New year... New baby!

At approximately 20 weeks along, we’ve reached the halfway marker. Since becoming pregnant, I’ve found the whole timing of this to be somewhat perplexing. I keep redoing the math in my head, and am still unsure why people refer to pregnancy as a nine month term. In pregnancy land, everything is weeks. 40 weeks is a full term. The first two weeks, actually don’t count, because those two weeks are including simply because the egg is ready and waiting… it hasn’t been fertilized, and so technically you’re not ‘pregnant’ even though a waiting egg is still an important part of this whole process.

Still, subtracting that 2 from 40, you’re left with 38, which is really about 9 and a half months, a whole ten if you include those first couple bogus weeks when you are still waiting to get laid (forgive my crass humor). So, I suppose 9 is just a rounded number for those of us who think counting to forty is too much work.

Every time someone asks me how many months, I get to do this neat little math problem in my head. I subtract two from the number of weeks, then divide the remaining number by four. Then I kind of round it out. Ok, so now I’m four and half months along, but I still have five months to go to get to May, and oh yeah, since my due date is the 15^th, I have two weeks.. so really it’s five and half months. But wait.. that’s still ten months. Are the doctors doing a different math problem when they do the ultrasound? After all, they are the ones that clocked me at 19 weeks last time I was there, then pronounced I was at the halfway marker, which I would assume means they are referring to gestational age. So what the hell? Why is this so hard to do one simple conversion. Somewhere, someone got a few lines crossed, and/or was never entirely clear with me. To make matters worse, every time I think of the baby’s age I ponder this, and since I have no precise answer, I’m starting to get annoyed. So I got to site that actually breaks it down for me. According to this site, which divides the weeks up in occasional groupings of five (they average a month at 4.445 weeks) I’m in month five! WTH? Really? Ugh.. I’ll have to pass this question on to my nurse. I don’t understand why  this isn’t more simple. Who the hell decided to make a math problem as hard as doing your taxes for pregnant women… was it to annoy the heck out of us? To test our mental capabilities or keep us in check (after all, we all know that sooner or later baby brain kicks in). Ugh…

The most common weeks to months breakdown used for the 9 months of pregnancy:
*This is just a guideline and the exact weekly breakdown may differ from source to source. (from baby2see.com)

Your First Trimester:
1^st Month = Weeks 1,2,3,4
2^nd Month = Weeks 5,6,7,8
3^rd Month = Weeks 9,10,11,12,13
Your Second Trimester:
4^th Month = Wks 14,15,16,17
5^th Month = Wks 18,19,20,21
6^th Month = Wks 22,23,24,25,26
Your Third Trimester:
7^th Month = Wks 27,28,29,30
8^th Month = Wks 31,32,33,34,35
9^th Month = Wks 36,37,38,39,40

Ahhh, so now I see. By adding an additional week to the ends of each trimester, you have months with approximately five weeks instead of the traditional four. Strange.

Ok.. now that I have successfully solved that riddle (all done while in the process of writing about it, no less) I can continue on in peace.

I had a nice, quiet Christmas. Vincent was working, and so I sat around most of the day, cooking and doing a small amount of organizing. For some strange reason I was unhappy, perhaps because all of the stress I had become so addicted to as far as building up to the holiday was suddenly alleviated, and so quickly I could hardly cope. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was in a sentimental, disgruntled mood. It’s odd, thinking that next year I’ll have someone else to shop for. Oh, don’t get me wrong, first year, I’m certain he will be so amazed by the wrapping paper alone I won’t need to buy him anything extravagant. I could probably buy at least one package of diapers and he wouldn’t know the difference. Truth be told, I’ve never been a supporter of parents who want to make that first birthday “unforgettable,” or for that matter, the birthday after that. Let’s be honest, the first unforgettable holiday, is more for mom and dad then it is for the baby, who won’t remember anything but what really counts. Oh, and I suppose you want to know what it is I think that really counts? Why, the shiny colors naturally! The spirit of the holiday, the joy you emanate from it is what the baby will pick up on. For that matter, who wants to get in the habit of spoiling a child who won’t have any real appreciation for what he/she is getting? So yes, there will be those special, little toys, I will just have to have, but it’s so important to try and find a good balance, and I can only hope I’m on the right path.

Speaking of the right path, I’m headed into the new year. Vincent calls me lame, but my resolutions are pretty typical. I want to curse less, speak more appropriately. I also want to really focus on baby buying. Once again, I stress that I don’t want to spend money frivolously, but there’s quite a bit to consider. First, being at the halfway mark, I’m not guaranteed that the baby won’t come early, even if it’s just by two weeks, which means I want to get some preparation in. Secondly, even if money is a little short, I don’t want to have to settle for everything. Just because I get some hand me down clothes doesn’t mean I should have to stick my poor child in some atrocious purple outfit. I shouldn’t have to lower all my standards. It’s like a wedding. You may not want to spend 50,000 dollars on a dress, but you don’t want the clearance sale at Wal-mart out of desperation either. With that in mind, and the major holidays over, time to get started. I want to make at least one major buy (car seat, stroller, crib) every month. That’s not very much time if you think about it, so I may even have to squeeze in a couple in one month, not to mention scattering as much little stuff as I can around all that (I ordered a couple of pacifiers already.. cute!).

One thing I have been seriously considering is giving the old cloth diapers a go. At least, in the beginning, while he’s not really got poops (they say that doesn’t really start til you switch over to solids), it’ll give me an idea of whether or not I can handle that kind of work, plus if we chose the right brand it’ll save us quite a bit of money. I especially liked my friend’s idea to compromise. She uses cloth diapers at home since she’s there so much, but disposables while she’s out. The startup fee is quite a bit heavy, but in the long run it would pay off, just like using breast milk over formula is a definite must (as long as he takes to it!). No reason to go out and pay for something my body is producing… and it will help me drop weight!

Unfortunately, I don’t quite understand all of Vincent’s thoughts. The most I can typically get out of him is a joke here and there, a small remark, or, “we’ll have to see.” All of which basically means he really hasn’t put a lot of thought into it. I can’t blame him though. He has his car which he is trying to get worked on, and unlike my own job which is fairly lenient with it’s down time, he’s always focused, so he doesn’t have all the time to consider these options like I do. Still, I feel somewhat bad, like maybe I’m denying him part of the process of decision making or will come off seeming bossy. I’m just used to making decisions on my own, and it’s not in my nature to wait around until the last minute to research something if I have the time now. Plus, I don’t want to nag him into it, because then the whole process will be just as frustrating for him, when I figure if he trusts me I can do most of the work really. Anyways, I can (and will have to) nag him about other things, besides diapers, like the car seats, cribs, things that demand quality but that should be aesthetically pleasing for a boy and his dad as well as me.

Meanwhile, on the lighter side of things, supposedly Cesar (if that remains his name… I think it should!) can hear me and the outside world about now, even though the internal sounds have been described as being “louder than a vacuum cleaner.” For that reason, I encourage Vincent to say something here and there, because I want so very much for Cesar to understand our tones! Also, he’s swallowing lots of fluid to practice digestion, and the amniotic fluid is said to taste differently depending on what I eat. How interesting! I never knew that. This means I should eat a nice variety of healthy foods so he’ll take a liking to them. I’m so grateful the holidays are over because I really pigged out on candy, so now I can get back on track, and get Cesar interesting in healthy foods.

One of my friends described to me “candy” for her children as being fruit, which I thought was interesting. They are too young to actually learn the error, but she sticks with it.

