Quickening

Tomorrow I will be 19 weeks pregnant.

Even in a short 19 weeks, pregnancy has had plenty of ups and downs. 

Pro: No one judges me for how much food is on my plate.  Ever.  In fact, I could probably get away with eating sticks of butter at the moment.  (No, I do not crave butter.)  In fact, most people actually encourage heaping portions of any and everything on my plate.  Never mind that my diet is only supposed to increase by a scant 100-150 calories compared to my pre-pregnancy diet.  But hey, it's always a relief to know that should I want a second piece of lasagna, no one will blame me or complain that I got more than my share. 

Con: While everyone has been encouraging me to "Eat for two..." since I was 5 weeks, there was a good 7+ weeks in there where eating for 1/2 was a challenge, and keeping it in my body even more so.  I will spare you the gritty details. 

Pro: Pregnancy is the best motivation in the world to be nicer to your body.  (Eat better things, take supplements, lift things that aren't quite so heavy, for which my joints are certainly grateful.)

Con: Motivation is actually a nice word.  Non-negotiable demands may be more accurate at times, usually regarding when I eat, urinate, and beginning to be how I sit, etc.

Pro: The beautiful knowledge that life is being cultivated within my womb.

Con: The moments where I wake with heart pounding and palms sweating with the jolting realization that there is a baby in there, and one way or another, it has to come out.

So yes.  Lots of pros and cons.  You can read my earlier post about pregnancy and easily see that I hated being pregnant at that point.  I no longer hate it, and am actually enjoying it now, but my frustration has been that other than the weird way I felt, the swelling of my belly (which I see as a major deal, but most people see as very slight,) and the fact that we can hear a tiny, fast little heartbeat on the Doppler at appointments with my midwives, I didn't feel like things were changing, namely because I couldn't feel the little nugget moving.

When I reached 15 or 16 weeks the questions started coming.  "Have you felt the baby move?"  To which my blank, sad stare would communicate that no, I haven't.  What exactly am I supposed to be "feeling" for?  If you want women to get really weird really quick, get them to start talking about fetal movement.  I'm serious.  Women will tell you all kinds of things. 

"It starts as just little flutterings, like a butterfly in your stomach." 

"It feels like someone is tickling you!  Just like this." *proceeds to give my belly a little tickle.*  Teehee! 

"It feels like an air bubble.  Almost like you just drank a Dr. Pepper and some carbonation is just being weird in your stomach." 

"It feels like gas." 

And my personal favorite, coming from my friend Kara who is currently in the hospital on bed rest, pregnant with twins, "When it feels like a goldfish is swimming around in there, you know it's the baby!"  Turns out, this has been the most accurate, but I get ahead of myself.  (To learn about Kara's miraculous journey so far with her twins, here is a link to her blog.)

3 weeks may seem like a short amount of time, but when you spend every day waiting for something, it feels like an eternity.  We all know how long 3-5 business days are when we are waiting for UPS to drop off that new book/gadget that we ordered.  Just imagine that, but longer.  Every day I would lay down and concentrate and will myself to feel that baby.  Sometimes I would think, *gasp* Maybe that was it!  But for all I know, I ate too much spicy food at dinner.  (They said it feels like gas.  Maybe what they felt actually was gas.)

I watched bitterly and cynically as I unfortunately sat through Twilight: Breaking Dawn and, (SPOILER ALERT!!!) it depicted Bella feeling her baby moving after a short 14 days post-conception.  For those of you playing at home...  In the real world, you know, planet Earth where real women are delivering real babies, 2 weeks post-conception the baby hasn't even earned the name of 'fetus' yet.  It is still simply referred to as an 'embryo'.  It will be 2-3 weeks before it even begins developing arms and legs and is incapable of moving.  Disclaimer: No, I haven't read the Twilight books, and am not sure that I will ever be able to stomach reading them.  I do realize that Bella's pregnancy is not "normal."  But come on.  2 weeks?  Give me a freakin' break.  As we watched the movie I rolled my eyes and probably talked constantly to my husband about how stupid this was.  I was mad because Bella could feel her baby moving, and I couldn't.  Lame, I know.  Pregnancy does stupid things to you.  (Pro: You can blame ANYTHING on pregnancy and get away with it.  Forgetfulness, mood swings, cravings, tears...  anything.)

