August 23, 2005
August 18, 2005
Things You Should Not Do When You Are Hormonal and Already Prone to Tears
1. Watch Beaches on tv.
2. Read My Sister's Keeper, by Jodi Picoult.
3. Watch any Animal Planet show involving rescuing kittens from a well.
4. Read pretty much any post by Grrl, particularly the one that said, "I said to her, 'I know you think that you created a life yesterday, but really, you created two. You have renewed me.'"
5. Buy those Hallmark cards that have quotes on them by Maya Angelou.
2. Read My Sister's Keeper, by Jodi Picoult.
3. Watch any Animal Planet show involving rescuing kittens from a well.
4. Read pretty much any post by Grrl, particularly the one that said, "I said to her, 'I know you think that you created a life yesterday, but really, you created two. You have renewed me.'"
5. Buy those Hallmark cards that have quotes on them by Maya Angelou.
August 17, 2005
Way to Make Me Feel Better, Nurse Practitioner
At my four-month checkup this afternoon:
Me: So, you would be able to tell by now if I had placenta previa or an incompetent cervix or something scary like that, right?
NP: [laughing] What have you been reading about?
Me: Um, everything. Particularly things that could, you know, kill me.
NP: Well, no, you'll have to wait until the 20-week ultrasound to see where the placenta is. And what was that other thing you mentioned?
Me: An incompetent cervix.
NP: [cheerily] Oh, no, we usually don't diagnose those until you've had a miscarriage or two.
Me: But, um, wouldn't my baby be dead by then?
NP: Well, er, yeah. [uncomfortable silence] But I'm sure it's all fine! See you next month!
Me: So, you would be able to tell by now if I had placenta previa or an incompetent cervix or something scary like that, right?
NP: [laughing] What have you been reading about?
Me: Um, everything. Particularly things that could, you know, kill me.
NP: Well, no, you'll have to wait until the 20-week ultrasound to see where the placenta is. And what was that other thing you mentioned?
Me: An incompetent cervix.
NP: [cheerily] Oh, no, we usually don't diagnose those until you've had a miscarriage or two.
Me: But, um, wouldn't my baby be dead by then?
NP: Well, er, yeah. [uncomfortable silence] But I'm sure it's all fine! See you next month!
August 15, 2005
What the Hell Was I Thinking?
I just got off the phone with the local La Leche League leader. I'm officially scheduled to attend their next meeting, in September.
What the fuck was I thinking? There are going to be PREGNANT women there! And women with babies! I spent the last two years trying as hard as I could to avoid being near pregnant women because it was sheer torture watching them coo over their lovely round bellies and cute little babies. And now I'm volunteering to spend an hour chatting about breast shields and eating brownies with them. (Or maybe soy cakes? LLLers are pretty crunchy granola folks, right? Jesus, just the thought makes me want to go to McDonalds.)
I have clearly not completely accepted that I'm actually pregnant. The King is totally at one with the idea--he has no trouble discussing the fact that in February, we will be acquiring a child. I, however, am still in total denial. Baby? What baby? My stomach is suddenly as round as a balloon because I ate half a pizza last night, not because of any sort of small person inside it! It's not possible--two doctors said so! "It will be totally impossible for you to get pregnant without IVF. Don't even bother trying." That's what they said.
Shit. Do you think they'll make me try on a breast shield? Do you think I should find out what a breast shield actually is before I go to the meeting?
What the fuck was I thinking? There are going to be PREGNANT women there! And women with babies! I spent the last two years trying as hard as I could to avoid being near pregnant women because it was sheer torture watching them coo over their lovely round bellies and cute little babies. And now I'm volunteering to spend an hour chatting about breast shields and eating brownies with them. (Or maybe soy cakes? LLLers are pretty crunchy granola folks, right? Jesus, just the thought makes me want to go to McDonalds.)
I have clearly not completely accepted that I'm actually pregnant. The King is totally at one with the idea--he has no trouble discussing the fact that in February, we will be acquiring a child. I, however, am still in total denial. Baby? What baby? My stomach is suddenly as round as a balloon because I ate half a pizza last night, not because of any sort of small person inside it! It's not possible--two doctors said so! "It will be totally impossible for you to get pregnant without IVF. Don't even bother trying." That's what they said.
Shit. Do you think they'll make me try on a breast shield? Do you think I should find out what a breast shield actually is before I go to the meeting?
August 09, 2005
Love in the Time of Malaria
Life here in paradise, as it turns out, is not always perfect. There are a few major flaws to living in Hawaii, I have found. The major one is the bugs. This is, you see, a tropical paradise. Tropical being the essential word in that phrase.
First, there are the mosquitos. I'm one of those people who mosquitos seem to really love biting, and as it turns out, pregnant women are also very prone to mosquito bites. So I'm getting them double. On top of that, I have this fabulous allergic reaction to mosquito bites--a huge, red welt swells up all around the bite and itches for days. You'd think I'd been attacked by leeches or something.