Oh the things to think about. I get excited, and then occasionally anxious. I sometimes think I can’t do this. I hear that’s a natural fear, and so I ignore it. After all, if I can’t do this, well really, what option do I have? Of course I can. If some of these other parents I’ve seen can do it, I can, even if my standards are a little high!

Above: My Christmas photo, I suppose. I actually got a camera for Christmas, and even though I can't stand cameras, I figure that I can be in control of all the shots! Nice.
Below: Vincent, procrastination at it's best. What can I say, he makes me laugh.

It's a...

BOY!

Well, I won’t lie. I, being a female myself, imagined watching girlie cartoons with a daughter, of teaching her to be her own fashion stylist, of giving her advice about boys and teaching her how to be confident in herself.

As I lay on the table, I began to feel anxious. I had both Vincent and my father beside me. It occurred to me that I was surrounded by men. Hell, even the cats are boys.. and I’ve often considered myself someone who could hang around with the guys, listen to their lingo and their disgusting banter, and get along with it to a nice, balanced degree, without losing my own feminine mystery (shaving my legs, yes it’s a must, even while pregnant). I’d hoped to pass this on to Alice.

We got underway with the examination. First glimpse at the face, and apparently he’s as camera shy as me, since he rolled over so much so that the technician said, “Well, we’ll just come back to that.”

And then, before I knew it, she was pointing out two legs, and my dad was making that, “I know where this is going,” sound, for he had already guessed the answer. It took me a minute, for I was off in wonderland, momentarily checked out of reality. I don’t remember who said it first or how exactly the line went, because I was hearing it in my head, watching the technician put a nice little label on the picture before it printed out declaring, “I’m a boy!”

Above: Photo not for pervs!... It's a boy

Somewhere around then, as the technician shifted and began to look over organs and other measurements, I remember distinctly thinking that I was tired, and wishing I could go home and resume this later. I don’t know why I thought that, except I’m fairly keen on assuming I’d entered into a state of shock. Seeing this moving, writhing, little person was very overwhelming. Everything, the tech explained, was fully developed, just not mature. We could see the four chambers of the heart, the spine, the kidneys, and all were measured for documentation. To top it all off, this nameless little thing, a dream that had been within a dream, now was capable of having a name, and a future beyond just speculation. We are no longer wondering, “If it’s a girl, maybe this… or that,” or “If it’s a boy, I hope he’s this… or that.” It’s a sudden reality. It’s a boy. He’s got a heart, a brain, ribs, arm bones… he can do math or play sports. What  kinds of conversations would I have with him? What would I ever have in common with him?

So some people like to play the game of, “Well it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as it’s healthy.” Oh whatever! That’s what I think of those people. Someone who says that either  A: hasn’t put the amount of thought or dreamed about their baby at all, or  B: they just don’t want to admit it because we like to pretend that it would be rude to say that to our children. It’s as if, we aren’t supposed to hope too much, because any disappointment will cause our children to feel unwanted. “Aww… mom wishes I was a girl, she must really hate me.”

Such silliness prompts me to laugh. After sharing this with my mother, she was so supportive, letting me know that when I was born (she never had a sonogram), she had hoped for a boy herself. It doesn’t hurt my feelings or make me feel like she loves me any less. It makes me laugh, especially since she says, “you’re father knew you were a girl though. He just knew.”

Same with this situation. I n retrospect, I should have paid more attention to my dreams and moreso, Vincent’s. After all, I wanted a girl, so it’s as though I turned that want into a belief that he was and now feel incredibly stupid. Vincent dreamed about having a son, and though he won’t admit it (yeah, he’s one of those that likes to say it doesn’t matter just as long as the baby is healthy!), I know he wanted a boy. He’d had a dream that I had twins. The first to be born was a girl, and he wasn’t there when she was born. Yet when the boy was born, he was in the delivery room and held him. So subconsciously, he wanted a boy, so the dream interpreters would say. I think, for my feelings though, he kept it private.

That being said, I’m so happy it’s a boy. Vincent claims he wasn’t in shock like I was. Yet he was oddly quiet most of the ride home, even went straight away to take a nap after we got home. It’s probably a good thing we both got to go to work today. Sometimes, I know the reality that this is all real takes a while to absorb, and that’s hard to do when you have someone around trying to do the exact same thing. I believe at times it is best to separate, and interact with the outside world so that the information is absorbed, and as daily life continues you begin to realize that this is special and that it has not stopped or railroaded your life. Not to mention you have the opportunity to discuss it with others, observe other people, or just zone out and let your thoughts run wild.

On a side note, I’d hate to give the impression that the whole visit was a solemn occasion. No, it wasn’t a funeral like feeling and I wasn’t miserable at the thought of having a boy. We had a great time. My father asked lots of questions about what the technician was examining, even guessing different body parts. In all honesty, I think she was a little put off by seeing the two of them in there, as my father is fairly intimidating, and Vincent looks extremely young. But even she began to loosen up, sharing more with us, and even laughing.

One thing I will say, our son has a demonic face! I know, I know, all babies look strange. Yet I was so proud to see his evil little face, when we finally did get him into camera view. We were all laughing and joking, so much so, that I think it caught the technician off guard. I’m sure most of them are used to surreal moms, talking about angels and how perfect their baby is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so proud, but hey, I’m not an idiot either! He’s a little monster, and better to have a demon son as a mama’s boy than not.   

Above: If you tilt your head to the right you are looking straight at his face. Check out his awesome devil horn and evil eyes.

After we got his face into view, he continually put his hands up, maybe trying to block us? He probably hates pictures, just like me. Then again, he was getting pummeled with sound waves, which as I understand can be quite loud and uncomfortable, so there is that.

He is his father’s son though. My dad once joked that if the baby took on the best of his family’s genes, along with Vince’s looks, he’d come out like Antonio Banderas (I think my dad figured it was a boy as well). Well, at this time I must say the side profile looks excellent. He should grow up handsomely, which is very wonderful, since my reply at the time had been, “Well what if he gets the worst of all our genes?” Danny Devito?

Above: Big lips, and a nice, perky nose.

Lastly, more good news. The doctor finally came in, letting us know first that everything looks excellent. He’s right where he should be, and at 11 ounces. He’s 19 weeks and 2 days according to their measurements, and on schedule for delivery May 15, 2011.

Also, the specialist informed me that I am indeed, RH negative. They’ve verified my blood type. However, the antibody that was discovered is something called a “cold gluten (?)” meaning it is not active until it is in a cold environment (like 70 degrees and under). The antibody I carry was recognized because when my blood was placed in the test tube, the lowered temp caused it to become active. Thus, in the future, she said this antibody my appear, but they are only specifically interested in something called the D Antibody, the antibody that directly is a result of the RH factor.

So hah! Hahah! I am so thrilled about that. Finally, that’s loads of stress. No more silly doctors asking and double asking if I have ever had abortions or miscarriages before, or blood transfusions. No more of this wondering and waiting. No more speculating about how bad the antibodies might hurt our son, or feeling low because my body is out to attack everything.

I am so grateful. We are having a boy! I was joking with Vincent earlier, saying, “Well, if he ever has a problem, I’ll just tell him, ‘Go talk to your father, I wanted a girl.’” Of course I’m joking! I’m too opinionated to not want to give him all the advice in the world. Especially since he is, after all, our little Damien, and out to conquer the universe.

I hope he’s geeky, smart, but with just enough strength that if someone makes him angry he can defend himself with first words, then a good amount of power. At least Vincent will have someone to work out with! And I’ll have someone to impart all my knowledge too (I’m joking again). I hope he’s a hard catch for women, that he’s work focused and interested in solving complex problems rather than solving the silly ones of some confused girl or entertaining the needs of some gold digger. I’ve seen too many good men go to waste on a bad woman. And my son, well he’s going to be great.

