Guest Blogger Post!

This is a guest post from a good friend of mine who is due in February! (We're using a pseudonym because she hasn't told her colleagues she's expecting yet). She cracks me up. I hope you enjoy!

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On the ride home from lunch one June afternoon, my husband looked over at me and said, “You’re glowing. I think my son’s in there.”  Twelve years of birth control had regulated my cycle to the hour, so being hours late could be taken as a sign as much as the mysterious glow my husband detected.  My husband had recently declared post-coitus, “I put it down! You’re definitely pregnant now.”  Back then, I had teased him back, “I don’t think that’s how conception works.  My eggs have been refusing to pair with any sperm that wasn’t the result of amazing sex?”  But who knows, maybe my eggs are just that stubborn...or freaky.

While buying the pregnancy test, I behaved as if I were 16 and pregnant—refusing to ask which aisle the tests were on and after locating them, hiding them under my box of Triscuits. Just in case some stranger had a judgment about a thirty-four year old married woman trying to find out if she was pregnant.  I know it’s irrational, but my association with pregnancy tests and secrecy felt warranted in the moment.  I intentionally picked the box that promised a bonus third test  in case I failed at taking the test correctly, being a virgin and all (a virgin to pregnancy tests not an actual virgin obviously).  I had a moment of bizarre hubris that the first pregnancy test I ever took I hoped would be positive or at least I wouldn’t be distraught if it were.

I decided to take the test at home by myself while my husband was out.  I wanted to have time to process my emotions alone before I shared them with someone else.  As I expected, I botched taking the first test.  The timer clicked away at me for well over a half hour.  I went downstairs, shoved a few Triscuits in my mouth and grabbed a container to help me with the logistics of taking the test.  The second test went from three flashes of the imaginary timer to a bold, unequivocal, Y-E-S.  My first thought was yes what? Yes, the test works.  Yes, that was urine you put on it.  Yes, you’re pregnant?!?! My second thought was I have so many more questions to ask and only one more stick. The next stick didn’t offer a single word, only two pink lines.

What I’d soon learn (not from the stick though) is that all of my preconceptions about pregnancy would soon be shattered or at least didn’t apply to me and my first trimester. The first came when I went to schedule my OBGYN appointment.  Somehow I had imagined that the receptionist would view my newly discovered pregnancy as urgent a medical condition as I did.  Instead, she scanned her computer screen to schedule an 8-week appointment and not a same-day-let’s make-sure-that stick really knows what it’s talking about appointment.

The next lesson was that morning sickness is a misnomer.  It should be called all-day sickness.  I had imagined discreetly vomit into a toilet in the morning and then getting dressed for work.  And not as it turned out walking around all day making sure I constantly knew where the nearest trashcan or bathroom was so I didn’t miss when I got sick during the day, at night, or in the middle of the night.

The last lesson was the hardest because it was related to the thing I was looking forward to most about pregnancy—eating for two.  When I pictured pregnancy, I imagined getting to order two entrees and people around me saying, “No, no, it’s ok, she’s eating for two” when the waitress looked at me strangely.  Of course, I learned that the need to consume more calories doesn’t start until the second trimester, and even more disappointingly, it’s more like eating for 1.2 than eating for 2.  And worst of all: that overeating during pregnancy can harm your child’s appetite regulation system.

I am certain that the baby will have many more lessons for me about the ways I’ve romanticized certain experiences.  Until then, I will take joy in believing that my eggs waited for the sex to be amazing in order to work their magic.

-        Aisha Valentine

I'm back.

I've spent the last two weeks adapting to having a new, somewhat rigorous schedule, and as a result, my blogging has fallen by the wayside. I apologize! In addition to having class twice a week, lots of writing assignments, working at the campus writing center part-time (which I'm really enjoying), and freelance writing work, I've also been able to start horseback riding three times a week. With the exception of the last four years, I've ridden horses my entire life. I even worked as a professional for a spell in my twenties. So when a good opportunity to lease a horse with my old barn arose, we jumped on it (no pun intended). And by "we," I mean my father. He's always loved horses and had wanted an excuse to come watch me ride again. The horse's name is Axel (show name is Guns N' Roses...he fits right in with our musical household.) I feel extremely blessed to be able to enjoy my favorite sport again. I'm definitely in my happy place when I'm around horses.

So that's where I've been! And honestly, the thing that takes up the most time is just driving to and from all these activities. The LA freeway system eats up hours of life. It's kinda depressing. I don't want to think about it.

I can promise you this: on Wednesday, I'm going to publish a story from my second guest mommy-to-be blogger. It's wonderful and I can't wait to share it with you.

Meet Axel!

Bad Timing

A very cool woman in my USC program has a three year-old son and told me she and her husband conceived by having sex every day. EVERY DAY?!? There's no way J and I have enough energy to have sex every single day. That sounds exhausting. Which begs the question: if having sex everyday sounds exhausting, how the hell are we going to have enough energy to raise a child?

Smile! You're hormonal. 

J and I are, of course, relying on the ovulation tests to tell us when we need to kick our sex life into full gear. And last Sunday morning, the Clear Blue Easy ovulation stick told me it was go time. (See the adorable happy face above? How cute is that? Best pee-stick indicator ever!) But the timing couldn't have been worse. First of all, we were in SD visiting my father for Labor Day weekend and there's absolutely no privacy in the house. It's impossible to slip away with your husband for a few minutes and not be missed when you are an only child visiting her dad. Having 2/3 of the people in a household disappear into the bedroom looks a bit suspicious. And for some reason, J just didn't want me to say to my dad, "Hey, we'll be right back. Just need to go make a baby."

But worse than that, the same morning the happy face appeared, J came down with a terrible case of food poisoning thanks to a plate of scallops he had for dinner the night before. He was sick for 24 hours...the same 24 hours when I was at the peak of my fertility. Turns out it's best to avoid shellfish, not just when you're pregnant, but also when you're the husband of the woman trying to get pregnant!

Fortunately, he's feeling much better now. So maybe we have time to squeeze in one quick round today before the window closes hopefully?!?

Getting pregnant is a little like trying to time it so the DeLorean connects with the cable that connects with the clock tower right when it gets struck by lightening.  And if you don't get that reference, you are too young to be reading my blog.