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.

My Little Angel Ruffles Her Wings

So just the other day, as I was walking home, I decided to have a chat with my baby, who I affectionately refer to at this time as a little girl (we already have the girl name picked out, but can't seem to think of a boy's). Until now, I have been having a hard time talking to her. I don't know why, except that perhaps she hasn't been as real to me yet, or maybe my innate way of getting to trust people works the same way for my pregnancy. Hey, I don't know what kind of person I'm carrying around. Even with the best intentions, some souls are just born to be bad! Doesn't sound very motherly, does it? In any case, after twelve weeks, I finally felt a connection blooming, something solid, that made me think that this little being might actually be able to spiritually hear me, and might actually want to hear my voice. And maybe, I'd like to talk to her too. 
After all, she's been so sweet. Other than minor symptoms which could not be avoided, I have to say I have no reason to be envious of anyone else. My pregnancy up til now has been a blessing. I only cried in the very beginning, just due to stress. Beyond that, no crying, no vomiting, no reason not to work. I told her all this, and complimented her on how sweetly calm she was. "You're like a little angel," I told her, as we raced home in the cold. 
Well, wouldn't you know it was just my luck, that very night, not only did I have my very first little squabble with Vincent, after a year of agreeing on everything (thankfully we did not go to bed angry), but it was that night my little angel decided to ruffle her feathers. 
In retrospect it probably was not so much her fault, but a combination of things. Perhaps the fact that I had forgotten my sweater and the dramatic change in the cold air had bothered her. I personally love the cold, but maybe she takes after her dad and doesn't tolerate it with the same ease. Then again, I had also tried to up the fiber in my diet as suggested by pregnancy websites, but had eaten too much dried fruit, nuts, oats, and I'm sure she didn't care for all that either. I personally hate raisins, but thought it might do us some good. Of course, my mom suggests that maybe, just maybe, she was reacting to my little escapade with Vincent, that our momentary lack of harmony upset her as much as it did me. 
I like to think it was all three, although I'd blame the diet first. The next morning, my stomach was bloated. As I lay in bed, I felt as if all the air was pushing bile up my throat, and it was impossible to get comfortable. I let out little whimpers, until I yanked myself up, out of the bed, and hid in the bathroom to throw up. Once the bile started to come up, it was as if it wouldn't stop! 
How dreadful, seeing that mixture of green and clear. At least my food had been successfully digested. There would have been nothing worse than tasting old raisins... gross. 
So, for the remainder of the day I suffered at work, regaining my composure by sipping on water with freshly squeezed lemon. My appetite was lost, and I was beginning to get chills, which I had also had early on in pregnancy. I hoped I wasn't really getting sick. 
Time for another chat with baby. Carefully, I explained to her that we were strong women, and I have a good immune system and so would she. We have to tough these things out, and there's no reason to overreact. I wasn't about to become some overprotective pregnant woman, and she wasn't about to become some weak child! Labor, I told her, was going to be much worse, and if we started acting like little babies now it was going to be much worse on us. I encouraged her that we needed to get better, for both of us, and also made note to mention that Vincent was being extra wonderful to us. 


Today, I have to admit I feel exponentially better. I can personally attest to my own healthy immunity, as well as my high pain tolerancy. It makes me feel that much closer to my baby, knowing that she might get these things from me. People tell me she will be beautiful, but will she be strong? Will she be smart?I think about Vincent's personality, as well as my own, and hope that our best qualities apply to her, and that where each of us falter, the other can make up for. I hope she gets the best flaws too. That is to say, no one can be perfect, and it would be ignorant for me to assume that she's going to pop out doing physics (even though I think that's what my dad hopes for!).
I hope that my baby is brilliant and I would rather her be overly confident than always second guess her abilities. I hope that she is untrusting of people, but that she is genuinely good natured despite that. I hope that she has a good measure of vanity, rather than to think she is ugly ever. I hope she is demanding and picky, to the extent that she will not settle for anything less than what she wants, and so that she will work hard to excel. 
Of course, I'm crossing my fingers here. I think about the mistakes I've made in life, and about the hopes and dreams my parents must have had for me. 
Yet if there is one thing I have learned, it's that I mustn't settle for the worst now. I have high hopes for her, and I intend to keep them that way. 

Above: She gets half of her DNA from this character.