So now you are caught up to the completion of my 17th week.  At my prenatal appointment my midwife recommended that I try laying down immediately after dinner to feel the baby, as that is the time when they seem to be the most active.  (Sugar rush?  Who knows.)  I tried this and kept gasping and saying, "I think I might have felt it!"  My husband was skeptical.  He was certain that I only thought I could feel it because Kelly, my midwife, had told me I might be able to.  (He is convinced that I am a hypochondriac and that any time a medical professional tells me something, I believe it. He thinks that if I am ever concerned that I may be getting sick, I am then certain to get sick, because I psyched myself into it.  This is not true.  The reason I always get sick when I say I think I'm getting sick is because I don't want to admit in the beginning that I may be getting sick, then by the time I admit it, I'm already sick.  You are welcome for that unnecessary peek into our marital disputes.)  He may have been right.  I don't know if that was the baby moving or not.  If it felt like gas, then who could know what was gas and what was fetal movement?  Certainly not me.  (The only reason I am admitting to gas is because I'm pregnant.  It's the baby's fault.  Please see the above pro.)

A couple of days ago, after I had eaten a late night snack, I was sitting at the computer bumming around on Facebook and I felt it.  And I was certain.  Somebody was kicking me in there.  And not just kicking.  The whole goldfish thing was pretty spot on.  Ever put your foot in water and waited with incessant giggling for minnows to nibble your toes?  It's okay, men.  You don't have to admit that you were giggling.  (But we all know it's true...)  That's how I felt.  It was a strange, strange feeling.  But it was a relief to have confirmation other than hearing the heartbeat once a month that there really is something going on in there to justify all of these crazy symptoms.

My husband told me as he was pressing his hand on my stomach, "It's not fair that you can feel the baby and I can't."  Well, there are a lot of things about this pregnancy that aren't fair, let me tell you.  But we won't get into that.  He tries to use my belly button like a microphone or a walkie-talkie to the baby.  "This is your father..."  Star Wars style.  But all to no avail.  I thought it would probably be a while before you could feel anything at all from the outside.

This morning as I laid in bed putting off getting up, (it's the weekend!) my stomach was kind of hurting.  This is a common occurrence, really, because I'm convinced that overnight is when my organs decide to shift.  They are all looking for room in there and decide that an all-nighter of abdominal organ tetrus is a good idea.  So sometimes my abdomen (the place where a good deal of my digestive and internal reproductive equipment hang out) doesn't feel the best first thing in the morning.  Oh well.  Not that big of a deal.  I sat there with my hand on my stomach, and was incredibly surprised when I felt something move.  If that was gas, I would really be in trouble.  Yikes.  I grabbed my husband's hand (who was currently dead to the world,) and pressed it down on my stomach where I'd had mine.  When I had woken him up enough, he too could feel somebody doing somersaults in there.  "Did you feel that?"  I asked him?  "There's a baby in there!" he said, and shortly thereafter proceeded to roll back over and go back to sleep.

I am not the sappy type.  I'm not good at sentimental garbage.  I only cry in movies, where people have made it their life's work to figure out what emotional strings to pull at in order to eek a few tears out of women.  I did not cry when I found out I was pregnant, or when I heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time.  I kind of live in the camp that says, "The concept is cool, but hearing fuzzy whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sounds on the Doppler just doesn't bring me to tears."  Does that make me a bad mom?  I don't know.  But getting to see my husband feel his baby for the first time this morning was the closest I've come to crying.  I'll have to hold it together for months now, as I will be the first witness to daddy-baby bonding time. 

Here goes nothing.

Beauty in Difficulty

If there is one good thing I can say about pregnancy (and as of yet, I certainly don't have very many...) it is that I love the way that this process is binding my husband and I together, strengthening the bond made previously.

I hear that doing difficult things is good for you.  We have had quite a lot of difficulties in our short 3 years of marriage.  (Good heavens!  Has it only been 3 years?)  From the beginning it was rough.  I am fully aware that many people's beginning years are far worse than ours.  But ours have had their... uncomfortable moments.  It reminds me of going to the doctor and getting poked and prodded, and they ask me how I'm doing.  I'm uncomfortable.  It could be worse.  There is a 10 on that pain scale.  So I tell them I'm fine, and I just try to deal with it until it's over.  Going directly from the honeymoon weekend to living in his grandmother's mobile home with my father-in-law sleeping across the hall, things were uncomfortable from the get-go.  I was grateful, certainly.  But I also wanted a house, (or a mobile home, or an apartment,) with no one else in it.  After a couple of months our place was liveable, so we were able to move.