Tonight the moon will disappear...

I take the lunar eclipse as a very good sign, since tomorrow is my appointment with the specialist. I finally will have some answers as to this RH mess, and, if we are lucky, we get to find out the sex of the baby! The former has me somewhat anxious, however, knowing that my father will be there, along with Vincent gives me some comfort. Plus, since I have not received any emergency calls from the specialist to tell me that they urgently need me to come in, I think I can safely assume that the situation is not at a critical point.

Being a first time mom, it is hard to decipher whether or not those twitches are the kicks of the baby I feel! However, I am pretty certain that those initial pops and flutters were the movements of the baby after all.

My friend tried to describe how they felt for her. Cleverly, she described them as being akin to “gas bubbles.” Unfortunately, I had to admit, “I’m afraid I don’t know what that feels like either.” Apparently (at least I think so) I am incredibly lucky. Or (and this is more likely) due to my significant diet change, consisting of no carbonated drinks for the most part, meats, veggies, and cheeses (as few carbs as possible thanks!), I’m afraid I don’t know what gas bubbles are, or what the whole mess about being gassy is all about.

I think though, that my problem was I am  searching for too logical of a definition as to what those kicks should feel like. I read over many more descriptions (popcorn popping, flutters, butterflies) and was always second guessing myself. Who knows for exactly how long I have felt these movements and doubted them, or passed them off as my uterus expanding. So... whoops. Lesson learned. Babies aren’t an exact science, even if we treat them as such.

So… with the baby moving about, the lunar eclipse, and after finding out today that one of my old friends from high school, who also lives here in San Antonio, is one month pregnant, I must say I am a happy person! Not to mention, I saw my mother for a couple of days (Friday and Saturday), and since she lives all the way in Michigan, it was wonderful to see her, even if it was only for a short amount of time. My mother and father spoiled me like crazy, I must admit. I got maternity clothes too. In the past week (ever since I crossed that four month mark), I’ve exploded! It’s amazing the difference a pair of maternity pants can make. It definitely helped my ego a bit. I can see how some women get so depressed, and/or start to dress poorly. After all, it’s such a strange phase, to go from not showing, to starting to look like you’re eating too much chocolate, to being bulbous. Thankfully, my parents were there to help me, and give me back my glow. Now, I can sport my baby bump with some style, and I think that’s very important to a mother-to-be’s health, almost as much as her Prenatal vitamins. After all, the worse you feel about yourself, the more stress and depression you are passing on to your baby. We are often terribly concerned about the physical side of our child’s development, but I think mentally our own well being must play a large role in all of this as well and yet it is often times ignored.

Also, while my mother was in town, Vincent’s parents met mine. It was a quiet meeting, on Friday evening,  in my father’s living room. Vince’s little sister, Miranda was there, listening to her headphones, and I imagine incredibly bored. I remember being that age, in foreign places while “adults” talked. I certainly empathized with her throughout the night, and hope that I never forget to have that ability, no matter how much older I get. Still, I was happy that she kept herself as occupied as possible. Vince’s mother and stepfather each had a beer, while light discussion commenced between them and my own parents. Vincent and I were quiet but for a few things. For the most part, it was light, “safe” subjects, with minor pauses of awkward silence which were quickly filled with more talk. Yet, I must admit, on our end I believe things went nicely. For such a strange meeting, it would be ridiculous for me to expect that they would have engaging conversations. In fact, the comfort that we achieved is probably the very best we could have hoped for.  Vincent has yet to hear back from his parents as to whether or not they cared for us at all. Oh well, with families one can never be too sure.

On a funnier note, Vincent managed to kick me in the stomach last night. First hit taken to the gut since I became pregnant. Completely by accident, of course, although I like to joke with him that it was his subconscious acting out.

You see, his car doors can currently only be opened from the inside. We plan to have them fixed after Christmas, but for now he has to crawl through the trunk before opening the doors for me. His trunk, however, also has the issue that the bars which normally prop the trunk open (for say, when you are loading a large amount of groceries) are not working, and so I usually hold the trunk open while he crawls through (btw, he has an Eclipse, two door, sporty, and older, for anyone trying to imagine the car). It was late, and I was not only standing too close, but forgot I’m bigger. So as he swung his foot up, in the same manner you would to throw your leg over a horse, it came right up and smack! Into the baby! And I mean, right into the baby, not my upper tummy or my thigh. Immediately, we both started laughing.

                “You are so lucky that when I get hurt, my endorphins kick in,” I managed between giggles. If the baby was peaceful, he sure as heck woke her up with that!

                His reaction? “Oh my god. Don’t ever tell the baby I did that.”

                Of course, tummies and babies are resilient. It would be an overreaction for me to really assume an angry stance, or to think anything might have actually happened. My friend Pat warned me that toddlers have no respect for moms, and have pummeled into her belly once or twice. If every little to medium hit caused damage there’d be very few babies at all! We have to be able to take some amount of damage (not that I’m condoning it!). Still, it has been a pleasure to make all sorts of threats to Vincent, such as, “If something goes wrong, it’s officially your fault,” and, “I’m going to tell my father!” How can I resist? After all, he used to accuse me in the same sarcastic, playful manner, “If something’s wrong, it’s because you drank too much,” or, “smoked too much,” or, “ate badly.”

Finally, some payback!

Above: Forgive the poor picture quality. Taken at work, with my camera phone, where I discovered after coming back from my minivacation that my shirt doesn't button all the way down anymore!

Oh kitty, kitty, what's in a name? Why can't I just call you kitty?

With my family in town, the holidays so close, an appointment to find out where I stand with my blood on the 21^st, and work scheduling me as much as they can, I’m beat. I’m becoming increasingly tired, and some of the unavoidable symptoms of pregnancy are starting to kick in. Of course, by unavoidable, I mean, I escaped the nausea, the mood swings, the bloating. But, the body still has to adjust for the balloon in my gut, and no matter how you look at it, that means the spine is going to be pushed back into a “tail.” So my back hurts, and the blood which has generously decided to pool evenly in my legs causes my ankles to feel weird, and for reasons “unknown” according to researchers (perhaps it has something to do with how active you are plus the increased blood in the legs?) my calves spasm a bit in the middle of the night (at least I can be grateful I haven’t had any Charlie horses). The other night, I would wake, still partially dreaming, to these spasms, which by the way are best and most efficiently gotten rid of my simply flexing the foot, toes towards the knees.

Speaking of waking in the middle of the night, I have been so exhausted lately, partially because of my vivid dreams. Last night I dreamt of a pretty blonde woman, but she had a terrible secret for she was a monster with silver, gloomy eyes. She wanted to tell her son about what she was. Strange? Well Vincent woke this morning, telling me he had a dream we had a boy. When I asked if he was cute, Vincent told me that he was; he had brownish blonde hair but that’s about all he could recall.

I think Vincent really wants a boy, but I still think we are having a girl! Yet, we finally managed to pick out names for either, which we are both satisfied with (well, I didn’t get my way completely with the girl’s name, but I did get the name I wanted for the boy). I hesitate when people ask me names. When I first told my mom about Alicia, she said, “I don’t like it. Sounds too much like Tanicia.” Tanicia, being a girl she didn’t care for, not one tiny bit, stuck in her mind well enough to ruin Alicia’s name at first mention!