I could live with the mosquitos if they were the only bug around here, but no. You see, tropical bugs are special. By special, I mean HUGE. And terrifying. We get flying cockroaches the size of your hand that crawl under doorways and sneak into the house. Even the King, who isn't scared of bugs, has a hard time with them. The first time I begged him, crying, to kill one, he hovered with his paper towel over the enormous thing on the wall. "What's wrong?" I cried, covering my eyes and praying that it wouldn't fly toward me. "Dude, it's looking at me," he said.
And cockroaches aren't enough either. There are horrifying millipedes that look like something out of a Stephen King novel. Five inches long, it's not bad enough that they're huge and black and wiggly and disgusting. No, they have the added bonus of being able to deliver an agonizingly painful bite and sting. Nice.
And now I've twice found small poops in our bathroom. I suspect we have mice. I've never had mice in my house before (except as a pet once, as a kid), but I could probably deal with killing them. Except, if tropical mice are anything like tropical insects, they're probably the size of a hamster and vicious as hell, which means I'm in trouble.
First, there are the mosquitos. I'm one of those people who mosquitos seem to really love biting, and as it turns out, pregnant women are also very prone to mosquito bites. So I'm getting them double. On top of that, I have this fabulous allergic reaction to mosquito bites--a huge, red welt swells up all around the bite and itches for days. You'd think I'd been attacked by leeches or something.
I could live with the mosquitos if they were the only bug around here, but no. You see, tropical bugs are special. By special, I mean HUGE. And terrifying. We get flying cockroaches the size of your hand that crawl under doorways and sneak into the house. Even the King, who isn't scared of bugs, has a hard time with them. The first time I begged him, crying, to kill one, he hovered with his paper towel over the enormous thing on the wall. "What's wrong?" I cried, covering my eyes and praying that it wouldn't fly toward me. "Dude, it's looking at me," he said.
And cockroaches aren't enough either. There are horrifying millipedes that look like something out of a Stephen King novel. Five inches long, it's not bad enough that they're huge and black and wiggly and disgusting. No, they have the added bonus of being able to deliver an agonizingly painful bite and sting. Nice.
And now I've twice found small poops in our bathroom. I suspect we have mice. I've never had mice in my house before (except as a pet once, as a kid), but I could probably deal with killing them. Except, if tropical mice are anything like tropical insects, they're probably the size of a hamster and vicious as hell, which means I'm in trouble.
August 01, 2005
Hey Dude, What's Up with the Blowtorch?
Right now, at this very moment, there is a teenage boy using a BLOWTORCH in my living room.
He is ostensibly installing an air conditioner because it is so very, very hot here, but what he is actually doing seems to be some sort of copper pipe welding project on my living room carpeting with a BLOWTORCH. And he's about sixteen. And did I mention that he's using a blowtorch???
I asked him, "Hey, do you always have to use a blowtorch to put in an air conditioner?"
He said, "Eh, yeah, sometimes."
Then I asked, trying to sound very calm and cool, "Hey, do you ever worry about burning someone's house down with the blowtorch?"
And he said, "Eh, yeah, sometimes."
Then I fled the room, telling myself it was to protect the fetus from the scary toxic smells that the blowtorch is producing, but really it was because I am too scared to watch this kid do his blowtorching, and so I am hiding in my office praying that he doesn't burn my goddamned house down.
He is ostensibly installing an air conditioner because it is so very, very hot here, but what he is actually doing seems to be some sort of copper pipe welding project on my living room carpeting with a BLOWTORCH. And he's about sixteen. And did I mention that he's using a blowtorch???
I asked him, "Hey, do you always have to use a blowtorch to put in an air conditioner?"
He said, "Eh, yeah, sometimes."
Then I asked, trying to sound very calm and cool, "Hey, do you ever worry about burning someone's house down with the blowtorch?"
And he said, "Eh, yeah, sometimes."
Then I fled the room, telling myself it was to protect the fetus from the scary toxic smells that the blowtorch is producing, but really it was because I am too scared to watch this kid do his blowtorching, and so I am hiding in my office praying that he doesn't burn my goddamned house down.
July 28, 2005
Congratulations to the King
I was awakened at 4:30 this morning by the sound of a phone ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Our next door neighbors keep their phone turned up way too loud, and we can always hear it ring, so I assumed it was them. It rang several times, over nearly an hour, and I was about ready to get up and fire a couple of shotgun blasts into their house, when it stopped.
This morning, the King awakened me to tell me that it was his cell phone ringing, not our neighbors'. His boss had been trying to reach him, at 4:30 a.m., to give him some news:
He is going to be a Navy Chief Petty Officer!
I know this means nothing to most of you, but it's a very, very big deal. In fact, it's the climax of his career and is what he has been shooting for over the past 17 years in the military. It's a bit like becoming a company vice-president or a division head, and it comes with a lovely raise, most of which you spend buying all new uniforms. There is a month-long induction program he has to go through, and I may get to join a chief's wives' club or maybe go to some of his functions; I'm not sure how that works, so we'll see.
