Really? You Think I'm Going to Have Time for That?

I am days away from my due date, which causes people to say things like the following to my husband and me:

"Oh my gosh, you have to call me as soon as you go into labor!"

"Call me as soon as he's born!  I can't wait to meet him!"

Just for Ss&Gs (sh*ts and giggles), let's examine a list of things I may or may not be doing after I go into labor or after my son is born:

When I'm In Labor:

• Call Michael


• Freak out that I'm actually in labor


• Feed the dog because we're about to leave


• Find the hospital bag


• Get my Kiehl's face wash from the bathroom because I'm not going to use hospital soap


• Remember that I'll probably want to brush my teeth too, so also grab my toothbrush


• Freak out while Michael is on his way to pick me up


• Try to pick up anything in the house that I don't want to come home to


• Yell at Michael for taking too long to get home to get me


• Yell at Michael for his crappy driving in my car


• Tell Michael that the next time I'm in the car with him, we'll have a baby, and he better not drive like that


• Yell at Michael for taking a business call during such an important time in our lives


• Check in at the hospital


• Get pissed because I forgot my insurance card


• Get pissed that I have to put on a hospital gown


• Get pissed that I got a small suite instead of a big nice one


• Get pissed because it hurts, and Michael won't be nice to me


• Get pissed because my hypoglycemic husband needs to eat, and he plans to eat in front of me


• Hate my nurse and make Michael ask for a different one


• Well... you see how this is going...

After Atticus is born:

• Cry because I just had a BABY.  Oh my gosh, do you know how long we waited for a baby?


• Cry because he might be ugly, and for all of this throwing up, God should let me have a cute baby.


• Cry because I shat in front of my hot doctor


• Lie there getting my tear and/or episiotomy stitched up


• Ask the nurses when I'll be able to feel my legs again


• Complain because I'm hungry


• Yell at a nurse because she puts a bottle/pacifier/something else other than my boob in my baby's mouth


• Freak out that my boob is in my baby's mouth


• Cry because my baby's head is shaped funny, and I'm afraid people will think he's ugly


• Waddle to the bathroom


• Cry because it hurts to pee


• Cry because it hurts to poop


• Yell at Michael for something


• Change out of the nasty hospital gown


• Look at my baby and think he's the most beautiful baby in the world


• Tell Michael that he can't hold him yet because it's still my turn


• Call the LC and ask her to look at my boobs to see if I'm doing it correctly


• Tell Michael to stop looking at my boobs like that


• Ask the nurses for some nachos and cheese


• Etc.

So, I'm going to be busy.  We're going to be busy.  All three of us.  My new family.  My husband, my son, and myself.  We.  Us.

Not you.

Yes, we do plan on making three phone calls after Atticus is born.  We'll call my parents, Michael's mom, and Michael's dad.  We do both own those high-tech devices called iPhones, and we do have access to Facebook.  We'll post an announcement there a few hours after his birth, and a picture will follow after the impatient grandmothers have a chance to meet him.

Don't misunderstand me.  We're very appreciative of all the support and well-wishes from our family and friends, but this isn't about our family and friends.  We have waited years for a child.  I think we've earned the right to keep his first few hours on this planet to ourselves.   Everyone else can wait for as long as we want them to.

This is our turn.

He's never coming out

I now go to the doctor weekly for checkups.

I pee in a cup.  It's kind of yellow.  I get embarrassed handing it to the nurse.  I consider the fact that I should have had something to drink this morning instead of dying of thirst to keep the number on the scale lower.  Stupid vanity.

I weigh.  The scale tells me I'm fatter than I'd like to be.  I get depressed.

I'm told to take off my pants.   My doctor is hot, but it's not like that.  Nothing to be depressed about there.  I have a husband.

The doctor listens to the baby's heartbeat, measures my belly, and gets the nurse so he can enter my private territory.  He then sticks his entire fist up my girly bits to try and find my tonsils.  My eyes water, and my upper lip sweats.  The doctor apologizes for the pain and specifically mentions my sweaty lip.  I feel like a pansy for thinking that if the exam hurts, I'm going to be terrible at that whole labor and delivery thing.

