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.