I'm so proud of you, sweetie! You completely deserve it, and I know you're going to make a great chief. Just don't start trying to give me orders, because you know that just don't fly. :)
This morning, the King awakened me to tell me that it was his cell phone ringing, not our neighbors'. His boss had been trying to reach him, at 4:30 a.m., to give him some news:
He is going to be a Navy Chief Petty Officer!
I know this means nothing to most of you, but it's a very, very big deal. In fact, it's the climax of his career and is what he has been shooting for over the past 17 years in the military. It's a bit like becoming a company vice-president or a division head, and it comes with a lovely raise, most of which you spend buying all new uniforms. There is a month-long induction program he has to go through, and I may get to join a chief's wives' club or maybe go to some of his functions; I'm not sure how that works, so we'll see.
I'm so proud of you, sweetie! You completely deserve it, and I know you're going to make a great chief. Just don't start trying to give me orders, because you know that just don't fly. :)
July 25, 2005
I Simply Won't Allow It
Updated to include:
Dear God,
Okay, you're forgiven. Grrl's baby is okay, so now you just need to work on maybe getting her an hour or so of sleep a night. Oh, and maybe fix that whole AIDS epidemic in Africa thing.
And thanks for letting my mom be able to respond with four complete, coherent sentences yesterday when I talked to her on the phone, despite the Alzheimer's. That really made my day.
--Queenie
_____________________
Dear God,
You are being stupid. Don't you realize that everybody thinks the Book of Job is the crappiest book in the Bible and that you totally screwed Job over for no reason whatsoever, and that in addition, you are kind of a jerk sometimes? Surely you have realized that after four thousand years or however long it's been. So how can you be inflicting all of this on Grrl and her husband? Really, please just take a Valium or something and give the poor woman a break.
Sincerely,
Queenie
PS--About that time I stole a pair of earrings from Claire's when I was twelve? It was totally Leigh Ann Johannsen's idea. Totally.
Dear God,
Okay, you're forgiven. Grrl's baby is okay, so now you just need to work on maybe getting her an hour or so of sleep a night. Oh, and maybe fix that whole AIDS epidemic in Africa thing.
And thanks for letting my mom be able to respond with four complete, coherent sentences yesterday when I talked to her on the phone, despite the Alzheimer's. That really made my day.
--Queenie
_____________________
Dear God,
You are being stupid. Don't you realize that everybody thinks the Book of Job is the crappiest book in the Bible and that you totally screwed Job over for no reason whatsoever, and that in addition, you are kind of a jerk sometimes? Surely you have realized that after four thousand years or however long it's been. So how can you be inflicting all of this on Grrl and her husband? Really, please just take a Valium or something and give the poor woman a break.
Sincerely,
Queenie
PS--About that time I stole a pair of earrings from Claire's when I was twelve? It was totally Leigh Ann Johannsen's idea. Totally.
July 19, 2005
The Best Doctor Ever--Too Bad I'll Never See Her Again
Yesterday we went to the hospital for a genetic counseling appointment. It basically involved talking to the genetic counselor about our family history to see whether we have any unusual risk factors that we might pass on to the baby.
The genetic counselor was a petite little brunette in scrubs, the legs of which were covered with kids' marker drawings. She had clearly let some of her littler patients draw all over her, which I thought was pretty cool for a doctor. She also insisted that she sit in the guest chair in her office and I take her fancy leather chair, because a kid had spilled juice on the guest chair and she didn't want the King or I to get all sticky.
When we walked into her office, we had the following conversation:
Gene Doctor: Hi! [shaking hands] You must be King and Queenie, right?
Me: Uh, yeah. [She knows our names?] We are.
King: Hi!
GD [sitting down and beginning to sketch a family tree on a blank piece of paper]: So, basically, we're just here to talk about your family today. Queenie, your mother has Alzheimer's Disease, and your younger brother has a seizure disorder, isn't that right?
Me: Eh? Actually, yes, that is right.
GD: And King, your mother has had some treatment for skin cancer, yes?
King: Yes, she has.
Me [in my head]: Wait! Um, you didn't actually read our chart, did you? Because, you know, doctors aren't supposed to do that! They're supposed to make you fill out a huge long form, and then they throw that away and ask you all the painful questions over again three times, because they can't be bothered to actually listen to you. And they are definitely not supposed to look up your name before your appointment and actually remember it when you come in their office! And let little kids draw happy faces on their pants! What kind of doctor are you???
The best kind, apparently. Too bad that unless our kid has some sort of horrific genetic disease that is our fault for passing on, we'll never see her again.
The genetic counselor was a petite little brunette in scrubs, the legs of which were covered with kids' marker drawings. She had clearly let some of her littler patients draw all over her, which I thought was pretty cool for a doctor. She also insisted that she sit in the guest chair in her office and I take her fancy leather chair, because a kid had spilled juice on the guest chair and she didn't want the King or I to get all sticky.
When we walked into her office, we had the following conversation:
Gene Doctor: Hi! [shaking hands] You must be King and Queenie, right?
Me: Uh, yeah. [She knows our names?] We are.
