips, and a mother's heart with a hole the size of Texas where that little boy should have lived.
My heart burned as these thoughts passed through my head and I thought of the beautiful life growing and squirming inside of my belly. How delicate, how fragile this little person is. I can do everything right, taking care of myself for the sake of this frail child and still, there are no guarantees.
Tonight my mom called to tell me that a friend of our family had gone into labor today, planning a home birth, when her baby's heart rate dropped. She was transferred to the hospital but by the time she arrived, her sweet child was lifeless. She was a going to be a first-time mommy. Once she comes out of the fog of narcotics she's been given, she will go home with empty arms and an empty womb. She will have to face all of the tiny clothes, diapers, and furniture which await a baby who will never arrive.
Once again my eyes are being wrung out as the tears flow uncontrollably. It's so unfair. And what about my own baby? As I'm grieving for these women, I'm terrified of the mortality that is only a heartbeat away from stealing away the life inside of me, like a thief in the night, which would leave me emotionally beaten and defeated. How can I protect him or her? I'm already doing everything I know to ensure a healthy baby. But what if it's not enough? What if death comes skulking with razor-sharp talons and rips away all of my hopes and dreams in a bloody mess of lifeless flesh as I'm left trying to find and repair the shreds of my broken and devastated heart?
Oh, the unfairness of life. I wish there was a way I could wrap my arms around Squishy and protect him or her from harm. I want to kiss him, hold him close to my heart and reassure him that everything will be okay. But I can't. Despite my aggressiveness, my arrogance, my strength, and my determination, there are still things beyond my control and that terrifies me. I already have four great kids who have no health problems or concerns and never have. Am I tempting fate? Infant mortality, especially in this country, is as random a gamble as a roll of the dice. What if it's waiting on my back steps?
Lilypie Pregnancy tickers
Monday, May 9, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day
Last night as I was lying in bed waiting for sleep to overcome my exhausted body, I experienced an enlightening epiphany. It began as contemplation over what I'd like to do for Mother's Day when it occurred to me that all this time we've been doing it wrong. Household matriarchs, the country over, each year bask in the breakfast-in-bed-and-flowers scenario each year as their children and partners try to express their gratitude for the mothers in their lives. I can't help but to think this is completely backward.
Maybe my house is a bit unusual in this way but for me, most days are "mother's day". I awake each and every morning surrounded by the little people who bring happiness and joy to my life. They gaze up at me through half open eyelids still heavy with sleep as a smile dances across their lips. They grunt and then wrap their little arms around me in a soft, heartfelt hug and say, "I love you, mommy." Even my husband never lets me forget how much I am loved.
Throughout the day my kids reveal life to me through their naive and innocent eyes - things that have long been forgotten since my own childhood. Just last weekend Damian picked me a grubby handful of Dandelions out of the lawn at park. As he handed me the fistful of dying weeds, he plucked one from the bunch and asked me to bend down. When I leaned forward, he took the fuzzy, yellow flower and tucked it behind my left ear. As I stood up, he looked me over and, with a nod of approval, said, "mom, you're beautiful."
I don't need Mother's Day for that. That day held more sentiment than any Mother's Day I've experienced to date. But what I realized last night as this reflection was playing through my mind is that Mother's Day isn't about being Queen-For-the-Day. I'm the queen in my house every day. Mother's Day is about the gratitude that overflows from my heart when I look into the eyes of my three year old and tell him I'm sorry for yelling at him and he says, "that's ok, mommy." Mother's Day is about looking into the beautiful, shining faces of my sweet babes and NOT taking for granted that they love me unconditionally. These amazing little people don't care about the countless screw-ups I've made in my life, they forgive me when I make a mommy mistake, they stroke my hair and caress my face when I'm sick or sad, and they think I'm beautiful even when I look like I've been hit by a Mack truck. These precious little lives that I've been so lucky to be surrounded with give me more than I could ever hope to give them. They make being a mom worth every peed bed, every snotty nose, every broken dish, every fight, and every "EEEWWW, we're having THAT for dinner?!"
I think that, as mothers, we get so caught up in the stress of work, dinner, laundry, school and fights that we sometimes forget to notice how truly amazing these little people are. So from now on Mother's Day in my house is not going to be a greedy, self-indulgent, matriarchal party where everyone caters to me. On the contrary, Mother's Day in my house will be about showing my kids how thankful I am that they've chosen me to be their mom.
