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.