Since then, I’ve been wary of telling people. I liked Alicia (well, I prefer Alice). It was listed as being Old German in origin, the meaning being, “noble, exalted,” and is  a form of Alice anyway. So, I have to say in the end, I agree with some women who prefer to keep the name a secret. Seems like once the name is chosen, no one minds and all are accepting. But before hand, it’s as though your friends and family are very liberal with their opinions, as if they are trying to save your child from some devastating fate! Of course, I’m being a bit dramatic, but I see why some people chose to keep it quiet.

Yet, being that I already began telling people the names, I stand by it. I’m happy to announce if it is a boy, we agreed on Cesar. I would have liked the spelling Ceasar, but no matter. I realized it the other day, as I was watching the history channel about Cleopatra. It’s such a noble name, and Vincent likes the name (variation Cesar), so that makes me happy.  The truth is, no matter what, at some point in time or another, my child is probably going to wish she/he had a different name. I do all the time! After all, a name is something like your face. We grow up seeing the same face in the mirror all the time, and we lose appreciation for it, wishing we had a smaller nose or prettier lips. So it’s natural that at some point or another, we’re going to wish for another name, especially if you were cursed like me! In retrospect, my name is not all that awful. It’s the movies featuring Amanda that typically offend me, although there have been a few nice ones (all featuring Amanda as a ‘cute’ sweetheart). Yet I’m ranting again. I stand by our names and if someone doesn’t like them they can kiss it!

However, the middle names are in need of some attention. Vincent favors Siouxsie for a female. I understand he really likes the spelling, but I have never much cared for that name. It sounds so… baby like, and doesn’t seem very complimentary for Alicia. The spelling may be fascinating, but people are not always spelling your name, it's the sound it produces as it emerges from the lips that counts. The boy’s middle name hasn’t had much consideration. The truth is, in my family we follow tradition, in which the middle name is the name of the mother (or in my case, Jean was my grandmother’s name) for females, and the same with males. My brother carries my dad’s first name as his middle name. So that’s what I’ve always come to expect. I don’t view a middle name as something to make up, but rather as a tribute to mother and father.

Well.. I have until the 21^st to think about both names, and then we should know for certain if it’s a boy or girl! So there’s still time to think about it, but once I have an itch, I want to scratch it right away!

Above: Random photo of Beowulf, my cat! I helped to name Vince's cat, Draco as well. I wonder if cats ever want to change their name? Or if they secretly laugh at our attempts to "label" them.

Um… a camera what? Plus, being pregnant is like being injured... the healing part.

Shouldn’t camera’s be banned in delivery rooms? Well, I’m sure some mothers out there are proud and very pleased to know that they have the option to bring a camera in for pre and post picture moments. To you I say, “You, my lady, have far more confidence than I!”

For those like me, however, hearing my mom mention what her picture looked at after delivery, (“..yeah just wait til they take pictures of you after”) made me take pause.

“Uh.. excuse me? I don’t think so.”

             I’m sorry. Forgive me for being a brat, but a camera? Are you insane? Isn’t it enough that I have already had to face my number one dislike in the entire world (doctors), and now you expect me to put up with number two (cameras)?  

             And surely, I’ve done my part by giving birth (HELLO!), why on earth would anyone insist on taking a picture of me in all my, well, not glory. Oh, I’ve seen pictures. Once again, I commend ladies who are comfortable with these replicas dancing all over magazines, books, and movies.  Seriously, I admire their pride. I, however, am not that feminine, and I am far from all natural.

I say (forgive my language), “Hell no!” If you want to take a picture of someone, how about that little person I just squeezed out of me? At least give me a minute to put on some makeup. It’s unfair that dad gets to look oh so smooth, holding him/her with his hair perfectly set and wearing clothes he looks great in. You want me to smile whilst I am tired, unkempt,, and wearing some gown made for the biggest  sweat fest of my life?

                I just don’t get it. In older times, birth was a private affair. Men weren’t even allowed to see women give birth in some instances! And now you expect me to take a picture? No thanks. I’m putting Vincent on camera detail.

                Of course, my mother, upon hearing this, laughed and actually agreed with me. Poor thing got taken advantage of in her moment of weakness. At least dad had the sense not to post it everywhere.

                If you can’t tell already, I hate pictures, just beneath doctors (and I mean just a fraction). I don’t even like taking them when I feel good about myself, let alone when I’ve undergone some crazy activity.

                That rant aside (I figured I had to share that), my last doctor’s appointment (12/08/10), went surprisingly well. The nurse was a little kinder, and a little more ready to admit even she wasn’t fully in control or at a complete understanding of this whole RH disaster (bear in mind, this is the typical clinic, not the specialist’s appointment). I lost a bit of weight thanks to my diet! It made me extremely smug, until I laid back, and upon feeling and measuring my belly, the nurse stepped back and proceeded to comment, “Huh. The growth is bigger than what I would have expected, for its gestational age.” Nice… I’m having a fatty. At least, he/she has a heartbeat, and a good one too. Sounds nice and strong, and the swishes of his/her motions over the Doppler made me very proud. I should be feeling her in a week or two. I hope, I hope. Supposedly she can hear my voice within. I don’t really know what to say, in fact it’s awkward since I still can’t feel him/her, but Vincent had good advice. He suggested I just talk to the cats, to him or whomever, assuring me she’d still hear me and would grow accustomed to my voice until the awkward phase dissipates. So now, I continue waiting for the 21^st, when I see the specialist again, hopefully this time with some answers. I can only assume the situation is not detrimental, because I have not received a call yet except concerning the Quad Screen (a test to determine the chances for Down syndrome ect. By measuring protein levels in the blood). Side note: mine was negative. I have only about 1 in 12000 chance for one issue, and was quoted as 1 in 6000 for another. I didn’t really pay attention to exactly which percentage went with which because all I heard was “negative.”

                Sometimes I wonder if I am too cynical as I write these blogs. Perhaps it is because my artistic side is naturally dramatic. I always failed at comedy, and while friends and family have described me as being funny, I always failed horribly at improvisation, comedic plays, or including comedy in any of my stories. They are just much more powerful when dramatic. Perhaps that is why I am so goofy in person, saving my sharp tongue for times when it is only necessary. It seems I let much more of my heavier emotions out in art, while my life itself is quite entertaining, if not typically serene.

                This pregnancy has been a blessing in that I have had it incredibly lucky. While I have said it before, I must point out again that I have experienced no heavy symptoms like some unhappy individuals. In fact, sometimes I fail to feel pregnant at all. Today, I was doing some Christmas shopping, walking all downtown, up the stairs in the mall, and realized that unlike some sights suggested, I wasn’t winded or out of breath (some say you will start to feel winded by now). However, that might be because I quit smoking since becoming pregnant, and so my lungs are working more efficiently, making any difference in air intake difficult to notice.

My mom, thankfully, assures me that she was the same way, and that I won’t really start feeling down until the third trimester. Neat. Well, we will see.

                I have, however, noticed that my tummy is enlarged. Being pregnant is kind of like… well, having a cut heal. Throughout the day you don’t see too much change. The wound usually just sits there. Then, after a good night’s rest, you wake up and realize that wow! That sucker is healing! Most of the work seems to occur at night, and noticing changes in the womb is somewhat the same. I’ll wake up, and feel like there’s a large, thick bubble (well, there is) in my abdomen. Throughout the day, at times the sensation decreases as the baby settles, but when I lie down I can most definitely feel the crust of that little world beneath my fat.

                I cannot wait for Vincent to be able to feel him/her. I was shocked when I saw a drunken post online, from last night (five this morning), in which he publicly announced he was “Excited about being a dad. I wonder what my son/daughter is thinking right now....Just inside Amanda's stomach, just waiting to start kicking away soon. No need to put, "will I be a good dad", because I know I will.”