Maybe my house is a bit unusual in this way but for me, most days are "mother's day". I awake each and every morning surrounded by the little people who bring happiness and joy to my life. They gaze up at me through half open eyelids still heavy with sleep as a smile dances across their lips. They grunt and then wrap their little arms around me in a soft, heartfelt hug and say, "I love you, mommy." Even my husband never lets me forget how much I am loved.
Throughout the day my kids reveal life to me through their naive and innocent eyes - things that have long been forgotten since my own childhood. Just last weekend Damian picked me a grubby handful of Dandelions out of the lawn at park. As he handed me the fistful of dying weeds, he plucked one from the bunch and asked me to bend down. When I leaned forward, he took the fuzzy, yellow flower and tucked it behind my left ear. As I stood up, he looked me over and, with a nod of approval, said, "mom, you're beautiful."
I don't need Mother's Day for that. That day held more sentiment than any Mother's Day I've experienced to date. But what I realized last night as this reflection was playing through my mind is that Mother's Day isn't about being Queen-For-the-Day. I'm the queen in my house every day. Mother's Day is about the gratitude that overflows from my heart when I look into the eyes of my three year old and tell him I'm sorry for yelling at him and he says, "that's ok, mommy." Mother's Day is about looking into the beautiful, shining faces of my sweet babes and NOT taking for granted that they love me unconditionally. These amazing little people don't care about the countless screw-ups I've made in my life, they forgive me when I make a mommy mistake, they stroke my hair and caress my face when I'm sick or sad, and they think I'm beautiful even when I look like I've been hit by a Mack truck. These precious little lives that I've been so lucky to be surrounded with give me more than I could ever hope to give them. They make being a mom worth every peed bed, every snotty nose, every broken dish, every fight, and every "EEEWWW, we're having THAT for dinner?!"
I think that, as mothers, we get so caught up in the stress of work, dinner, laundry, school and fights that we sometimes forget to notice how truly amazing these little people are. So from now on Mother's Day in my house is not going to be a greedy, self-indulgent, matriarchal party where everyone caters to me. On the contrary, Mother's Day in my house will be about showing my kids how thankful I am that they've chosen me to be their mom.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Kentucky Woman
After a trip to the local grocery store here in Lexington, it has become apparent that I absolutely MUST make a local, native friend. How else am I going to learn what chitterlings are? I also encountered an entire shelf of bright purple pickled eggs - and I don't think it's an Easter thing. There are many, many more such things about which I am completely ignorant (hard to believe, I know but sadly it's true).
In my absence from here we have endured the stress, chaos and sheer hell of selling off all of our furniture, acquiring a storage unit and trekking 1800 miles across the country with our meager bare necessities. We have landed in Lexington, Kentucky where my skin is enjoying much-needed hydration via almost daily thunder storms. If we can survive tornado season then we should be ok.
Also, Squishy has grown substantially. He or she is now the length of a bell pepper, 5 1/2 inches long, weighing almost seven ounces. I'm titillated with the feeling of little fluttering kicks daily. Other than being exhausted from the move, I'm feeling pretty darned good now. I am back to eating just about anything I want without suffering eternal gastric damnation for it. My belly is growing a little more every week and will soon be the size of a Winnebago. Maybe I should be calling Squishy "Winnie" instead. Hmm, thought-provoking indeed.
I'm sitting on a pile of extra blankets and pillows contemplating an object with which to compare my expanding abdominal sphere of maternal development because we have nowhere to store the extra bedding and no sofa upon which to thoughtfully consider such queries. What better way to handle both conundrums? We are hoping that Josh's bonus will come soon so that we can begin accumulating furniture. At the very least we need a bed. Air mattresses are really not very comfortable despite the deceptively ecstatic smiles worn by the models posing in the picture on the box. And they become less comfortable as you add more slumbering yet restless occupants.
So with the bonus I will also be ordering my prenatal supplies. While I'm not in a big hurry, I also think that if I don't do it soon then it will become pointless as my pregnancy wanes, dwindling down to mere weeks and then days until delivery. So better sooner than later.
