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.