Those were his words exactly! I haven’t even had the heart to say anything about it because I don’t want to embarrass him (even though he received 12 responses all wonderful), but it makes me feel so happy, and lucky. I know he’ll be a great dad, but I can’t give him that satisfaction too soon, or else he might just get too big of an ego!

Humor… the glue that holds me together

This holiday season has become extremely rough. For some, such as myself, it is as though karmatically we are prepaying for a fantastic year ahead. Of course, that’s looking on the bright side. It might be that we are just paying the price for the other half of the universe, which seems to be doing just dandy. Strange how that works. Sometimes, I wonder if someone out there isn’t paying the price for me to be happy. Well, for now the roles are flipped. As of late, I have had friends who have rushed husbands or children to the ER, only to encounter unsettling doctors. Some have had car wrecks, or large amounts of money scammed, and some unfortunate few have even had heartaches. And still others carry blissfully along, reminding us that with this holiday season, “there’s no reason to get so upset.” I especially get irate with the latter even if (and I hate to admit it) they have a point.

                Besides filing for a claim number, there’s not much I can do about the fact that USPS is currently claiming a fifty dollar package was delivered when it wasn’t. Nor can I help it (beyond yet another complaint) that they failed to leave notices for two other packages which might also be lost, or that the worker at the office for pick-up put me on hold for fifteen minutes before I had to hang up because he was just too “busy to take my call.”

                I also can’t help it that despite my high hopes at my last appointment, I still haven’t heard anything in regards to my results (so should I just forget about the problem or what?), or that Vincent has a house key in the hands of someone who I don’t necessarily trust, mainly because she keeps saying she will get her things conveniently when no one is home (and in general I don’t t rust people who have full access to your home and refuse to give it up).

                When these disappointments come full force, I have to be appreciative for the one thing that manages to pull me out of my slump. I think of myself as an easy going person, with an appreciation for odd humor. In fact, when I think of Vincent one of the first things that pops into my head is how very much he makes me laugh, and that I am so very grateful for that. Some people have accused us of being mean, or unsympathetic, and countless others have misunderstood our open jokes, which is also something else of an annoyance (you have to cringe when a jealous girl says that you are ‘mean’  ect. for pulling a prank on your partner) with all of the free commentary we receive. Yet at the same time, probably even more so, it makes our exchanges a bit more meaningful to me, as if our whole attitude is one great private joke that we share. On a side note, I can only hope that our baby grows up and can get in on this when she’s the right age.

                People are far too overprotective when it comes to laughter, and they read into jokes and sarcasm with a vengeance. I think it started with the whole Politically Correct movement, but extremists pushed that further and further, until jokes lost their freedom entirely, both for the telling and the enjoyment.

                “You want to hear a dirty joke?”

                “OK.”

                “A white horse fell in the mud.”

                Oh hah hah. Yet this joke probably sums up the extent of our PC humor. Then again, calling the horse white might be taking it a bit too far.

                So the other night, as Vincent and I struggled with a doomed attempt to make our Christmas lights blink, I took my jab.

                “It’s not working,” Vincent whined, plugging the string of lights in again to discover that no, switching out the extra bulbs had not worked as it did in the older versions.

                “Ugh, just pull it out and plug it back in.” Honestly, I didn’t think he would do it, so when he did, I almost lost it too soon. After returning the plug to the outlet, he sat slumped in his chair, his mouth agape, eyes wide with confusion. I added, “There. Did you see? It blinked.”

                Of course, he has been notorious for his assaults on me, such as when, after leaving my facebook open, he sneakily updated my status to read: My cat is so gay. Will someone please come and run him over?

                I had my revenge though, as when I discovered he had left his open just recently, I updated his to read: I hate my cat, Draco. Someone come and pick him up or I will have him put down in the morning.

                Perfect example of how people overreact - he received ten comments all angry with him, and then me. I think he actually had to take it down. (For those of you who don’t get it, Beowulf is my cat, Draco is Vince’s.)

                Still, considering the stress as of late, the mass amounts of laughter we share alleviates quite a bit of tension, and we all know tension is bad for baby.

                Speaking of the baby, I have decided I am actually carrying Jesus. You see,  thanks to a convenient billboard announcing the date of his return as being May 21, 2011, I am now aware of why my beautiful little baby is so calm all of the time and has given me hardly any problems. My due date is May, 15, 2011… and while this is a few days shy of the 21^st, we all know that women rarely carry to the exact date of their due date. So, I’m expecting her (that’s right, Jesus is a girl this time around) on the 21^st. Thanks crazy billboard, for taking that stress off of me! I know, I know, I’m not Christian. Though that may be the case, it’s tough carrying Jesus, and someone has to do it. Just so happens that someone is me! (That was a joke, for anyone getting ready to write complaints.)

Above: The billboard making the news, stating that Jesus is comnig again next year.

And the mind goes blank...

Today's appointment might best be described as a piece of paper. In my mind's eye, I imagine that the doctors have this piece of paper, and that it has a bit of information on it. With this, they will tell me what to expect after reviewing my family history. They will draw blood to determine how high the anitbodies have risen, and as previously informed, I will get a sonogram and get to see my little munchkin in action.

