Finding Out

I always thought the day I would find out I was pregnant would be a magical day filled with tears and overwhelming happiness, and violin music, and both me and my partner would be so happy we'd laugh, and embrace, and laugh some more, choking back sobs of joy and general feelings of it being the best day ever.

I always pictured finding out on my own and then taking my time to tell the father-to-be in a very romantic, loving way. Like over a home cooked meal, or by quickly crocheting a blanket with the words "It's a boy" in it and laying it over us while we settled in to watch something on tv.

More often than not, I imagined it would happen over a candlelit bubble bath. Something exactly like this:

That is exactly not how it went.

(and yes, I put a stick I peed on four months ago in my mouth. the peed on part was covered!)

Instead of being calm, cool, and collected - I took three tests in a matter of four minutes and screamed after each one a flurry of curse words and shocked accusations at the world, as if I had just been set on fire but didn't know what fire was.

I wasn't alone like I'd always thought, the perpetrator of my pregnancy was sitting in the living room where I could see him through the un-closed bathroom door, and we weren't having a home cooked meal - we had just picked up a 16 inch pizza from the local pizza place and we were washing it down with a mixture of red wine and coca cola. In the same glass.

And instead of tears of joy, I had tears of confusion. "What is this? WHAT IS THIS." I insisted showing him the stick. Not that I was upset or disappointed, I just . . . I just didn't think it would happen. You hear about babies, and you hear that people make them, but then when it happens - when you realize you just started a life - A LIFE FOR GOD'S SAKE - it is so overwhelmingly shocking it's unbelievable. And doesn't make sense. And is so thrilling you want to scream. Realize you actually are screaming. Stop screaming and try to catch your breath. Is so exciting you want to cry. Realize you are crying. Suddenly there's like seven thousand emotional things going on and you are about to burst except all you can do is think, "Do I have time to run the bubble bath and try to do this over again?"

But there's no going back. So he found because you cussed it at him? I'm sure it was still special. In it's own way. At the very least you'll always remember it.

The day you found out you were pregnant. And screamed.

Sisters

I know it's too early to be thinking about this, but I'd like to have another girl.

Wait, wait - I know what you're thinking, "You haven't even had this one yet Captain ADD. Let's just take it one at a time."

At least that's what the father of my child is thinking. Or, not so much 'thinking' as it is 'saying it out loud anytime I mention the plural, children, and then repeatedly telling me to slow my roll'. Which I understand. I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'm a girl. That's what we do. We think about things we shouldn't, like (not to piss off the years and huge mobs of feminist stuff I have behind me, giving me the right to vote and blah blah blah) on a first date we think "Mrs. Blah Blah. That doesn't sound too bad. I wonder if he'd wear a tux at our wedding or if we'd have a casual beach wedding and he'd wear khaki pants and a loose white shirt so I could see his tan chiseled chest when a waft of saltly sea air gently billowed his shirt open as I walked down the sand aisle with a lily in my hair. Wait, are lilies for weddings or funerals? I don't want to wear a funeral flower to my wedding. I wonder if he even has a chiseled tan chest. I'm gonna have to find out. That will definitely sway whether we get married at St. Lawrence or the Poconos."

"So what are you going to order."

"Lilies."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I don't see lilies on the menu."

"I didn't say lilies I said . . . quesedilla. Do you like Mexican food."

"Yeah sure."

Wedding apps, taken care of.

Anyway, I was just thinking about girls and the fact that I am one and that my life was made so much better because I had a sister. (I think, maybe it would have rocked with just a brother, but we'll never know.) There's just this amazing, fun, horribly fight-y bond you have with a sister that is unbeatable. Friends are a good substitute, but a friend won't let you borrow her underwear on a daily basis, or call you to tell you how weird your other family members are being, or use the bathroom while you're trying to take a relaxing long shower.

But this little clip is exactly the reason I love sisters. Exactly.

Oh My Gosh. . .

It's A Girl!!!

And she's very bendy.

I could not stop crying, a) because oh my gosh it's a girl! And b) because oh my gosh it's a girl! When I told my mom she was very excited but I could almost hear her inner thoughts of, "Aaaahahahaha! I hope she's just. like. you."

I'm totally thrilled, and would have been if it was a boy too, but secretly I'm totally excited to embarrass the crap out of her while picking her up from school in my pjs (on purpose), or talking to her boyfriends about their intentions, or making her wish she could sink into the ground and vanish when I offer to sing/chaperone at one of her school dances. The possiblities are ENDLESS! Not that I plan on being horribly mortifying, but I know myself and I know how girls are come 12 and trust me - that combo is a recipe for so much joy (on my part) and so much embarrassment (on her part).

During most of the ultrasound she was bent in half, holding her toes up above her head.

Mommy wishes she could still do that.

It was so amazing that you could sit there and see everything. I mean, EVERYTHING. Like, the kidneys, the spine, the brain, the four chambers of that tiny, beating heart which was so amazing I could have watched it for hours. We watched her yawn, and grab her legs, and punch me in the bladder. She swallowed and we could see her little tongue and then she suddenly turned around and showed us this:

"Hey guys, this is my foot. Check out my teeny tiny toes."

