Where's My God$%^m Glow?

Millions of women face morning sickness with an admirable stoicism and elegant determination, never revealing the extent of their suffering to others but rather enduring the twelve weeks of nausea, fatigue and headaches with the reserve and courage of Navy Seals.

I am not one of those women.

I am desperate to bitch and complain to anyone who will listen about how miserable I feel right now. How oddly my life has changed since being “diagnosed with a baby” a short time ago.

I’m 9 weeks pregnant and full pregnancies last 40 weeks, which, if you divide by 4, turns out to be 10 months rather than 9. (Apparently, some male doctor somewhere thinks women cannot do math.) I was willing to sign up for harboring a human parasite for 9 months, but 10?  That’s unreasonable. Of course, “they” want you to talk in weeks now anyway, and it turns out that “they” actually begin counting from the start of your last official period, rather than the day you conceived. So that’s kinda nice. Buy-38-weeks-get-2-free.

My morning sickness began precisely at week 6, and true to the rumors, everything makes me nauseous. Not just food and smells, but activities such as talking on the phone, using my electric toothbrush, taking hot showers and scrolling down my Twitter feed too quickly. I’m guessing the same doctor who claimed nine months instead of ten also came up with the term “morning” sickness, as it is actually an all-day/all-night, equal opportunity condition.

C-h-e-e-s-e (I can't say it out loud) makes me gag. It didn’t used to. At first, c-h-e-e-s-e was one of the things I could eat and enjoy. Then around week 8, a switch flipped and just the sight of my American cheddar sent me running for the toilet. A Kia painted an offensive shade of pea green in the parking lot at school made me gag. The drop of sweat on the side of my friend’s neck after she walked to my house to see how I was doing made me gag. Gagging a lot makes me gag.

And yet, despite the nausea, I’m starving!  Every few hours I get these pangs of hunger that snake through the pit of my stomach and make me feel as if my insides will self-digest. So I run to the kitchen where the sight of food …you guessed it…. makes me gag. I can’t leave the house without arming myself with multiple Baggies of bland foods such as pretzels, dry cereal, and yogurt.

And if one more person tells me to try saltines, I'm going to shoot myself. 

But the truth is, I always expected this would happen.  My mother made certain I knew from day one just how much she had suffered when she carried me, as if she were waiting for me to apologize for being such an inconvenient fetus.  Since I take after her in most things WOMAN, it made sense that I would face a similar fate with my pregnancy, or “payback” as she likes to call it.

What I didn’t expect was the complete and utter lack of motivation that has settled upon me like the storm cloud that hovers over the head of the grumpy character in a cartoon. Usually I am an active person who enjoys doing the annoying things health magazines recommend, such as taking the stairs instead of the elevator and walking to the store rather than driving. Now I find I don’t even want to get off my couch. I don’t want to make plans with friends. I don’t want to leave the house. Sometimes, I hate what I’m watching on TV but I don’t want to change the channel.

Yesterday, I took off my orange flannel pajamas and put on my blue flannel pajamas in order to keep things exciting for my poor husband.  Believe me, that’s about as exciting as it’s going to get for him for a while. But this is all his fault anyway.

I did manage to get a hair cut the other day. I told the woman to leave it just long enough for a “puke ponytail.”

I have four more weeks of this to go before the end of the first trimester, traditionally the time when morning sickness subsides. (Come to think about it, calling it “four weeks” does sound more manageable than saying “one month.” Maybe that’s why “they” recommend talking in weeks?) And every woman who has walked in my fuzzy slippers before promises me “It will all be worth it.”

Deep down, I know that. And I’m sure I will feel elated again shortly. But in the meantime, not wanting to have sex or a filet mignon, not wanting to take a road trip or hang out with friends, not wanting to shop or write, having no interest in many of the basics elements of life that are inherently "me" has been a rather jarring development that, quite frankly, makes me gag. 

And so it begins...

Well, here's the big announcement!

It's official: hell is freezing over. I am 81/2 weeks pregnant. I'm sorry for not announcing it on here sooner, like I said I would. But I admit I felt much more superstitious about letting it go public than I thought I would. Even now I'm a little nervous since the first trimester is such a fragile time. But I have so many emotions and thoughts that I need to write them down somewhere and this seems like the most appropriate place since that's exactly what I created the blog for in the first place. 

Here's the story: I tracked my ovulation last month just as I had done in July. Turns out I have a super long cycle, so I basically skipped August all together. The problem was that the day I got the happy face signifying that I was indeed ovulating, J ate bad scallops and came down with a terrible case of food poising. So we had pretty much written off the month. But it turns out that a little romp in the sack that we had enjoyed a few days before must have done the trick, thus confirming my friend AV's suspicions that good sex = fertilization. 

My period was due on September 18. On the 17th, I decided to take a test just for the hell of it. I sat it down on the counter and forgot to check out the results. Then, as J and I were chatting about something, I happened to glance down and see the word "Pregnant" out of the corner of my eye.

I gasped and pointed at the stick. J looked at it, too. And then we just stood there for two minutes staring at the stick, mouths open, not saying a word. 

One moment your having a nice morning pee and the next your life is changing forever.

Every thought, every action, every  since that moment has been permeated with the thought: oh my god we're having a baby. 

I need to go to the bank today. Oh my god we're having a baby.

The internet is running slowly. Oh my god we're having a baby.

We should go see a movie tonight. Oh my god we're having a baby.

We are, of course, thrilled. And terrified. And thrilled. 

More to come....LOTS more!!!

Sh*tty Mom

Just read a book review in the New Yorker for the book, Sh*tty Mom: The Parenting Guide For The Rest of Us.

It was written by a comedian, Laurie Kilmartin (along with three other funny moms) and just by reading the reviews, I can tell that these moms are my future peeps. Screw Dr. Spock. This seems like my kind of baby book. As you can tell, I have very high expectations for my abilities as a mother. But hey, it's nice to know I'm not alone.

Diaper Ad

I wanted to share this awesome Luv's ad in case you haven't seen it.  They're calling it a victory for breastfeeding moms. Our breasts have been sexualized in the media for years. It's high time we see them being used for the act for which they're actually designed, despite the fact that it makes so many people (read: guys) uncomfortable. Some of J's friends once made a comment about how seeing a girl whip out the nip and breastfeed in a coffee shop made them squirm. Well, seeing men whip out their penises and take a whiz wherever they damn well please makes me squirm too, but I don't foresee them foregoing that convenience anytime soon. As long as it's socially acceptable for fat guys with hairy chests to tear off their shirts and parade around topless, I say it's damn fine for a breastfeeding mom to do whatever she can to make her chaotic life a tad bit easier. Fhug it. Whaddya think? 

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!

***

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.