Well, that piece of paper is blank. Basically, as I walked into the specialist's office, accompanied by my two men (Vincent and my father), we might as well have been going to war on an empty battlefield, the enemy still in their tents reviewing a blank map, their eyebrows raised as they exchange, "huh"s of wonder. Now most people would side that, "No news is good news." I, however, fall into the vastly underappreciated category. Knowing is always better while not knowing encourages wonder, often uncertainty and even fear of the unknown. If you're going into battle, be armed. If you are going to undergo a new hobbie, take a class. If you intend to work a job you would be trained, correct? Why shouldn't the same care be given to things that directly affect your body or well being? But I digress. I am sure you are tired of hearing me whine about how knowledge and  research is important. What I am attempting to emphasize is that I had done the research, made the effort, all the while patiently waiting, yet anxiously aware that this coming appointment was going to be a turning point for me. On a positive note, at least someone would finally provide me information about, well... me.
Instead, I fill about a plethora of forms, all involving family history, medical history. Check here, or here. I became so annoyed by the process I started scribbling all the NO answer boxes down the columns rather than taking the time to check each one.
After compiling all of this information, I am taken into the back where they once again do the prodding. Apparently when you are pregnant, never assume that you can just eat what you want (thank goodness I am dieting!) You'll only feel shame as EVERY SINGLE TIME you go to the doctor's office as you will be weighed and talk about your weight. (As a private side note, at least my diet is actually working according to their scale anyhow). This round the nurse tried to ask how much I weighed before I was pregnant. Hah! I skipped that embarressing fiasco by stating, "I dunno. I never weighed myself," at which time she gave me a scolding look. Too bad for her that was the truth. So she had to pull from the weight my other doctor had taken from my original appointment. I know, I know, they are doing it for my own good. But you try having the same questions asked over, and over, and over and over and see if you don't start getting an attitude. On three of the forms alone I filled out I had to mark the date of my last period. Ummm, doesn't all this go to one file? And if not, can't you just compile all the information neatly into a single file? Why repeatedly have the same stupid questions. This isn't a job interview, I shouldn't be double questioned to test if I'm lying. Sometimes I feel like shouting, "I'm not a cow! I'm not part of a herd, nor am I here so that you can prep me for butchering, comparing me to the perfect cut. I'm a human being, different from everyone as they are from me."
But again, I am getting off topic. Sorry, however, this task is what took up most of my time.
Next, the nurse looks over my family history, at which point my father points out that both he and my mother are A+. He also lets her know that according to my military records, as a child I was claimed as being A+.
"So somewhere a mistake was made," she responds.
"Clearly," begins my father, who proceeds to discuss her all of the things they will be retested for. At this point, the nurse admits that the antibody was not even identified. In other words, not only are they having doubts about my RH factor now, but they aren't even certain what kind of antibody I tested for!
Thus, we are guided back into the waiting room and about ten minutes later the nurse reemerges to inform me that they don't know anything, so there's really nothing to discuss yet. They need to draw more blood, to retest everything altogether, and I am to return on the 21st of December for a follow up. Ummmm, hello? The original lab that drew my blood has one job. To analyze my blood and report back what's in it and to identify any abnormalities. Are you seriously telling me this lab just jotted down a freaking question mark (or some highly technical term which might as well translate to just that) and sent back the forms after taking all those vials of blood?
I was then escorted to the specialist's lab to give more blood, where (upon having isolated me from the boys) the nurse starts to question along with the doctor if I have ever been pregnant before. Again with that stupid question! So, holding my temper, I said, "I've been repeatedly asked that. It's nothing against you, but I am becoming increasingly frustrated with it. Even my last nurse asked if I was sure.."
Luckily for me, this is when they become lighthearted. Perhaps it was the absence of men? Talking to me one on one? I can't be certain, but it might also have something to do with the fact that I was not just a a tool that did something. The doctor laughed, said she understood, that they just had to ask but would assume that I was sure of my own history. The nurse even added, "I know you're frustrated, but we are trying to do the right thing." At that point, I sighed and admitted, "I'm not frustrated with you. I'm frustrated with the situation." She said she understood.
Truthfully, I can't harbor anything against them. It's not their fault they weren't given any information. They were handed my case and have to make the best of it. The only truly disappointing thing to top off my visit? I didn't even get to see a sonogram. Nope, no baby pics, not even a heartbeat or even the witnessing of a bit of movement. In my upset, I have to say,  why not!? It takes less than five minutes to do one! I don't understand why the medical feild limits us to as few sonograms as possible especially with the stress. If I want one, why can't I have one? The bullcrap about how much it costs to run doesn't fly with me either, considering how much they rake in per appointment (just to weigh me and talk to me for less than an hour you want how much?! Thanks, I'll stay home...) But no, apparently this particular clinic didn't want to do one unless they could validate a reason (aka. to test if something is wrong), which they won't be able to do until eighteen weeks. Then they intend to look at the bone structure and the growth to determine if there are any abnormalities. So no, I couldn't even see what my little bean had become over the last month. What a waste. I should have at least got it as a "free gift with completion of a**load of forms."
The day continued on, and I must say when one things goes awry, it all does. Next thing I knew, Vincent was texting me, saying that the shirts I washed that he wears have black stains on them. I can't help but feel jinxed. Once, long ago, I had warned him, "I'm the type of girl that wears a white shirt, doesn't eat ANY food, and still manages to get a mustard stain down the front." I don't know why I thought that might have changed, especially with being a mom and all. I actually considered being really upset for a while. I told him, "I understand if you don't want me to touch them anymore. I have the worst luck with these kinds of things. Don't know why I thought it had worn off." Yet for all that bad luck, at least I'm lucky enough to have someone to make me laugh. He promptly decided to tell me jokes. So while yes, Vincent may have his head in the clouds about the seriousness of the whole baby thing, at the least the child in him inhibits my serious nature, making me far more relaxed than I would be otherwise, and making me smile a bit more. I'd say it's a nice balance for this dreary situation.

Poor turkey never got a "gobble" in...

I ate and ate and ate. As I am keeping a log of everything I eat daily, I am pleased to write that on this past holiday of Thanksgiving, my log reads, "Everything eaten in excess, went crazy... whoops." All of this is hastily written, followed by a variety of traditional Thanksgiving foods. In retrospect, the turkey wasn't bad for carbs, neither was the green beans. It's the mashed potatoes, the corn, the bread. Well, especially the potatos. I was literally drunk, high off of carbs, experiencing a boost of energy. I didn't even feel sleepy after eating turkey! At one point, I remember gluttonously helping myself to mashed potatos, then potato salad. Hey, in my defense, who the heck puts out potato salad and mashed potatos? - Someone who wants you to eat them!
While my energy kick lasted throughout the day, once I did sleep, I slept hard, and the next day my legs had gone back to feeling groggy. It was as though the carbs had lumped from my feet up, weighing me down. I now notice a great difference in how "light" I feel between the days I do eat veggies and meat, versus those days when I allow myself to eat heavy carbs. In that case, you may ask, is it worth it? Oh yeah. A nice break from those pesky veggies gives me not only breaks up the monotomy here and there, but it can satisfy pesky little cravings that are building up so that I don't quit altogether. Two days later and I'm back to right, and even though tomorrow is Sunday, my free day, I don't intend to take it overboard. Maybe a little mint chocolate chip ice cream. Okay, definetely.
I met quite a number of Vince's family finally as well. It made me feel good to see so many people in one place, and once we were introduced, I relaxed in their warm atmosphere, which is very rare for me. Then again, they were all extremely wonderful for my ego! They told me I was beautiful and asked me lots of questions, each of them getting excited. Sometimes I secretly hope that Vince takes note of all that. He's fully aware and confindent in his own charm, and it has crossed my mind in more sensitive moments that he might actually overlook me (even though when I ask he insists I'm pretty - men are strange like that).

Beyond that, I have to admit I intended to put this post up as a short one. A little reminder that the holidays are here and I'm still around. I have my appointment next week for the specialist, and I am absolutely not thrilled. I am becoming forgetful, and while playful people like to blame it on the baby brain, I'm afraid it's more due to my own anxiety. I keep envisioning being trapped, examined, experimented. I feel powerless against these people. After all, even if we don't agree, what else is there? I've done the research, the options really aren't limitless. There's just one. Monitor the baby.. if things get worse, time for procedures depending on the extent of the damage. Bleh... but I don't feel like going into those today.
At least my father will be there. He's taking time off of work to join Vincent and me. I feel bad that I have had to enlist my father, but then I think even Vincent doesn't really know what to say or how to handle it, nor does it bother him that my father is stepping in. Personally, it bothers me. I'm being pushy, hormonal, but I do worry about the future.
I told Vincent the other day (lighthearted), "One day, you'll be a dad. If we do have a baby girl, she's going to want to know she's protected, that her daddy will be there. At the rate we are going if kids make fun of her and say, 'My dad can beat up your dad!' her response will be, 'Oh yeah well my mom can beat up your dad!'" Can anyone say, gender confusion? And while I find it incredibly funny and self empowering, I do find it unnerving now. I can't help it, but I wish I were a man, as I think I would fair much better. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's this sudden loss of power, the feeling that I am pregnant which has automatically disabled me. Oh sure, I have some say now. But in the emergency room, giving labor, be it an epidural, natural or otherwise, if something goes wrong, I'll be vulnerable. And that's my worst fear, vulernability in the presence of the people I trust the very least in this world.
Well, we will see, won't we?

I’m not just negative, I’m RH negative, and sensitized.

Throughout my life, I’ve grown up under the impression I was just like my parents. I had the blood type A. And I was positive. Since my family was in the military, we were all seen by their doctors. I was too young to tell you what they did and when they drew blood. I know they poked my finger a few times throughout my youth, but thankfully I don’t recall much else.