I will spare you the details of our next year and a half, but suffice it to say...  It was still uncomfortable.  And throughout all of that time, I cannot say that I enjoyed the difficulty one bit.  My husband and I fought about things.  Sometimes they were worth it, and sometimes they weren't.  In the first 6 months of marriage I remember thinking, We fight way more now than we ever did when we were dating.  What is wrong with us?  I no longer think anything was wrong with us.  I hear it happens to most couples, and that first year and a half were hugely stressful.  I contribute most of the fighting to that.  I dwelt in a constant state of mild depression and complete overwhelmedness, (which spell check tells me is not a word.  I disagree.)

Since we have relocated and gained a broader emotional/physical support system, things have been easier.

Enter our little Jelly Bean.

As you can read in my previous post, and if you've ever carried a child, you certainly know...  This is most definitely one of the hardest things I have personally done.  I am almost always an emotional wreck, and I am extremely needy.  (You know those people who want to lock themselves away in a room while sick and stay in there until they feel better?  I'm not one of those people.  I just want to cry while you hold my hand.  No, I'm serious.  That's really what I want.)

Since nausea set in in week 6, I haven't cooked a real meal.  Our house is liveable, with what my mother calls "discernible paths."  I wash clothes when we run out of underwear.  Or jeans.  Or socks.  Needless to say, my husband has to do most of the things around the house that get done, and he has to do them after a full work day.  So the difficulty is mutual.

But throughout all of this, there are these little moments that I will cherish always.  Moments like the ones where I erupt in tears, and all we do is hug, because really, what else is there to be done?  When I look at him and say, "I know we had plans, but I just don't think I can make it today," and he looks at me and says, "Okay, we'll stay home."  And that's okay.  When in the middle of the night and he's dead asleep, he rolls over and rubs my belly.  (And it's adorable.)

Through most of the difficulties that we've had, I've felt like there was some force trying to tear us apart.  (And undoubtedly, there has been.)  But this time, it is so special to have this difficult little growing life driving us closer together.  It is supernatural in all of the good ways. 

And it has only just begun.

Confessions of a Pregnant Woman

My husband and I have been married for 3 years, and for the first time we have an answer to the annoying, and seemingly incessantly asked question by our peers, parents, friends and students.  "When are you going to have kids?"  Surprising in the first year of marriage, annoying in the second, hurtful in the third after 9 months of hoping for conception.  But we now have an answer.  April.  We will have a kid in April!
Now, to get past all of the nagging questions about whether we prefer a girl or a boy...  While sure, one gender may be a little less intimidating than the other, why waste time hoping either way?  We have a 50/50 chance, and setting ourselves up for any kind of disappointment seems silly.  Do not talk to me about Chinese fertility calendars, threaded needles, what position the child was conceived in, etc.  (And that last part is none of your concern.)  I will bypass the ridiculous tests and quizzes.  I do not want to pee on Drano crystals.  I'll find out the "old fashioned way," (maybe not so much...) and just wait for the sonogram.

Already in month 2, I've had the thought many times, I thought this should have been easier.  Amazing that something the size of a poppy seed, (half a pea, pinto bean, cherry) can so forcefully change the way you do life.  Routine no longer agrees with my body, as it seems to demand things NOW!  Otherwise, I pay for it later, bowing before the porcelain throne.  I have an alarm set for 2am so that I can eat, in hopes that I will wake sans the compulsion to cradle my "puke bucket."

Nothing is the same.  Heaven knows mornings are not the same.  Church is not the same.  Sex is not the same.  House cleaning...  God, please forgive me for making my husband live in a pig stye.  Cleaning requires standing.  Standing causes nausea.  Not even sleep is the same, which seems kind of silly, considering there are no outward bodily changes.  It's not lack of physical comfort that causes my nights to be weird.  It is the dreams.  I have always had weird dreams, but never before have I had such strange dreams about food.  I've dreamed in detail about a deliciously iced, pink-and-white marbled peanut butter cupcake made by a friend.  My friend told me I could have one, but that I had to buy any additional cupcakes I wished to consume, about which I was completely dismayed.  (The cupcake never happened, but it should.)  I dreamed that I threw a stomping, fist-banging fit in a restaurant because my order was not taken soon enough, and I was pregnant and starving.  I've dreamed that rather than serving wafers and grape juice for communion, our pastor decided that we would have a buffet, (a la Golden Corral.)  Not only was a buffet moved to the front of the sanctuary, but our pews were modified with railing to slide our trays, in order that the guests could eat and listen to the sermon simultaneously.  Strange, strange, strange...

My husband swears I am crazy, although I feel the same way about him.  Is it possible that the husband can be hormonal and irritated?  Because I assure you, it's not me.