They're her Daddy's toes. I can already tell.

The woman doing the ultrasound was so nice, and was narrating everything until she stopped suddenly.

"Ok, the tibia and fibia are measuring perfectly. The clavicle is great. All the bones are right on track, let's just do the leg . . . Oh. Oh my."

"What?"

"Well. Nothing."

"What do you mean 'nothing'?! How many legs does my baby have!?!?"

"Oh she's got two legs. It's just . . . " She peers at the screen. Then stops for a second, and turns to look over at the two of us.

"Oh! That's right. Look at you two!"

"She looks tired?"

"No, you're both really tall. Her legs are measuring two weeks bigger than everything else. She's gonna be lanky! I'll just tell the radiologist so he knows there's nothing wrong."

So, it's already started. Even in the womb people are talking about how tall the baby is.

One of the last shots we got before I had to pee (for the ten thousandth time) (they make you drink six cups of water before the appointment so your bladder can act as a window or something. it's pretty much the same as torture, "Hey pregnant lady, let's fill up that bladder then press on it for an hour. Tell me where the bombs are! Tell me!"), was this shot of the little girl's hand.

My sister says it looks like she's throwing gang signs, or doing the wink and gun shoot thing (which would be so cute!), but I kinda think (don't make fun of me), I kinda think it looks like she's doing sign language. Anyone? Gige, please tell me you can see that.

If that's not the sign for "I love you", then I'm just a psycho preggers lady filled with too much love-y adrenaline right now.

It's probably a little bit of both.

21 Weeks

I'm twenty-one weeks with child now. Which means my baby is the size of a carrot.



By the time this is over my uterus could have made the grossest fruit salad ever.


Twenty one weeks seems like a long time, but it has flown by. After all the shock and excitement and worry settles down you'd think it would just drag on and on, and it totally does!

WHERE'S MY BABY ALREADY!?!

Just kidding. It doesn't drag, I keep being shocked that my pants don't fit, or that my bras actually do fit (see all that praying from Jr. High DID work! I just should have been a little more specific about when I wanted my boobs). And even though I'm shocked all day long, trying to navigate my new body around water coolers I could normally breeze past, or up out of a low couch that I now have to just do a slow roll off and onto the floor - I'm always thinking it. At every second I know I'm pregnant. And that is a weird thing. Like a new way of breathing. But rounder.

Anyway, the other day my sister took me to Tiffany's (because she's fancy) and I was walking around the store daydreaming about which ring the lead singer of Mumford and Sons would buy me on our romantic getaway to Tahiti when I caught sight of this:




A giant, lime, praying mantis that's just eaten her mate's head.







It was shocking to see that image of me in the mirror at Tiffany's. That pregnant girl was me. I wanted to grab the sales lady by her $1500 lapel pin and say, "Look at my reflection! I'm pregnant even there!" But I didn't because she looked like all she would do was try to sell me something sparkly as a congratulations prize, and I am easily talked into sparkly things right now. The other day I bought a plant because a piece of glitter had fallen on it.

It was like being hit in the head with a ton of bricks. Not only do I know I'm pregnant, but now other people can know without me telling them. And how amazing! How totally incredible! How in the world is the Mumford and Sons lead singer going to want to run away to Tahiti with me now?!

No one falls in love with a pregnant woman at first glance. Do they? That was my actual thought: What if I meet whoever that guy is now?! He won't want me because I'm pregnant!

Now, don't get me wrong - I love the father of my child. A lot. With every part of me I love him and have no intention of leaving him. For a famous person or not. He's shockingly wonderful, kind, supportive, and did not leave me those few weeks I would pregnantly scream things like, "I would NEVER ask you to run an errand for me! NEVER!" and then break down into uncontrollable sobs, and flop onto the couch in complete and utter despair because apparently when he asked me to pick something up from the store, a store I was five feet away from, it was equivalent to ruining my entire life. (Meanwhile, I'd been asking him to get me things on a daily basis for months. Things like, "Please find a honeydew melon." In Montana. In the middle of a snow storm. And he did it without batting an eye, and came home with a smile on his gorgeous little face.)

My point is, I don't actually want to run away with the lead singer of a band, but I like having the "option". I like that if I'm bored at a jewelry store* I can let my mind drift to an alternate life where people I'll never meet buy me things I would never wear in real life. Because it's fun. Because it's tax season and I need it. Because at the end of the fantasy I'd always choose real life, and the real people in my life.

So, I guess I'm going to have to alter my daydreaming a little bit. And that's ok. Because the more I think about it, the more I like daydreaming about what life is going to be like five months from now, a year from now, eighteen years from now. Because it doesn't involve just myself. And that's a nice thought. A totally crazy, slightly panic-inducing thought - but a nice one nonetheless.



*The women of my family just cringed a little. Bored? At a jewelery store? Are you even female!

Fruit Farm

I just ate Starbursts for breakfast. And before you go judging, I just want you to know that I consider that way healthier than the seventeen donuts I wanted to eat but didn't because I'm trying to keep my baby healthy, so instead I thought, "Starbursts are fruit-like. That should be fine."