King: Hi!
GD [sitting down and beginning to sketch a family tree on a blank piece of paper]: So, basically, we're just here to talk about your family today. Queenie, your mother has Alzheimer's Disease, and your younger brother has a seizure disorder, isn't that right?
Me: Eh? Actually, yes, that is right.
GD: And King, your mother has had some treatment for skin cancer, yes?
King: Yes, she has.
Me [in my head]: Wait! Um, you didn't actually read our chart, did you? Because, you know, doctors aren't supposed to do that! They're supposed to make you fill out a huge long form, and then they throw that away and ask you all the painful questions over again three times, because they can't be bothered to actually listen to you. And they are definitely not supposed to look up your name before your appointment and actually remember it when you come in their office! And let little kids draw happy faces on their pants! What kind of doctor are you???
The best kind, apparently. Too bad that unless our kid has some sort of horrific genetic disease that is our fault for passing on, we'll never see her again.
July 13, 2005
Like a Tiny, Very Speedy Train
Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo...
I rented a Doppler machine. Yesterday, the King and I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time. That's right, I used the B word--call me crazy, but I'm beginning to think that in 29 weeks, we may be getting a roommate.
I rented a Doppler machine. Yesterday, the King and I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time. That's right, I used the B word--call me crazy, but I'm beginning to think that in 29 weeks, we may be getting a roommate.
July 11, 2005
Perhaps It's Time I Found God
I am, according to the sticks I cannot stop peeing on and the sonogram I had a month ago, just about eleven weeks pregnant. Theoretically. (I've had virtually no symptoms other than horrifying lines on my boobs, so we'll just assume the pee sticks and the doc are correct.) Therefore, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what it will be like to have an actual small person here with me. And as a result, I have discovered the reason for fundamentalist religion. Not just fundie Christians, or Muslims, but any sort of hardcore, God-is-it-and-there-a'int-nothing-else spirituality.
It is so you can answer the three-year-old's favorite question: Why?
For example, here is a conversation I may one day have with the fetus, after it stops being a fetus:
Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Me: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Me: Err, um, well, a long, long time ago, there was water everywhere, and there were lots of fish in it. Then one day, one of the fish crawled up on this island. But he died. Then another fish, one that had rudimentary lungs through some fluke of evolution, crawled up and lived. Then he met a girlfriend, and they had baby fish that could breathe air. Then, a long time later, this guy named Charles Darwin counted a whole bunch of little birds on this other island, and wrote a book about them...
It would just take forever, and frankly, I didn't pay that much attention in Bio 101. Hence, the fundamentalism. This conversation is much, much easier for the religiously minded parent:
Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Fundie parent: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Fundie parent: Because God said so. Now stop bothering me.
See? So much easier. Perhaps I should go bust out my copy of the King James I got for my high school confirmation nine years ago and felt too guilty to ever throw away.
It is so you can answer the three-year-old's favorite question: Why?
For example, here is a conversation I may one day have with the fetus, after it stops being a fetus:
Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Me: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Me: Err, um, well, a long, long time ago, there was water everywhere, and there were lots of fish in it. Then one day, one of the fish crawled up on this island. But he died. Then another fish, one that had rudimentary lungs through some fluke of evolution, crawled up and lived. Then he met a girlfriend, and they had baby fish that could breathe air. Then, a long time later, this guy named Charles Darwin counted a whole bunch of little birds on this other island, and wrote a book about them...
It would just take forever, and frankly, I didn't pay that much attention in Bio 101. Hence, the fundamentalism. This conversation is much, much easier for the religiously minded parent:
Kid: Mommy, what's that?
Fundie parent: A goat, honey!
Kid: Why?
Fundie parent: Because God said so. Now stop bothering me.
See? So much easier. Perhaps I should go bust out my copy of the King James I got for my high school confirmation nine years ago and felt too guilty to ever throw away.
July 07, 2005
Not a Funny Day
I was planning a very witty post about my fabulous new house and the very, very empty third bedroom that we insisted the movers not put any boxes in, because it is going to be the, ahem, "tiny passenger's" room, assuming the tadpole is still hanging out and doing okay.
However, the bombing in London this morning pretty much killed my sense of humor off. Having lived in Washington, DC, seeing the Pentagon with its one shiny new side twice a day on my way to work and home, I know that none of those people's lives will ever be the same, even if they weren't actually on the subway when it happened. Every day when I went to work on the Metro, I wondered if this would be the day that someone tried to blow it up. I would mentally calculate whether I would survive if a bomb went off in the next car, instead of the one I was in. (Answer: probably yes, if they were using regular small bombs, although you would be injured.) Every day I would hold my breath for a tiny second as we pulled into Union Station, knowing that would probably be the most likely spot for an attack--lots of people, famous building next to the Capitol, big empty underground area. And every day I would peer around as I walked through the station, wondering if the guy with the backpack was really going camping, or the woman pushing the baby stroller actually had a baby, or a stroller full of C4 explosives. That feeling never went away, no matter how many times I went to work and home perfectly safely. And now it's never going to go away for thousands and thousands of people in London just like me.