The doctor opens my chart and writes "Closed, thick, and high" for the fourth week in a row.  Dammit.  Come back in a week. Depression #2.

I call my husband, who I begged not to come because I didn't want him to look at the scale told to go to work instead of coming to what I assumed would be another uneventful appointment.  He is expecting my call and answers in a very excited tone.  "Well?" "Nothing." "Oh.  Well.  Okay.  That's okay.  Really?  Nothing?" "Nothing." "Okay." Depression #3.

I'm fat, my cervix is still closed for business, and my husband is disappointed in my lack of progress.  Freaking great.

This kid is never going to come out.

The Most Embarrassing Moment of My Life

Every year around the holidays, we all re-hash the most embarrassing moment of my life.

It occurred on December 24, 2006.

We had been to celebrate Christmas with Michael's dad's family, and when we got home, we were still hungry.  Not much is open on Christmas Eve besides Waffle House or pizza joints, so we decided to order pizza from Papa John's.  Because others had the same craving on the holiday eve, when I ordered, I was told it would take approximately an hour and a half for our pizzas to be delivered.  Fine.

I walked upstairs to go pee, and when I wiped, I found the most incredibly painful spot in my nether region.  Of course, I got out a hand mirror and tried to examine the situation.  The pain was coming from a massive zit-type growth between the two exit holes. Fantastic.  I couldn't relieve myself of the pain while holding the mirror to see what I was doing, so I found a needle, sterilized it, and walked downstairs with no pants on.  "Oh Michael?  How much do you love me?"

Because really, if your husband doesn't love you enough to pop a massive zit near your butthole, why did you marry him?

I assumed the position on the couch in the den.  By position, I mean I was sitting down with my legs in the air in a V.  Michael assumed the position as well.  By position, I mean he was on his knees on the floor in front of me prepared for battle.

It hurt.  I screamed.  He didn't get it all, so he poked it again.  It hurt.  I screamed.

I made eye contact with the Papa John's delivery boy at THE BACK DOOR.  While I was screaming.  While my girl parts were on display.  The delivery boy saw my girl parts getting popped.  He finally got up the gumption to knock on the door, so Michael got up and answered the door.  The poor boy was traumatized.  Michael shoved $30 at him and grabbed our pizza.

I should note that our house isn't situated so that people automatically come to the back door.  All visitors typically go to the front door.  Also, it had been 20 minutes since we'd ordered the pizza, not an hour and a half.

If that 1 minute exchange wasn't embarrassing enough, to this day, when I call Papa John's to order pizza, this is how the conversation goes:

PJ:  Will this be for delivery or carry-out
A: Delivery
PJ: What's your phone number?
A: --- --- ----
PJ: Hagaman?  Okay, the delivery guy needs to go to the front door.  Is that still correct?

ARGH!  What did they put in the computer about my girl parts?!?!

You Know You're Pregnant When...

even though you just peed 5 minutes ago at the store, you stop in the middle of your neighborhood to relieve yourself on a pile of leaves because you just. can't. make. it. 45 more seconds to your house.

And the garbage truck drove by mid-stream.  Oh yes, I'm classy.

"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.

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.

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.

Traditional household roles + Elvira's bubble bath

At our house, we typically keep traditional household roles.  For example, I break things; Michael fixes them.  He makes messes; I pick them up.  I grocery shop, cook, do laundry, and bathe the dog.  Michael handles all the maintenance, heavy lifting, and well, he brings home the bacon (figuratively, of course.  He wouldn't know that he prefers Black Label bacon if his life depended on it).

All of this was in the era of B.P.  (before pregnancy).  It's been a while since I bought groceries, cooked dinner, washed clothes, or gave Elvira the beagle a bath.  Michael has done his best to pick up the slack, but let's face it, a man who knows how to re-build an engine probably isn't going to dominate the laundry.