Later I compare napping to a light jog!

My logic is just getting better and better people.

In other news: every week I get an update about what's going on up in my insides, and then they compare the size of the baby to a piece of fruit. Which seems cute but it's starting to get really confusing. Last week they said the baby was 5 1/2 inches long about the size of a tomato! I don't know what sort of crazy tomato farm they grew up on but where I come from tomatoes are the size of . . . a tomato. Like half the size of my palm maybe? Not the size of the average . . . foot.

Then this week they said it was 6 inches, the size of a large banana. Ok, that I can handle. I've eaten some big bananas.

(see how I'm not making jokes because this is my baby blog!)
(it's killing me)

But I peeked for next week, and next week it's the size of a carrot. Ok, now a) a carrot is a vegetable. Maybe not according to science, but according to my heart it's a vegetable. And b) a carrot is larger than a banana? I don't know what sort of crazy carrot farm they grew up on, but I really hope it's true because if my baby is growing and shrinking like some sort of magical shrinky dink I am going to freak out. They're not like sponges are they? Just filling up and then wringing themselves out every once in a while to make room for all the Starbursts I'm filling up on.

I just checked and the week after carrot week is spaghetti squash (huge) and then after that, I kid you not, a mango (not huge). A mango? You go from a large squash to a mango? Was the person making up this fruit chart from somewhere where they don't have fruit?

Anyway, it seems weird. But right now I've gotta go feed my little banana, because someone is kicking my bladder and if that doesn't mean I need to go eat some grapes and little chocolate caramels I don't know what does!

Perks of Pregnancy

Perk #1:

Check out these pants!

They're so comfortable I want to make out with them.

Way more comfortable than these pants:

These are supposed to be maternity pants but they're really just strangle your stomach pants. That elastic is so tight you could bungee jump from the empire state building with my waist if you wanted to.

Perk #2

This is going to sound a little gross, but my stomach is getting a little hairy. Or rather, I should say, hairier. I mean, we all have a little peach fuzz everywhere, but for some reason pregnancy - it is making me hairier. Not like monkey hairy, or even old-man-at-the-beach hairy (you know the ones I'm talking about) (Dad)

Just kidding, that's not my dad!

(P.S. Why is that guy pinching his own thigh?)

So, I'm not crazy hairy bellied, I just have slightly darker stomach hair than before. More noticeable. And let me tell you something: as a woman the last thing I want is thicker hair any place that's not my head. Turn my mane into one that resembles Eva Longoria's? Fine. Turn my stomach into a place that I actually considered trimming? Uh, no thank you!

It doesn't exactly scream attractive if your partner can make little hair swirls on your tummy while having a relaxing evening in front the fire. It more screams, "Hey, I've got a secret under my shirt, and it's not what's in my bra. It's lower, and it needs to be brushed."

Anyway, I'm exaggerating. A little. Pregnancy does weird things to your body. And if a thin layer of fur on my belly means this baby is healthy and growing and thriving, well then I'll take it. But you better believe I'm dressing that little sucker up as something horribly embarrassing for Halloween when they're nine. A baby orangutan maybe? We'll see. I've got nine years and four months to figure it out.

Introduction!

My friends and family keep asking if I'm going to blog about being pregnant/having a baby and I have always hesitated a) because I don't really blog about personal things. I mean, I blog about my friend's STDs, and my boobs, and how I am the champion of drinking myself to sleep - but nothing that personal. And b) because when I just typed that sentence, you know the one with "being pregnant/having a baby" in it I had a minor little freak out/meltdown in my head, and then I did again when I just had to retype it. Because you can know you're with child all you want, but the second you type it out it makes it real. Like, seriously real. Watch, I'll do it with something else:

Amy will win a million dollars today.

See, now I have to figure out what to do with all that cash.

Anyway, it's not bad-real, it's just not something you're ever prepared for. No matter how badly you want it. I don't care what you say, you can in-vitro the crap out of yourself, or unprotect your sexing 'til the cows come home, the minute it sinks in - like, really sinks in - your mind is going to explode into a million tiny little pieces and then put itself back together all jumbled, and drooling, and asking for a giant martini.

That being said, I am really, really, really happy! And excited! And elated! And lucky! And blessed! And all of that stuff. Believe me, I'm so thrilled I sometimes can't stop smiling. But, until you've had a human growing inside of you, all alien-like, you might not understand that you can be simultaneously overjoyed beyond belief and terrified to absolute death. More terrified than the first time you showed up to a school dance and realized you forgot to put deodorant on. (Winter Fantasy 1995)

So, I guess the answer is, yes. I'm gonna write about it. And take pictures of things people don't want to see, and things they do. And my baby daddy is probably going to be horribly embarrassed about all of this - but I like the idea of documenting it so we can remember. So that when we're sleep deprived, or when our sixteen year old is sneaking out of the house, or when we get puked on, we can look back and remember how we got here, and how much love, and hope, and faith we have for each other and for this unborn little guy or girl. We can remember it all.

One overjoyed and terrified step at a time.