However, the bombing in London this morning pretty much killed my sense of humor off. Having lived in Washington, DC, seeing the Pentagon with its one shiny new side twice a day on my way to work and home, I know that none of those people's lives will ever be the same, even if they weren't actually on the subway when it happened. Every day when I went to work on the Metro, I wondered if this would be the day that someone tried to blow it up. I would mentally calculate whether I would survive if a bomb went off in the next car, instead of the one I was in. (Answer: probably yes, if they were using regular small bombs, although you would be injured.) Every day I would hold my breath for a tiny second as we pulled into Union Station, knowing that would probably be the most likely spot for an attack--lots of people, famous building next to the Capitol, big empty underground area. And every day I would peer around as I walked through the station, wondering if the guy with the backpack was really going camping, or the woman pushing the baby stroller actually had a baby, or a stroller full of C4 explosives. That feeling never went away, no matter how many times I went to work and home perfectly safely. And now it's never going to go away for thousands and thousands of people in London just like me.
June 29, 2005
All About the Genital Slicing
Yesterday I spent a really surprising amount of time talking about people's genitals being cut up. No, we weren't discussing female genital mutilation in Africa, although I do like to torment the King on occasion by ranting about women's rights, or lack thereof, in certain areas of the world. No, we were talking about the slicing and dicing of my genitals. And those of my potential offspring (or "little passenger," as one of my pregnancy books so creepily calls it).
It all started with a long and fairly boring first official prenatal visit. (We didn't get an ultrasound or a Doppler, so there's no fun news about whether the "little passenger" is actually, you know, still alive in there. But let's assume the best, okay?). The nurse practitioner asked if we had any questions, and I immediately began a political rant about the wanton use of enemas and episiotomies in the United States. You see, I am absolutely terrified of episiotomies. The idea of someone slicing open my vagina with a pair of scissors horrifies me far more than the idea of labor itself.
The nurse managed to head me off at the pass (and calm my impending hyperventilation) by saying they don't give episiotomies or enemas to everyone. Then she cleverly distracted me by saying they do have whirlpool tubs for laboring in. Ooh. Jacuzzi.
The idea of the jacuzzi having diverted me from the whole vagina-slicing horror long enough to get out of the doctor's office, I then immediately began questioning the King about his feelings about circumcision, should we have a boy. He said yes, definitely. I said that the United States is the only first-world country that still practices circumcision regularly, and he said I had told him that before, but he'd never heard any proof of it. Then I said I really just want the kid to feel comfortable when he's a teenager around other guys, although I'm not thrilled about the idea of snipping bits off his genitalia. Or of having to clean blood off his little newborn penis, either, because that's just weird.
We never came to an agreement about circumcision. Any opinions? Personally, I decided it would be easiest just to hope for a girl.
It all started with a long and fairly boring first official prenatal visit. (We didn't get an ultrasound or a Doppler, so there's no fun news about whether the "little passenger" is actually, you know, still alive in there. But let's assume the best, okay?). The nurse practitioner asked if we had any questions, and I immediately began a political rant about the wanton use of enemas and episiotomies in the United States. You see, I am absolutely terrified of episiotomies. The idea of someone slicing open my vagina with a pair of scissors horrifies me far more than the idea of labor itself.
The nurse managed to head me off at the pass (and calm my impending hyperventilation) by saying they don't give episiotomies or enemas to everyone. Then she cleverly distracted me by saying they do have whirlpool tubs for laboring in. Ooh. Jacuzzi.
The idea of the jacuzzi having diverted me from the whole vagina-slicing horror long enough to get out of the doctor's office, I then immediately began questioning the King about his feelings about circumcision, should we have a boy. He said yes, definitely. I said that the United States is the only first-world country that still practices circumcision regularly, and he said I had told him that before, but he'd never heard any proof of it. Then I said I really just want the kid to feel comfortable when he's a teenager around other guys, although I'm not thrilled about the idea of snipping bits off his genitalia. Or of having to clean blood off his little newborn penis, either, because that's just weird.
We never came to an agreement about circumcision. Any opinions? Personally, I decided it would be easiest just to hope for a girl.
June 24, 2005
My Husband, the Car Lover
Yesterday I was brushing my teeth when I discovered something very alarming in the mirror--a dark line running from my belly button down to my cooter. What the hell? Remember what we used to call a "happy trail" when we were giggling at our teenage boyfriends? Except that this isn't a line of little hairs, it's an actual LINE ON MY SKIN! I had heard about it (linea negra, they call it), but it doesn't usually appear until the fourth or fifth month. Lucky me to get it in the 9th week.
I immediately shrieked, "King! Come look at this freaky scary thing on my stomach! Tell me you don't see it! Tell me I'm imagining things!"
My sweet husband peered at my stomach for a minute, then pointed, laughed hysterically, and said:
"Look, baby! You've got a racing stripe!"
I immediately shrieked, "King! Come look at this freaky scary thing on my stomach! Tell me you don't see it! Tell me I'm imagining things!"