In my absence from here we have endured the stress, chaos and sheer hell of selling off all of our furniture, acquiring a storage unit and trekking 1800 miles across the country with our meager bare necessities. We have landed in Lexington, Kentucky where my skin is enjoying much-needed hydration via almost daily thunder storms. If we can survive tornado season then we should be ok.
Also, Squishy has grown substantially. He or she is now the length of a bell pepper, 5 1/2 inches long, weighing almost seven ounces. I'm titillated with the feeling of little fluttering kicks daily. Other than being exhausted from the move, I'm feeling pretty darned good now. I am back to eating just about anything I want without suffering eternal gastric damnation for it. My belly is growing a little more every week and will soon be the size of a Winnebago. Maybe I should be calling Squishy "Winnie" instead. Hmm, thought-provoking indeed.
I'm sitting on a pile of extra blankets and pillows contemplating an object with which to compare my expanding abdominal sphere of maternal development because we have nowhere to store the extra bedding and no sofa upon which to thoughtfully consider such queries. What better way to handle both conundrums? We are hoping that Josh's bonus will come soon so that we can begin accumulating furniture. At the very least we need a bed. Air mattresses are really not very comfortable despite the deceptively ecstatic smiles worn by the models posing in the picture on the box. And they become less comfortable as you add more slumbering yet restless occupants.
So with the bonus I will also be ordering my prenatal supplies. While I'm not in a big hurry, I also think that if I don't do it soon then it will become pointless as my pregnancy wanes, dwindling down to mere weeks and then days until delivery. So better sooner than later.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Relocation and Bubbles
Squishy is on the move. Laying in the bed this morning, ritualistically checking email, perusing craigslist, reading up on the latest news (aka Facebook) I noticed a subtle but distinct little bubbly feeling in my belly. I know what you're thinking: gas. And with my previous brief history of overwhelming flatulence, I can see how one might come to that conclusion. However, in the last few weeks the bloating buildup of intestinal gas has subsided dramatically. My sweet little Squishy, who is now somewhere between the size of a lemon and the size of an apple, is big enough that when he or she moves I can feel it. How exciting! It just makes this whole experience that much more real. Of course in another four or five months when I'm all but crippled with sciatic pain and wetting myself every time Squishy moves, I might not be so excited but for now I'm positively elated and living in the moment.
In other news, my absence here has been for a reason. We are moving. And not just across town either. We're moving 1800 miles across the country to the beautiful town of Lexington, Kentucky. We have been wanting to relocate to Kentucky for some time now and it's finally happening. And what great timing! My morning sickness seems to have passed now - at least most days - and I'm not huge and uncomfortable yet. We'll be closer to Josh's kids which will save us thousands of dollars every year for plane tickets we won't have to purchase anymore. And we'll be swapping the insane heat, cactus, scorpions, javelina and kissing bugs (don't be fooled, kissing bugs are NOT endearing as the name would suggest - each time they bite their victim, he or she becomes more and more sensitized to the venom and will eventually suffer anaphylactic shock from a "kiss") for green grass, trees, four seasons, tolerable summers, and fertile top soil capable of bringing forth life-giving vegetation.
Consequently I've been packing, arranging our move, calling property management companies and utilities and desperately trying to patch up our current house so that we don't have to pay more than our security deposit for cleaning and damages. So far I've ripped up carpet, vinyl and linoleum; laid new vinyl; spackled the built-in entertainment center and painted it as well as the walls that the kids have artistically graffitied with various implements which bring forth permanent ink upon any given surface to which they are applied. This has been repeated a couple of times now because evidently my kids just can't resist white walls. The gleaming, flawless surface calls to them as a blank canvas to Van Gogh.
Despite the stress involved in moving, this experience is actually helping to alleviate the intense anticipation of waiting for Squishy. I'm no longer obsessively perusing craigslist and various online catalogues for baby booty. My dining room has been emptied of its furniture which has been replaced with what feels like hundreds of diaper and beer boxes (my sister, who is bartending her way through college, generously donated several beer boxes to our cause and we already had quite a few diaper boxes because I'm a pack rat and can't bring myself to throw away a perfectly good box) plastered with bits of masking tape labeled in fat, black Sharpie. Unfortunately, our move is going to happen in two stages due to financial unpreparedness. We're going to be putting at least half of our belongings in storage and taking only the barest of necessities along with us using a borrowed trailer. In a couple of months one of us will drive back to return the trailer and retrieve the rest of our possessions. If we time it just right we'll be able to pick up Tianna for the summer in the same trip.