Fast forward to tonight.  Have a look at this sweet dog:



Oh yes, she looks sweet, but she rolled in some STINKY crap.  It was so stinky that I couldn't be around her without vomiting.  Of course, I would never fake a need to vomit to get Michael to give her a bath while I sat on my butt and read the internet.  No, I'm totally above behavior like that.

So I'm sitting in the den while Michael is upstairs in the bathroom with the stinky beast.  "ASHLEY!!!!!!! HELP!!!!"

After I chuckled to myself, "Figures," I walked up to the bathroom to see what the problem was.  Michael apparently didn't feel like looking very hard for the dog shampoo in the bathroom closet, so he grabbed....

Bubble bath.  Oh, yes.  He.  Did.

And rather than a cup to rinse her with, he had a 5-gallon bucket.  Of course.  That's logical.

Obviously, he was unable to rinse the suds, hold the dog, and dump the 5-gallon bucket of water by himself.

This is why I act like the woman, and Michael acts like the man.  We suck at each other's job.

But Michael, I don't want to go to the doctor!

This past Saturday night, I ate mashed potatoes for supper.  If I had known they were to be my last meal, I would have also asked for macaroni and cheese, my mom's lasagna, pizza, and a 3 liter of high-test coke.

Sunday.  I ate.  I vomited.

Monday.  I ate.  And then I vomited.

Tuesday.  I ate.  I vomited.  And then I projectile vomited into the lake in front of my husband.  (Hey baby, how you doin'?)

So Wednesday, Michael was not pleased with the fact that I'd lost 4 more lbs.  He thought that pregnancy and weight gain were synonymous.  I did too, but hello?  I was not going to complain if God wanted me to be a thin pregnant girl.  No weight gain = no weight to lose.  Then Mr. Super Husband asked me how long it'd been since I kept any food or liquid down.  Oh, um.. Saturday.  "WHAT?!?!?  Call the doctor right now!"

So I call my OB.  His voicemail says he's in surgery on Wednesdays.  Score.  Maybe I won't have to go to the doctor.  I decide to text our friend Stephanie (an OB RN), hoping that she'll be like, "totally nothing to worry about.  Pregnant girls throw up all the time!"  Err... no cigar.  She said, "Call the front desk and ask for an appointment.  Now."

So off we three kings of orient... I mean we two adults and one fetus go to the doctor.  I am, in fact, down 4 lbs from my visit there the previous week.  They want me to pee in a cup.  Pee in a cup?  With what?  All the water I threw up?  Please try.  Ok, whatever.  I didn't even pee enough to coat the bottom of the cup.  They said it was enough.  Good, 'cause that was my best effort.

They run my pee, and it comes back that I am very dehydrated.  Doctor says I have hyperemesis. They are sending me to the hospital.

I cry.

I cry some more.  I consider the fact that something seriously might be wrong with my doctor because what man wants to deal with hormonal women all day long?  Whatever.  I don't want to go to the hospital.  I didn't even want to go to the doctor.  And now, they're going to put needles in me!  I hate being pregnant.

The nurse in the hospital tells me that when you're dehydrated, your veins constrict, which makes it more difficult to put in an IV.  Well, that's just fan-freaking-tastic.  I would hate needles if my veins were big enough to shop at Lane Bryant.  I get poked a total of three times due to my small veins, and if my face wasn't green before she started, it sure as heck was by the time she was done.

I got three bags of fluid with Reglan, and I was there for about 6 hours.  I was bored.  I complained a lot.  Most importantly, I did not annoy Michael to the point that he doesn't want to be married to me anymore.  That's always good.

So far, I'm giving pregnancy a D-.

Are you trying to tell me I look like sh!t?

The following is a conversation I had earlier this week with an overly-friendly cashier at Publix:

Girl at Publix: "Aww honey, are you ok? You look like you don't feel good."

Me: "I haven't kept any food down since Sunday (true), I just threw up all over the parking lot (true), I have a hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball (false, but funny to say), and my baby daddy left me for a cross dressing man named Spike (also false)."

Girl: "I think we have some preparation H on clearance."

Well done, girl, well done. How many people could keep their customer service skills in check after that? She deserves a raise for having to deal with people like me.