My sweet husband peered at my stomach for a minute, then pointed, laughed hysterically, and said:
"Look, baby! You've got a racing stripe!"
June 23, 2005
Help Me, Help Me!
Okay, this is my first plea for pregnancy-related advice. Sorry, I'm afraid this does not bode well for my blog remaining even a tiny bit funny or interesting after the arrival of the Tadpole (who is officially a fetus today!). But I don't know anyone with kids, so I need some help.
1. What's the best stretch mark cream? Do any of them really work?
2. I plan to breastfeed, but the King wants to feed the baby too, so I'm thinking I could pump and let him bottlefeed occasionally. Will this totally freak out the Tadpole so that he or she will hate me and never want to breastfeed again? I've heard of some bottles that say their nipples prevent confusion--do they work, and which are the best?
1. What's the best stretch mark cream? Do any of them really work?
2. I plan to breastfeed, but the King wants to feed the baby too, so I'm thinking I could pump and let him bottlefeed occasionally. Will this totally freak out the Tadpole so that he or she will hate me and never want to breastfeed again? I've heard of some bottles that say their nipples prevent confusion--do they work, and which are the best?
June 20, 2005
What to Expect When You're Paranoid: Three Conversations
Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!
DH: What? Are you sick?
Me: No, I'm perfectly fine. All my pregnancy symptoms have suddenly disappeared. I'm having a miscarriage, I know it.
DH: Uh, are you bleeding?
Me: No, but the book says there's something called a "missed miscarriage," and you don't bleed at all if that happens.
DH: What are the symptoms?
Me: Having all your pregnancy symptoms disappear. We have to go to the hospital, the book says so!
[Two hours later, the obstetrician inserts the DildoCam.]
OB: There it is! A healthy fetus. Looks like you're about seven weeks and three days along. You can even see it's heart beating!
Me and DH: [crying]
OB: You're perfectly fine. Don't worry about a thing.
********
Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!
DH: What?
Me: I've got vaginal discharge! I'm leaking amniotic fluid! The books says to go to the hospital if you have any leaking at all!
DH: Honey, you just got out of the shower. You're dripping water everywhere, that's all it is. Go dry your hair.
Me: Oh. Yeah.
*******
Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!
DH: [sighing] What now?
Me: I just picked up this enormous frozen turkey, and it totally hurt my shoulder! The book says shoulder pain means an ectopic pregnancy! We have to go now--The book says!
DH: I am throwing that motherfucking book away.
DH: What? Are you sick?
Me: No, I'm perfectly fine. All my pregnancy symptoms have suddenly disappeared. I'm having a miscarriage, I know it.
DH: Uh, are you bleeding?
Me: No, but the book says there's something called a "missed miscarriage," and you don't bleed at all if that happens.
DH: What are the symptoms?
Me: Having all your pregnancy symptoms disappear. We have to go to the hospital, the book says so!
[Two hours later, the obstetrician inserts the DildoCam.]
OB: There it is! A healthy fetus. Looks like you're about seven weeks and three days along. You can even see it's heart beating!
Me and DH: [crying]
OB: You're perfectly fine. Don't worry about a thing.
********
Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!
DH: What?
Me: I've got vaginal discharge! I'm leaking amniotic fluid! The books says to go to the hospital if you have any leaking at all!
DH: Honey, you just got out of the shower. You're dripping water everywhere, that's all it is. Go dry your hair.
Me: Oh. Yeah.
*******
Me: Something's wrong! We have to go to the hospital!
DH: [sighing] What now?
Me: I just picked up this enormous frozen turkey, and it totally hurt my shoulder! The book says shoulder pain means an ectopic pregnancy! We have to go now--The book says!
DH: I am throwing that motherfucking book away.
June 14, 2005
Yeah, We Were Shocked Too
Still are, in fact. Thank you so much for your kind congratulations on my previous post. It's been five days and I am, apparently, still pregnant. Unfortunately, thanks to the high-quality medical care the military provides, I have absolutely no freaking idea how pregnant I am, although I suspect about five weeks. They did a blood test yesterday to confirm that yes, I'm knocked up, but they don't do quantitative betas, the one where you get the number that you then watch fanatically to make sure it's doubling every day. And I can't get in to see a doctor for two weeks. How am I supposed to know what chapter I'm allowed to read up to in What to Expect if I don't know how far along I am, goddamnit??
And yes, I got a copy of What to Expect. The King bought it for me. We saw it in the store, and I told him I had wanted to buy a copy for the last two years, but it was just too painful when we weren't actually expecting, so he got it for me. And I cried in line at the checkout.
And in the car after getting the lame blood test yesterday. And three times while watching tv. And once this morning in bed. Either I've definitely got that weepiness symptom, or I'm just still overwhelmed by the thought that I've actually got gobs (I hope) of HCG floating around my system.