You see, I hate doctors. I like to say that it’s because I was unlucky enough to get the most incompetent doctors at a very young age, coupled with my family’s own unfortunate encounters. Perhaps we were just cursed I suppose, into always having the worst experiences, the wrong results, or inaccurate solutions to our problems. I grew so accustomed to questioning everything and avoiding appointments altogether, that I am flabbergasted when people tell me they completely trust any professional. Just my luck, one of those people happens to be Vincent.

However, Vincent’s loyalty to the claims of the medical field is not what bothers me today. In fact, we find that when the matter arises, I get very heated, he gets very uninterested in the debate, and in the end I decide, “Just forget it. I will handle any medically related decisions myself.”  My own experiences have made me wary, and rightfully so, of anything every professional says to me. I don’t care who you are, what titles your name has, or what subject you claim to have studied intently to earn a degree. If what you are saying doesn’t make sense to me, or if I feel information is being withheld, I don’t trust what you say. And why should anyone? With the advantages technology offers, the greatest being the internet, a plethora of information is available to everyone with the will. I am perfectly capable, degree or no, of investigating a subject I don’t understand until I feel informed enough to make a decision.

Yet I can’t help but feel as though the gods are pointing their fingers at me. “Gotcha!” and they giggle outrageously at their poor joke.

Seems I can’t escape these doctors. If it were my own health, I would be tempted to walk away, as I have done in the past. However, it’s not my own, and there are no natural alternatives.

Seeing as how I was brought up to believe I was A positive, you can imagine my confusion when my nurse told me at my last appointment (11/10/10) that my blood work had come back and there was a little kink. I was so happy and will be eternally grateful that I am disease free, so in that sense I can’t be too upset. Yet mild shock overcame me as the nurse confirmed aloud that I am RH negative.

Negative? How can I be negative? While this not only was uncommon (at least 85% of the population is positive), it aroused curiosities which I handled like anyone who was unfamiliar with the issue would.

What did being RH negative mean for me? Well, blood types are designated as being first A, B, AB, or O. The Rhesus, or RH, indicates whether or not a type of protein is on the individual’s red blood cells. Obviously, positive means yes, negative means no. This really isn’t an issue, and nothing most people think about on a day to day basis. Under typical circumstances, unless it directly involves you, no one goes around thinking about their blood type or if it’s + or -. The problem potentially arises in pregnancy, specifically when the woman is negative. Apparently it is of no consequence if the man is negative as long as the woman is positive.  

Now, typically during pregnancy the blood between baby and mom don’t mix, except here and there. When that “here and there” part takes place though, the problems start, but not in the first pregnancy. This is because by the time the blood actually mixes, the body isn’t equipped to deal with this foreign substance (aka the baby’s blood, assuming she’s RH positive via daddy) and only then begins to produce antibodies. To put it metaphorically it’s somewhat like getting a vaccine, the first baby being akin to the vaccination. Before you’re pregnant, your body isn’t protected against this particular invader. After the introduction of the vaccine (the first baby) your body reacts and prepares, but by the time it is ready the first baby has already been born. However, in future pregnancies, the antibodies are automatic to react, because your body already has a defense in place. This can lead to anemia and brain damage, worst case scenario being heart failure and death for future babies.  

How was this possible? The nurse first claimed that one of my parents had to be negative for myself to be, however, upon further investigation, turns out that’s not true since neither of my parents are negative (both are A+). Since being negative is a recessive gene, it was probably existent in both my parents, and lucky me, I just happened to get those genetics.  

Should I be concerned?

The nurse told me that during the first pregnancy it had no effect; because the body would not be sensitized yet. Every month they would take a little blood just to be sure no antibodies were forming, and at 28 weeks as well as after delivery, I would need a shot, the only of its kind. This shot, called Rhogam, prevents the formation of these antibodies, but must be taken before the body recognizes the “situation.” Once antibodies have started to form, Rhogam is ineffective. However, since this is my first pregnancy, she brushed the topic aside as something that I shouldn’t be concerned about, emphasizing that it was her job to worry.

Yesterday started out normally. I had just bought a new purse since my own had shredded and outworn its appeal. An early Christmas gift from my mother. I couldn’t wait to start putting new things in it. As I was at the checkout line, my phone rang, and it was the doctor’s office.

The nurse’s voice crept out over the line. My latest blood sample had come back. Seems that between last month and this, my antibody count was positive. Alarmed, I immediately began to ask questions. I can only assume that the nurse, unprepared, was just looking at the paperwork, since she suddenly said, “Well, I need to investigate something. Let me research this a little more and call you back before we do anything.”

What was that supposed to mean? Why any practitioner would make a phone call without having all the appropriate information, or being prepared to answer questions, I don’t understand. I waited patiently, having instructed her to call me back ASAP.

Finally I get a call, and it’s her, insisting that my antibodies have already begun to form, and thus, a series of questions by me and attitude from her ensue. To begin with, she tells me that she has already faxed the forms to a specialist who will be calling to request an appointment with me soon. I ask what the specialist is going to do.

“They are going to monitor the baby.” Now any skeptic knows that the word ‘monitor’ is very unsatisfying. To me, ‘monitor’ means you are observing. Nothing is being done, just a checklist being completed. So I ask, to be fair, “Yes but what will they do? Like if something’s wrong?”

“Well,” and by her tone I knew her to be irritated already, “You’re just going to have to trust them, they are the best at what they do.” Foolish! Again, experienced individuals know better than to just trust everyone. It’s thanks to cautious parents that children avoid being loaded with pills, unnecessary surgeries, and shots.

Okay, so since that question wasn’t being answered, in my disgruntled state, I ask another, and this particular question probably upset her because I called her competence into question. But in my defense, she was upsetting me too. “Well… I thought you said this wasn’t supposed to happen in the first pregnancy.”

“It’s not. Are you sure you haven’t miscarried before or terminated a pregnancy?” I tell her no, never. “Sure you never missed a period and then got it a few weeks down the road?” I’m certain that’s never happened. “Suuure?” I know she probably didn’t mean to offend me, at least I try to think that, but her response did take it a bit too far. First, I didn’t enjoy information being withheld from me. If she didn’t know what was going to happen, she could have simply acknowledged that she was unfamiliar with this situation. Yet then, to try to imply that this was somehow my doing, that I was a liar, withholding information from them concerning my history, well that was extremely unnerving.

Needless to say, after our phone conversation I was sent over the edge. The normally calm, serene peace that pregnancy has brought me had been shaken again by someone who wanted to frustrate me. I seem to have a boiling point, and whenever I reach it, it’s as though suddenly hormones are reacting like crazy where at once they were still waters. So for the rest of the day I was understandably distraught.

I spoke with family, friends, coworkers, Vincent. I vowed to do my own research since none of my questions were being answered. I shunned the silly warnings people like to give pregnant women, despising their ignorance whenever they said, “Don’t research. It will only scare you and stress you out. It might be better to just let them handle it.” HAH! Such foolishness. Better to be scared and aware, to arm oneself with knowledge than be caught off guard.

And I have to say, despite the disappointing findings, I do feel better. Having obtained my own information, I can now better assess the situation. In fact, the situation itself doesn’t bother me so much. It’s the lifestyle change it may require. It’s the fact that I have given up so much already, beyond drinking, smoking, being active. I have now made huge adjustments to my diet, and above all else, it’s the more doctors and more needle pokes I will have to endure. Jealously I watch little girls, or careless women walking around with big smiles, letting their protruding bellies gain all the attention they can muster. I watch their boyfriends, clearly as careless as them, and think, “Why was it so easy for them? Why, my whole life and now, has this been so difficult?” I had always felt blessed because of the timing. I felt the Goddess smiled on me. Today, I felt a little down, confused as to why this was happening. If anything goes wrong, it is my fault. Oh sure, the chipper counselors would assure me I did everything I could, but it’s my body launching the attack. Somewhere along the way I became sensitized, a potential aggressor to any little life source. I literally must  have a doctor at this point, or my baby could suffer from all sorts of problems, even if she did live. I’m dependant on them, and without one, any future pregnancies would only get continuously worse.