Our move date is around April 21st so my posts here might be few and far between until we are finally settled. In the meantime there is still a lot of packing and cleaning to do.
In other news, my absence here has been for a reason. We are moving. And not just across town either. We're moving 1800 miles across the country to the beautiful town of Lexington, Kentucky. We have been wanting to relocate to Kentucky for some time now and it's finally happening. And what great timing! My morning sickness seems to have passed now - at least most days - and I'm not huge and uncomfortable yet. We'll be closer to Josh's kids which will save us thousands of dollars every year for plane tickets we won't have to purchase anymore. And we'll be swapping the insane heat, cactus, scorpions, javelina and kissing bugs (don't be fooled, kissing bugs are NOT endearing as the name would suggest - each time they bite their victim, he or she becomes more and more sensitized to the venom and will eventually suffer anaphylactic shock from a "kiss") for green grass, trees, four seasons, tolerable summers, and fertile top soil capable of bringing forth life-giving vegetation.
Consequently I've been packing, arranging our move, calling property management companies and utilities and desperately trying to patch up our current house so that we don't have to pay more than our security deposit for cleaning and damages. So far I've ripped up carpet, vinyl and linoleum; laid new vinyl; spackled the built-in entertainment center and painted it as well as the walls that the kids have artistically graffitied with various implements which bring forth permanent ink upon any given surface to which they are applied. This has been repeated a couple of times now because evidently my kids just can't resist white walls. The gleaming, flawless surface calls to them as a blank canvas to Van Gogh.
Despite the stress involved in moving, this experience is actually helping to alleviate the intense anticipation of waiting for Squishy. I'm no longer obsessively perusing craigslist and various online catalogues for baby booty. My dining room has been emptied of its furniture which has been replaced with what feels like hundreds of diaper and beer boxes (my sister, who is bartending her way through college, generously donated several beer boxes to our cause and we already had quite a few diaper boxes because I'm a pack rat and can't bring myself to throw away a perfectly good box) plastered with bits of masking tape labeled in fat, black Sharpie. Unfortunately, our move is going to happen in two stages due to financial unpreparedness. We're going to be putting at least half of our belongings in storage and taking only the barest of necessities along with us using a borrowed trailer. In a couple of months one of us will drive back to return the trailer and retrieve the rest of our possessions. If we time it just right we'll be able to pick up Tianna for the summer in the same trip.
Our move date is around April 21st so my posts here might be few and far between until we are finally settled. In the meantime there is still a lot of packing and cleaning to do.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Show Time
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
And the Magic Number Is...
Today was my appointment with the OB/GYN. Last night sleep was elusive. I couldn't stop thinking about today's impending adventure. Finally somewhere around midnight I finally drifted off to sleep. And then about three minutes later, at 6:45am my eyes snapped open with no hopes of returning to dreamland. I got up, shuffled around half asleep, made sure Damian was getting ready for school and did a little clean up so that my mom wouldn't have to wash dishes just to get the kids breakfast once they awoke.
Soon Damian was off to school, mom arrived, Josh and I got dressed, he tossed down a cup of coffee and I inhaled a chicken sandwich (eggs totally gross me out lately). The babies woke up crabby but were soon distracted from their irritability when they discovered that gramma was here. Once they were absorbed in the book gramma was reading, Josh and I slipped out the door and off to the doc.