And speaking of symptoms, yesterday my boobs were killing me and I felt totally sick in the morning, plus I took two naps in the afternoon. It was great. Unfortunately, I feel perfectly normal and fine today, so I assume that means the pregnancy's ending. Of course, I have no way to know for sure whether it's developing properly, because the Navy won't do an ultrasound until 12 weeks! Apparently they think the kindest and most sensitive way to find out that there's no fetal pole or gestational sac is not in the quiet tones of your gentle OBGYN as he or she points to the tv screen, but rather by waking up in a pool of blood and agonizing cramps.
No, seriously, I'm trying really hard not to think about things like that, although I know the King and I are both worried about it. But we're trying to enjoy it, too, especially since this is our first pregnancy--we're trying really hard to be that annoying couple who tells everyone after two days and starts buying tiny clothes at four weeks because they just don't know any better. I'm not quite there, though--I told him I can't say the B-word yet (as in, "I'm having a...!"), so he affectionately named our little ball of cells "The Tadpole." It was so sweet, I cried. Again.
And yes, I got a copy of What to Expect. The King bought it for me. We saw it in the store, and I told him I had wanted to buy a copy for the last two years, but it was just too painful when we weren't actually expecting, so he got it for me. And I cried in line at the checkout.
And in the car after getting the lame blood test yesterday. And three times while watching tv. And once this morning in bed. Either I've definitely got that weepiness symptom, or I'm just still overwhelmed by the thought that I've actually got gobs (I hope) of HCG floating around my system.
And speaking of symptoms, yesterday my boobs were killing me and I felt totally sick in the morning, plus I took two naps in the afternoon. It was great. Unfortunately, I feel perfectly normal and fine today, so I assume that means the pregnancy's ending. Of course, I have no way to know for sure whether it's developing properly, because the Navy won't do an ultrasound until 12 weeks! Apparently they think the kindest and most sensitive way to find out that there's no fetal pole or gestational sac is not in the quiet tones of your gentle OBGYN as he or she points to the tv screen, but rather by waking up in a pool of blood and agonizing cramps.
No, seriously, I'm trying really hard not to think about things like that, although I know the King and I are both worried about it. But we're trying to enjoy it, too, especially since this is our first pregnancy--we're trying really hard to be that annoying couple who tells everyone after two days and starts buying tiny clothes at four weeks because they just don't know any better. I'm not quite there, though--I told him I can't say the B-word yet (as in, "I'm having a...!"), so he affectionately named our little ball of cells "The Tadpole." It was so sweet, I cried. Again.
June 11, 2005
In Which I Embody Every Fertility Cliche Ever Spoken
"Take a vacation!"
"Go to Hawaii, that's what we did!"
"Just relax--all that charting and stuff just makes it take longer."
________________
I got two lines today. Two lines.
"Go to Hawaii, that's what we did!"
"Just relax--all that charting and stuff just makes it take longer."
________________
I got two lines today. Two lines.
June 09, 2005
Don't You Hate That?
Don't you hate it when you move into a new rental house, and you go around and turn everything on to make sure it works, like the washing maching and the dishwasher, and it all does, and then your new landlady comes over to do a walkthrough inspection, and she fiddles with the washing machine and the dishwasher too, and then after she leaves, the washing machine won't start?
And then you call her and leave a really nasty message on her answering machine that says, "Hey, this is Queenie, and you fiddled around with my washer today, and now it doesn't work. And it worked earlier, so you totally broke it, and you need to come over right away and fix whatever it was that you screwed up."
And then you hang up, and then you see the cord hanging out of the back of the washing machine that you accidentally pulled out with the laundry room door five minutes before and forgot to plug back in? Don't you hate that?
And then you call her and leave a really nasty message on her answering machine that says, "Hey, this is Queenie, and you fiddled around with my washer today, and now it doesn't work. And it worked earlier, so you totally broke it, and you need to come over right away and fix whatever it was that you screwed up."
And then you hang up, and then you see the cord hanging out of the back of the washing machine that you accidentally pulled out with the laundry room door five minutes before and forgot to plug back in? Don't you hate that?
June 08, 2005
World's Worst Blogger
I know, I haven't posted in like nineteen weeks, and therefore I don't deserve to have anyone come and read this post, but since Julia is going on vacation and won't be updating for a while, I'm hoping I can steal some of her uber-fabulous readers and convince them to come over here. I haven't been posting because I've now moved twice in one month and will be moving again in three weeks. Also, because I suspected I might be pregnant, which was taking up a great deal of my brain.
Stop laughing. I know, it's ridiculous. And no, I'm not pregnant. I am, like Akeeyu, in the middle of the longest, most boring cycle in history. I took Clomid about ninety-three days ago, and nothing has happened since. No ovulation, no blood, nada. I have, however, had two weeks of swollen, sore boobs, alternating bouts of feeling sick and stuffing my face, constipation, and fatigue. Whoo hoo! Pregnant, right? Not so much. Apparently I'm just fully fucked up.