My mother asked me today, “Well, would you rather be some unknown cog? Someone just in the system, no one special, who no one cares to look at?”

“Yes, actually!” Came my reply. “I hate doctors, and I hate the system. I just wanted to be normal and enjoy my pregnancy by myself. I wanted to grind my teeth through my normal appointments once a month. Not have more eyes looking at me, not have more needles probing me.” The very word ‘examination’ might as well be offensive to me, as it strike images I don’t care to share.

Still, in retrospect, there is always something I have to be grateful for. Something that has to drive me forward. I can compare myself to those who have it worse. I can have my pity party and work out my sorrow until there’s none left. I just have to do something to get myself back, or things will only get worse. Besides, the world doesn’t need to see my face in tears. Too many people depend on me to be strong, and it would be almost selfish to demand they look at a sobbing, whining girl.

It’s unnecessary because there’s always something else to be considering. This time, it’s that I will get through this. I don’t have enough information about how high my antibodies are yet, or anything else in particular. I have gathered as much information as I can about what’s to come based on the information I have available. I have made my appointment time and know now what to expect with that. I’m powerless to do anything else, and as much as that pains me, I just have to keep doing what I’m doing, and eventually the rest will come.

Sigh...

Above: My father, who generously agreed to go with me to the specialist and really make sure everything was being properly taken care of.  Below: My mother, who I try to whine to, but insists I need to stay positive.

Letting off Steam... and Weight

My second meeting with my doctor for the pregnancy was yesterday (11/10/10), early in the morning. I left my home feeling very confident, more concerned that there might be an issue with my blood than with me. Turns out, that when things seem too good to be true, the usually are. I really can't be envious of anyone. My personal experience thus far has been wonderful, even with the setback mentioned in the article before this.
However, my moment of shock came when I stepped on the scale. I thought I might see, at best, a small fluctuation, but nothing dramatic. I had been weighing myself fairly regularly via Vince's scale, and expected that I was in relatively good shape. Well, you can imagine my discontent as the nurse clicked her tongue. I figure she must have practiced her response carefully, perhaps over a hundred times. How could she not? To this day, I have still not met a woman who has managed to stay within the recommended limit for weight gain during pregnancy. The average, it seems, skyrockets over that. In fact, just today I read an article about a model who gained fifty pounds during pregnancy, and I would think she would have access to the best quality foods and exercise programs.
Still, other moms don't make any difference to any doctor in this particular situation. It's not about your friends, your family, those you've heard about, or what you've read. It's about their averages, and how they compare you to their charts. In this case, I started out with a weight problem and therefore was projected to gain only fifteen to twentyfive pounds to remain within their limits. In this particular month, let me begin by saying that not only does Vince's scale vary (as I understand, home scales are off from those at the office, naturally) by at least five pounds, but that at some point I had managed to tag on about eight from one month to the next.
The nurse mumbled, or I should say rather that she simply told me while her back was turned, that I had gained more than they would have liked, and then left the room after retelling me my start weight.
Next comes the head nurse, who cleverly dodges the subject entirely. That's only because she has other bad news. It seems I'm not A positive blood type as I had believed my entire life. I got the recessive end of the genes from both my parents, and am Rh negative, meaning that my anitbody counts must be monitored montly, and at 28 weeks I will receive a shot to prevent my body from trying to form weapons against a possibly Rh positive baby. Sounds fairly casual, right? It's really nothing to worry about, except that I despise doctors to begin with, and more than that, giving blood or receiving any kind of injection. Pair that with the fact that my iron level is .1 away from becoming anemic, and I was feeling... well.. still incredibly upset about my weight.
It's amazing to me that as women that bothers us so very much. I imagine it's because it's the most visible. When you look at me, you can't see my iron is low, you can't tell that if my baby has positive blood I will become sensitized to it. You can't see if my bones are losing calcium or if I am gotten enough fiber for my diet. The first thing you notice when you look at someone is their shape. From close up or afar, it is their outline that sets the shape up for us to fill in the rest of the image. I'm short, tall, fat, skinny. And apparently, I'm fat.
So next comes the doctor. And guess what? His concern is the same thing. Of course. Having a conversation like that is the worst, because, as the patient, you know they are skeptic of every defense. It's as though when you try to explain yourself, they are saying, "Suuure... riiight... fatty," in their minds. I could just picture it as I told him that I had weighed myself often, that I had somehow made a mistake but had a decent diet, that my family has weight problems. His face remained on the paperwork, and he was, at the very least, mildly sympathetic I suppose.
So, I got straight to the point. "I want you to understand," I told him, "That my diet doesn't consist of McDonald's. I'm not pounding cakes. That's not my diet."
His advice? Cut the carbs then. Carbs, he said, are in everything. Stick to meats and veggies.


Pregnancy has done one thing for me. It has made me more serene. Oddly enough, when encoutnering upsetting words, my initial reaction may be that of stubborn denial, but after a few minutes I manage to process the information and put it to good use. I don't have the typical angry outbursts that I did before I was pregnant, so perhaps, this is more of a blessing than I thought. 
So, while the weight gain isn't my proudest admission, there is no sense in denying it. I can only guess the change must be obvious, and while my friends have been good enough to blame the pregnancy, I didn't see any reason not to fess up to what was really said at the doctor's appointment. 
So, here comes the frustrating part (and after careful consideration, I have to say that this is not a hormonal rant!). Women always complain that men never listen. We say, we don't want a solution, we just want someone to talk to. Someone to hear our problems or listen to us vent as we work out our emotions. So why then, when this complaint has been passed down for generations, do we insist on not following our own darn advice? Even now, I can admit that I am guilty of it (though I like to blame that on the many male influences I had in my life, thus making me a bit more masculine). Yet it seemed like every girl I described to had instant advice. 
"Be careful, they say lots of pregnant women become obese..." or "Hmmm.. try this diet instead," or "Watch how much you eat," or my favorite, "Just stick to veggies! They are good for you."
So now, I have to say with full confidence, that part of me wants to shout back, "You know what? F@!% you," followed by one of the next available options:
-"...you gained lots of weight when you were pregnant. When you get it right, then you can come back and lecture me."
-"... You're not me, and you don't know anything about my metabolism or what I do and eat every day."
-"...You've never even been pregnant! Try it out and see how you fair."
-"... I see what you eat every day and it's way worse. Try changing your diet drastically then come talk to me."

Of course, since I am lucky enough not to have raging hormones, I didn't say any of those things. One learns during pregnancy that everyone has advice about everything, and at times it can be quite contradictory. So the best thing to do is evaluate the facts, and the ideas, against the You (who you are, what works for you, and how you feel) factor, and go from there.
In the end, my best option? Listen to my doctor's advice. He doesn't have a bad idea, and trimming my carbs won't hurt. As I explained painfully to one of my friends, if I don't at least try, I don't have any excuse at all. I am responsible for my choices, and if I walk into the office unprepared next month, I'm only going to feel that much worse.
So... I turn my disappointment in rage, which then channels itself into a focus. My focus? Write down everything I eat every day, and monitor it closely. Trim out the carbs, leaving Sunday and the occasional major holiday as my free days. This way, if I do gain weight, I can show the doctor exactly what I've been eating. If I maintain it, all the better.
Either way I win out, and to me, that's too good to pass up.