But as I write all of this out, it is far easier to feel hopeful about it, because this all just sounds like the hormonally-crazed rantings of a pregnant woman.  And that is kind of comical, because I was somehow convinced that I was above it.  Guess not.

Please bear with me as I am somewhat antisocial.  I am taking a break from the general public beyond my necessary duties of work and volunteering.  It's not you, it's me.  It's all me and this little cherry sized alien inside me.  And by all means, if you do see me, do not ask me how I feel.  I'd rather not think about it.  If I feel good, I'll let you know.  Otherwise it's safe to assume I wish I had my puke bucket.

About Me

The last time I faithfully kept a blog was around the time I graduated high school.  A lot has changed since then, and I feel the need to reintroduce myself to the world wide web.  (Or as I like to call it, the webbernet.)

I grew up in a strange, but beautiful family.  I was homeschooled my entire childhood.

There is a certain stigma that the homeschool community carries, and it looks something like this. 

But my family was different!  Well, maybe not so much.  My brother might have looked kind of like that...

I do feel the need to clarify that I am not a brainiac.  I did not attend the national spelling bee, neither did I get into college when I was 12.  Some homeschooled kids are smart like that, but I think those kids have a lot more self-discipline than I did.  And possibly crazy parents.  I spent most of my time wishing I was in public school, because I craved social interaction.  My family considered me a social butterfly, which may have been true by their standards, but only because I was so starved for friends.  

My mom owned a small business in the community, and working the shop was counted as part of our education.  In high school I did my mom's books for about a year and a half.  We carried on more conversations with adults than with kids our age.  So adults loved us, but kids tended to think we were kinda weirdos.

To a certain extent, this is still the case with me.  While I consider myself to be pretty well socially developed, and yes, I am capable of participating in conversations with people my own age.  Most people who meet me are actually surprised to hear I was homeschooled, but then give me this look like, "Oh.  That makes so much sense."  People almost always think I'm mature for my age.  Mature and... well... different.  (Which is still just another word for weird.)

Some of my friends refer to me as "an old soul."  I don't believe in reincarnation, but I see their point.  I tend to be more connected with an older way of life than most of my friends.  I value silence in the house, (my husband and I used to fight about the TV frequently.)  I know how to knit, crochet and spin, and was learning these things since I could count my age on one hand.  (I mentioned that my mother owned a business.  I failed to mention that I can technically say that I grew up in a yarn shop, because it was based out of our house for years.)  I know how to can, and have stories of peeling apples until my hands were brown.  I love a good county fair!  These are just a few of my old lady attributes.  They are an intrinsic part of me.  Most people either love them or hate them, but most will notice them within a couple of conversations with me.  I cannot separate myself from them, no matter how my husband sometimes wishes I could.  (And when he dies, I will undoubtedly be the infamous cat lady of the neighborhood, sitting on my front porch in a rocking chair with my basket of cat hair-covered knitting.)

My husband and I are an interesting couple.  They say that opposites attract, and this is true of us.  While I am very pointed and sarcastic on my blog, I tend to be much more soft spoken and non-confrontational in person.  My husband says what's on his mind, regardless of whether or not people take offense at it.  He is a product of the public school system, and proud to be so.  Our getting together is somewhat of a miracle, because previous to dating we both had decided that a strictly platonic relationship with the other was all that the future would hold, and that was just fine.  The following are actual thoughts, and in my case, spoken feelings.  "I am so glad that God did not call me to marry that guy."  My husband's thought-  "I would never date her."

Our relationship was, in a sense, the beginning of my understanding how most teenagers and young adults think.  My vocabulary was modified, not so much adding words as changing the way that I said things.  While I was aware that certain things could be twisted to resemble sexual innuendo, I had absolutely no idea that 85% of the things that I said were a that's-what-she-said joke to the rest of society.  I read some of my blog entries and cringe at how my verbiage must have been perceived.

My husband is a technology lover.  Me?  Not so much.  I appreciate some things.  Cell phones are awesome.  The DVR is pretty cool.  Netflix is the best!  But there are a lot of ways that I just feel like technology makes things unnecessarily complicated, and I just have a hard time with them.  This blog, for instance, has been (and will continue to be) completely changed to keep up with the times.  All my husband's doing, of course, because I have a hard time working the thing. 

While there are many, many quirky things about me, the last thing that I will say here is that I love to talk.  I have a certain Anne of Green Gables quality.  I have had many a conversation after which I think, Would it have killed me to shut up?  I tend to ramble and come to a verbal conclusion the long way.  For this, I apologize. 

You will get to know me better in my (hopefully) upcoming posts.  But until then...