The whole moving-three-times-in-two-months thing has been a major pain too. We flew here to Hawaii in May and moved into a nice hotel that the Navy kindly paid for. For ten days. However, they didn't have a house for us to live in, so we actually had to stay in the hotel for a month, paying for most of it ourselves. We finally got housing last week, and moved into it on Friday. (Pearl City, for those of you in this area.) However, in the meantime, we found our dream home. Or as close as you're going to get to it in Hawaii, where one-room shacks are selling for $400,000. We are now in the midst of selling our souls to the devil to get a half-a-million-dollar loan so we can buy said dream house, which only needs about $20,000 worth of work to make it livable. Trust me, for Hawaii, that's a great deal. It's just a little scary, and it means that assuming the devil accepts our souls in exchange for the house, we'll be moving yet again in a few weeks.
In the meantime, everything we own is in storage. The Navy kindly loaned us what they call "Aloha furniture." Aloha furniture is truly lovely wicker and plastic furniture with a florescent floral pattern that the Navy stores in huge, scary warehouses until someone like us needs to use it for a couple of weeks. Apparently they call it Aloha furniture because every morning you get to say "Aloha!" to the cockroaches that crawl out of it during the night.
Other than the endless moving, cockroach issue, and not having Internet access for ages, however, Hawaii is pretty awesome. It's actually hard to think of anything funny and sarcastic to say about it. The weather is just stunning; I'm learning to wear flip-flips. And there are rainbows here. And not just once in a while--I'm talking every day I go out for a walk and there will be a rainbow arching over the mist-shrouded peaks toward the center of the island, with the ocean waves gently lapping behind me.
Okay, that last bit was a lie. The King and I haven't spent any time at the beach yet. We stuck our feet in at North Shore for about five minutes a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't actually swum in the ocean here yet. I know, who goes to Hawaii and doesn't go to the beach? Don't worry, we'll get there eventually.
The only thing about Hawaii that isn't what I expected is the traffic. Everyone said, "The traffic is a nightmare, you'll sit for ages, it's horrendous." Ha! Happily, that turned out to be untrue. The people who told us that clearly have not had the pleasure of fighting traffic on both the Washington Beltway and the 101/405 Interchange in Los Angeles IN ONE WEEK. Now that's traffic.
So, to sum up, I promise to try to be a better blogger from here on out, and maybe even post a picture or two of our little island paradise.
Stop laughing. I know, it's ridiculous. And no, I'm not pregnant. I am, like Akeeyu, in the middle of the longest, most boring cycle in history. I took Clomid about ninety-three days ago, and nothing has happened since. No ovulation, no blood, nada. I have, however, had two weeks of swollen, sore boobs, alternating bouts of feeling sick and stuffing my face, constipation, and fatigue. Whoo hoo! Pregnant, right? Not so much. Apparently I'm just fully fucked up.
The whole moving-three-times-in-two-months thing has been a major pain too. We flew here to Hawaii in May and moved into a nice hotel that the Navy kindly paid for. For ten days. However, they didn't have a house for us to live in, so we actually had to stay in the hotel for a month, paying for most of it ourselves. We finally got housing last week, and moved into it on Friday. (Pearl City, for those of you in this area.) However, in the meantime, we found our dream home. Or as close as you're going to get to it in Hawaii, where one-room shacks are selling for $400,000. We are now in the midst of selling our souls to the devil to get a half-a-million-dollar loan so we can buy said dream house, which only needs about $20,000 worth of work to make it livable. Trust me, for Hawaii, that's a great deal. It's just a little scary, and it means that assuming the devil accepts our souls in exchange for the house, we'll be moving yet again in a few weeks.
In the meantime, everything we own is in storage. The Navy kindly loaned us what they call "Aloha furniture." Aloha furniture is truly lovely wicker and plastic furniture with a florescent floral pattern that the Navy stores in huge, scary warehouses until someone like us needs to use it for a couple of weeks. Apparently they call it Aloha furniture because every morning you get to say "Aloha!" to the cockroaches that crawl out of it during the night.
Other than the endless moving, cockroach issue, and not having Internet access for ages, however, Hawaii is pretty awesome. It's actually hard to think of anything funny and sarcastic to say about it. The weather is just stunning; I'm learning to wear flip-flips. And there are rainbows here. And not just once in a while--I'm talking every day I go out for a walk and there will be a rainbow arching over the mist-shrouded peaks toward the center of the island, with the ocean waves gently lapping behind me.
Okay, that last bit was a lie. The King and I haven't spent any time at the beach yet. We stuck our feet in at North Shore for about five minutes a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't actually swum in the ocean here yet. I know, who goes to Hawaii and doesn't go to the beach? Don't worry, we'll get there eventually.
The only thing about Hawaii that isn't what I expected is the traffic. Everyone said, "The traffic is a nightmare, you'll sit for ages, it's horrendous." Ha! Happily, that turned out to be untrue. The people who told us that clearly have not had the pleasure of fighting traffic on both the Washington Beltway and the 101/405 Interchange in Los Angeles IN ONE WEEK. Now that's traffic.
So, to sum up, I promise to try to be a better blogger from here on out, and maybe even post a picture or two of our little island paradise.
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