Monday, November 29, 2010

"You're Getting Fat!" and "I Never Got Sick"

Today, I ran into an acquaintance at the grocery store who proclaimed, "You're getting fat!"

This is this 5th or 6th time since I started showing that someone has told me that I'm "getting fat."

I've never been overweight, I'm not overweight now, and I don't have any intentions of being overweight after my precious parasite starts living outside my body.

I'm can't figure out why folks think it's okay to tell an obviously pregnant girl that she's getting "fat."  I am growing a human.  I am supposed to gain weight.  I am having a hard enough time with this concept, and I don't need random people reminding me that I am, in fact, carrying around a few more pounds than I used to.  Plus, I've gained 16 lbs in 26.5 weeks.  My weight gain thus far is not excessive.

If you want to remark on how a pregnant girl is now showing more than she was before, you should say:

"Wow!  You're really showing now!  I can definitely tell you're pregnant!"
"Your baby bump is so cute!"
or something along those lines.

NEVER use the word "fat," unless you want my response to be, "Yeah, well, you've always been ugly, and I'm still hotter than you."

I'm also very annoyed at the women who find out that I'm going on my 27th week of throwing up but tell me, "Oh, I never got sick when I was pregnant."

To me, that's like the following conversation:

"I have brain cancer."
"Oh.  I just ran the NYC marathon, and my doctor says I've never been better."

No, I'm not comparing my friend hyperemesis to brain cancer, but really?  When someone tells you their house is being foreclosed on, it's not a good time to tell them you won the freaking $35 million jackpot.

Pregnant women are hormonal and emotional.  We cry each and every time you tell us we're fat instead of cute and pregnant.  We cry when we throw up and wet our pants for the 6th time that day because we remember you and your perfect pregnancy.  My husband is tired of listening to me cry, so please, for his sake, tell me that I'm a beautiful pregnant girl, that you gained 75 lbs, and that you threw up in public often.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

I'm Not Nervous

A few years ago, I did the worst thing a non-mom could do.  Twice.  I watched my cousin give birth.  I did take a quick peek long stare at the business end, but I honestly can't remember what her vagina looks like.  I can, however, remember the exact size of the garden sheers that were used for the episiotomy, and I vividly remember being yelled cussed at because I was administering ice chips in increments of three, not two.  She was in pain, and a lot of it.  Quite frankly, it didn't look like fun, and I don't like to do stuff that's not fun.

Fast forward a couple years.  Michael and I decide we're ready to have babies/children/teenagers/monsters/aliens/whatever they happen to be.  It crosses my mind that if the fertility drugs actually work and I get pregnant, I'll have to do that birth thing.  Surely by the time I am due, those doctors will will come up with a way to get that baby out of me that doesn't involve a c-section or pushing.

I get pregnant.  WOOOOO HOOOOO!

8 months to go:  Well, I guess they have 8 months to figure out how to get this thing out of me.  I'm not giving birth, and I'm damn sure not having surgery.

7 months to go:  Michael, do you remember that movie with the Governator?  He was pregnant.  Can we take the baby, put it in your belly, and you can do it for me?  You're such a big strong man.  You'd do great!  Please?!?!  Ahh-nold did it!

6 months to go:  Shit.  I'm past the scary first trimester when miscarriages are likely to occur.  That's good because it means I'm still pregnant, but bad because it means he's growing, and eventually, he's going to have to come out.

5 months to go:  I research the largest baby ever born (23 lbs).  I convince myself that I'll be able to talk my doctor into sewing my goods shut and stopping my contractions for a few more months.  If some lady in Canada (eh?) can hold a 23 pounder, so can I.

4 months to go:  Doctor said no.  Perhaps I should start looking into this labor and delivery stuff.  It appears that's the only way out of this predicament.  That, and driving my car off a cliff.

3 months to go:  I've been reading some books.  (Side note:  all of these books have wonderful pictures and diagrams in them.  I choose to read at places like the dentist's office waiting room.  I make sure to hold my books up so that everyone can see what I'm looking at.  I figure, if I have to do this, they can be a little uncomfortable too).  Michael and I are working on a birth plan.  I've accepted the fact that this is going to hurt like the dickens.  Michael has accepted the fact that on D-day, I will tell him no less than 100 times that I want a divorce because it's all his fault.  We both know that after a few hours of pain (for me) and hard work (for Michael.  I'm sure it's not easy to stop yourself from smothering your wife with a pillow when she just won't shut up.), we'll have a baby.  Our first son.  The little human who makes us a family of three.  With our help, he'll grow up to be a hard-working, self-sufficient, intelligent man, and with any luck, a Republican.  Whatever he does, we'll be proud.

When Michael and I are in our 60s, we'll sit on our porch after lunch on Thanksgiving watching our kids play with our grandkids in the front yard.  I'll look down at Atticus, beaming with pride at the man he's become, but I won't remember how much it hurt to have him.  Or maybe I will, but I won't care.  He is, and always will be, worth it.

No, I'm not nervous.  Not anymore.

I'm ready.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

My Thoughts on Life and Pregnancy - Week 25

1) The gestation period for a human is NOT 10 months.  I cannot understand why this little gem of information keeps making its way to me.

Let's do a little math.  The gestation period is 40 weeks, although it's really not.  It's really 38 weeks because the egg is not fertilized until two weeks after the LMP, which is the so-called "starting date" for pregnancy.  Let's just use 40 weeks, okay?

And let's assume, because February is the only asshat with 28 days (or 29, 25% of the time), that each month is 4.33 weeks long (52 weeks/12 months = 4.33).

Finally, 40 weeks of gestation divided by 4.33 weeks in a month = 9.24 months!  Not 10.

It's 2nd grade math, really.

2) There are a few things in life that should, by default, come one way or another.  First, ice water at a restaurant.  It should always come without lemon unless specifically requested.  It's easier to add a lemon to a glass of water than it is to remove all lemony taste from the rim or water.

Second, you should, by default, assume that a pregnant woman does not want you to touch her belly.  When I find the pregnant witch who sent out the memo that said all pregnant women love having their belly rubbed, I'm going to clobber her.  For the life of me, I can't figure out why folks are so eager to feel me up.  I feel like a jerk every time I have to swat away yet another person's hands.

3) "OMG, you're due on March 4?  My birthday is March 12!"

Wow, that's totally awesome, and I really don't give a rat's butt.  If, for some stupid reason, my child decides he wants to live inside my belly for an additional 8 days and I give birth on March 12, do you think I'm going to remember, "today is so-and-so's birthday!" Absolutely not.

I also don't understand the birthday celebrations.  I mean, everyone has one.  Everyone. I don't celebrate pants because, well, everyone wears them.  Don't get me wrong, yesterday was my birthday, and I'm thankful for the well-wishes I received, but to be honest, I'd be perfectly content to receive well-wishes from only my husband and parents.  If I won the Nobel Prize, not everyone does that, so obviously I would expect some sort of congratulations from my entire Facebook friends list.

4) "You're going to name him Atticus?  Um.  Okay.  Where did you come up with that?"

If you really don't know where Atticus comes from, you have terrible literary tastes, and you probably watch crappy movies too.  Furthermore, this is our baby, and if we want to name him Sir Longfellow Pencilpenis, that's our prerogative.  If you want to select a name, have a baby.  Get a dog.  Or a parakeet.  This is my turn.

15 more weeks.