Upon arrival at the clinic, I signed in and soon was handed a sizeable stack of paper to fill out. A lot has changed in the 15 years it's been since I jumped through the hoops of mainstream obstetrics. For starters, the list of personal and invasive questions has quadrupled! It used to ask if you had VD and if you had any ancestral history of diabetes, heart disease, or cancer. Now they also want to know your specific heritage and whether any of your distant relations had freckles (what?). After signing and dating 400 times, I handed over the book and waited. [I'm going to just say here real quick that the medical industry needs a serious overhaul when it comes to customer relations. If I showed up at, oh, say the salon for a hair cut and a massage, I would not be waiting for 30 minutes after my appointment time to be invited back. If there were such a delay I would be offered a beverage and maybe even a discount or coupon for my trouble. Any time I've ever been to a medical doctor, I was expected to wait for at least 30 minutes for my appointment and then bow down and kiss the egotistical feet of the all-knowing doctor who has so generously graced me with his presence. Horse crap, I say! I'm paying that person - and I'm paying him significantly more than my hairdresser. I think he should be hopping around trying to make me more comfortable in an effort to earn my business. Ok, that's the end of that rant. Back to the story.]
Eventually we were escorted down the long hallway to a nondescript exam room where I was handed a napkin and asked to, "undress and put this on, open at the back." I'm sorry, what? I think there's a mistake; this is a napkin. No, I was expected to adorn myself in this paper dress with the thickness and transparency of 1-ply toilet paper.
I undressed to my socks (sorry, the floor was really cold and they don't need to examine my feet anyway) and unfolded the napkin. From between the layers of the napkin a white strip of what looked like plumber's tape slipped out and fell on the floor. I still do not know what I was supposed to do with it as it was much too short for use as a tie-back. After carefully unfolding the fragile paper, I slid my arms into the holes and gingerly alighted upon the exam table so as not to damage or tear the garment. Josh compared my outfit to somethine Lady Gaga might wear (eyeroll - I don't like her at all). I was disappointed that, with the few hundred dollars they would be receiving from my insurance company, they couldn't provide something a little more... dignified? I mean just prior to being escorted into the exam room I was asked to pee all over my hand while holding a very thin strip of paper with bits of colored paper stuck to it. Few things in life are more degrading and undignified than peeing on yourself ON PURPOSE! And then they want me to wear a paper dress. [Another interruption: pregnant women often suffer from hot flashes which cause excessive perspiration. Have you ever washed your hands only to discover that the restroom was out of paper towels and you mistakenly thought toilet paper would be a good substitute? Remember the thousands of tiny bits of wet paper shredded and stuck to your skin like persistent white boogers? This is much the same effect of combining sweat with a toilet paper dress!]
The nurse took my vitals and I waited with Josh for the ominous obstetrician to grace us with her presence. Eventually Dr. Narcissistic showed up. She did some poking around on me, listening to my lungs, etc. Then I made love to a speculum while having my cervix poked and brushed. Finally, she wheeled over the ultrasound machine and squirted a nice sized glob of cold, slimy wetness all over my lower abdomen. It felt so good in the midst of my hot flash. I asked her if she would squirt some on my forehead too but she didn't think that was very funny. My grin at my own joke faded as quickly as it had come on and she proceeded to apply the ultrasound wand to my skin in search of Squishy. She found one very cute little alien-looking fetus residing in my lower abdomen. When I asked why I am measuring 2 weeks ahead of where I should be for the gestational age of the baby, she suggested fibroids. Lovely. She didn't see any point in looking for any fibroids since there was nothing that could be done about it anyway. So now I get to spend the rest of my pregnancy wondering whether or not I have a tumor growing on my uterus. She printed out a few ultrasound pictures for us and left me to clean myself up.
She then sat down at a computer to enter in whatever findings she had procured when she began to argue with me about tests, procedures and exams. I explained that I did my own prenatal care and delivery of my last baby after educating myself on the topic and that I didn't feel the need for tests and procedures which were not medically indicated. In fact, the only reason I was sitting in front of her today was because I was concerned about my uterus measuring so big. Had it not been for that fact, I would be sitting at home, awaiting my prenatal care items and assuming the care of my own body and baby. I was ready to pull my hair out by the end of the visit. Suffice it to say that Dr. Narcissistic and I don't like one another and I will not be returning to their office for any other concerns. It was certainly a mutual feeling as was evident by her suggestion of a group of midwives who might be a better fit for me.
Despite the aggravation I experienced at the OB/GYN, I am relieved that Squishy is singular. There was a small measure of disappointment but after seeing the flutter of a tiny heartbeat, that disappointment quickly melted away. I'll be putting in my order for my prenatal and birth supplies next week and assuming my own care from now on.
Soon Damian was off to school, mom arrived, Josh and I got dressed, he tossed down a cup of coffee and I inhaled a chicken sandwich (eggs totally gross me out lately). The babies woke up crabby but were soon distracted from their irritability when they discovered that gramma was here. Once they were absorbed in the book gramma was reading, Josh and I slipped out the door and off to the doc.
Upon arrival at the clinic, I signed in and soon was handed a sizeable stack of paper to fill out. A lot has changed in the 15 years it's been since I jumped through the hoops of mainstream obstetrics. For starters, the list of personal and invasive questions has quadrupled! It used to ask if you had VD and if you had any ancestral history of diabetes, heart disease, or cancer. Now they also want to know your specific heritage and whether any of your distant relations had freckles (what?). After signing and dating 400 times, I handed over the book and waited. [I'm going to just say here real quick that the medical industry needs a serious overhaul when it comes to customer relations. If I showed up at, oh, say the salon for a hair cut and a massage, I would not be waiting for 30 minutes after my appointment time to be invited back. If there were such a delay I would be offered a beverage and maybe even a discount or coupon for my trouble. Any time I've ever been to a medical doctor, I was expected to wait for at least 30 minutes for my appointment and then bow down and kiss the egotistical feet of the all-knowing doctor who has so generously graced me with his presence. Horse crap, I say! I'm paying that person - and I'm paying him significantly more than my hairdresser. I think he should be hopping around trying to make me more comfortable in an effort to earn my business. Ok, that's the end of that rant. Back to the story.]
Eventually we were escorted down the long hallway to a nondescript exam room where I was handed a napkin and asked to, "undress and put this on, open at the back." I'm sorry, what? I think there's a mistake; this is a napkin. No, I was expected to adorn myself in this paper dress with the thickness and transparency of 1-ply toilet paper.
I undressed to my socks (sorry, the floor was really cold and they don't need to examine my feet anyway) and unfolded the napkin. From between the layers of the napkin a white strip of what looked like plumber's tape slipped out and fell on the floor. I still do not know what I was supposed to do with it as it was much too short for use as a tie-back. After carefully unfolding the fragile paper, I slid my arms into the holes and gingerly alighted upon the exam table so as not to damage or tear the garment. Josh compared my outfit to somethine Lady Gaga might wear (eyeroll - I don't like her at all). I was disappointed that, with the few hundred dollars they would be receiving from my insurance company, they couldn't provide something a little more... dignified? I mean just prior to being escorted into the exam room I was asked to pee all over my hand while holding a very thin strip of paper with bits of colored paper stuck to it. Few things in life are more degrading and undignified than peeing on yourself ON PURPOSE! And then they want me to wear a paper dress. [Another interruption: pregnant women often suffer from hot flashes which cause excessive perspiration. Have you ever washed your hands only to discover that the restroom was out of paper towels and you mistakenly thought toilet paper would be a good substitute? Remember the thousands of tiny bits of wet paper shredded and stuck to your skin like persistent white boogers? This is much the same effect of combining sweat with a toilet paper dress!]
She then sat down at a computer to enter in whatever findings she had procured when she began to argue with me about tests, procedures and exams. I explained that I did my own prenatal care and delivery of my last baby after educating myself on the topic and that I didn't feel the need for tests and procedures which were not medically indicated. In fact, the only reason I was sitting in front of her today was because I was concerned about my uterus measuring so big. Had it not been for that fact, I would be sitting at home, awaiting my prenatal care items and assuming the care of my own body and baby. I was ready to pull my hair out by the end of the visit. Suffice it to say that Dr. Narcissistic and I don't like one another and I will not be returning to their office for any other concerns. It was certainly a mutual feeling as was evident by her suggestion of a group of midwives who might be a better fit for me.
Despite the aggravation I experienced at the OB/GYN, I am relieved that Squishy is singular. There was a small measure of disappointment but after seeing the flutter of a tiny heartbeat, that disappointment quickly melted away. I'll be putting in my order for my prenatal and birth supplies next week and assuming my own care from now on.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Size Matters
As previously notated, I felt my bump last week. And that cute little bump is still there. Shocking, I know. But here's the thing: I think Squishy has company. As in Squishy might be plural. Ok, wait, before you start rolling your eyes, let me explain. If I were under the care of an Obstetrician I would have likely had an ultrasound by now and would be able to hear the rhythmic galloping of a heartbeat in the next week. Multiples would have most likely been discovered by now. For those who don't know, beginning usually between 14-20 weeks, the provider will begin measuring the fundus or the uterus. They do this by taking a nice, flexy tape measure, placing the end of it on your pubic bone and then stretching the tape up over your belly to the top of your uterus. The number of centimeters you measure is proportionate to how many weeks pregnant you are. This means that at 25 weeks you should be measuring 25 centimeters. This is accurate to within 2 centimeters either way. Well, I thought that my bump seemed rather large so just for funsies I decided to dig out my handy tape measure (I normally use it for sewing but, hey, a centimeter is a centimeter). First I emptied my bladder to assure an accurate measurement. Then I dropped my britches, layed flat on my back on the bed and unrolled my tape measure. Imagine my surprise when I brought the tape up to my eyes where my fingers were holding the place of the measurement and saw....
(drumroll please)...
15!
WHOA NELLIE! It should say 10.
So I called and made an appointment with some random OB/GYN that was spit out at me by the website owned by my insurance company. I'll be going in on the morning of March 9th for a head count to see if Squishy does in fact have a roommate or if my uterus is just abnormally large.
If Squishy is all alone then we continue on as planned, providing we don't discover any other threatening anomalies. However, if Squishy turns out to have cloned him or herself then all of my plans for an unassisted homebirth go right out the window and I begin the tedious hunt for someone who is spineless enough for me to push them around to get what I want, MWAHAHAHA! No, seriously, I want to find a doctor or midwife who is willing to put up with me and my very highly specific demands. I know more about natural birth than the average bear and fear that I won't be able to exercise self restraint when the urge to slap the lips right off of some patronizingly arrogant doctor overwhelms me (anyone who has been pregnant before knows the kind of unbridled rage I'm talking about here). Thus the need to find someone who won't fight with me.
If there's one Squishy in there then he or she is now the size of a kumquat (just over an inch long). If there are two Squishies (Squishes? Squishi? Squish? Squeeshe? whatever the plural is) then there are two kumquats in there. I think I should mention that the kumquat comparison is just the baby, not the furnishings required by the wee tyke. Each little kumquat is enveloped inside of a water balloon complete with a full functioning kitchen, or placenta. That's quite a bit of occupied space when you double it up. I'm 10 weeks now which means I'm 1/4 of the way through my pregnancy already. Also, if there are a couple of little citrusy sweeties in there then I can feel justified that my belly pooches out a bit further than I really like. HA, it's not just gas!
(drumroll please)...
15!
WHOA NELLIE! It should say 10.
So I called and made an appointment with some random OB/GYN that was spit out at me by the website owned by my insurance company. I'll be going in on the morning of March 9th for a head count to see if Squishy does in fact have a roommate or if my uterus is just abnormally large.
If Squishy is all alone then we continue on as planned, providing we don't discover any other threatening anomalies. However, if Squishy turns out to have cloned him or herself then all of my plans for an unassisted homebirth go right out the window and I begin the tedious hunt for someone who is spineless enough for me to push them around to get what I want, MWAHAHAHA! No, seriously, I want to find a doctor or midwife who is willing to put up with me and my very highly specific demands. I know more about natural birth than the average bear and fear that I won't be able to exercise self restraint when the urge to slap the lips right off of some patronizingly arrogant doctor overwhelms me (anyone who has been pregnant before knows the kind of unbridled rage I'm talking about here). Thus the need to find someone who won't fight with me.
If there's one Squishy in there then he or she is now the size of a kumquat (just over an inch long). If there are two Squishies (Squishes? Squishi? Squish? Squeeshe? whatever the plural is) then there are two kumquats in there. I think I should mention that the kumquat comparison is just the baby, not the furnishings required by the wee tyke. Each little kumquat is enveloped inside of a water balloon complete with a full functioning kitchen, or placenta. That's quite a bit of occupied space when you double it up. I'm 10 weeks now which means I'm 1/4 of the way through my pregnancy already. Also, if there are a couple of little citrusy sweeties in there then I can feel justified that my belly pooches out a bit further than I really like. HA, it's not just gas!
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