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January 01, 2009

Baby Beck!

Happy New Year!

In 82 days we will finally meet our daughter. I have a running countdown everywhere. On my cell phone. On my work email. On my personal email. On my husband’s computer. Everywhere. I totally need to be reminded that the pregnancy portion of this starting a family business is almost over.

The great news is that I’m really excited. And happy. Still. All things considered.

Pregnancy has been brutal. Initially, when strangers approached all smiles talking about “Oh how far along! Aren’t you so excited? Isn’t it so beautiful?” I’d fake smile and be like, “YES! Totally. Love it. The best ever.”

But I don’t over-the-top fake it anymore because what is the point in that? This shit is crazy. And has been since the sixth week. That’s not to say I’m not thankful. I’m totally thankful and anxious and all of that. But I am exhausted. And when people ask if it is the most graceful thing ever to happen to me, I struggle with being sensitive. It is rude to roll your eyes at people that are expressing happiness toward you. Plus, you never know what that person has gone through in terms of fertility so you have to be gracious and cool about it. But I struggle. I just mumble and go, “I’ve had a couple nice days. Almost over!” And I present the non-teeth smile, but without any smugness.

If it’s mildly annoying, somewhat uncomfortable, crazy inconvenient, stupid painful, emotionally stressful and it can happen to you during pregnancy – it’s happened to me. I’m sure this shit has happened to billions of women all over the universe, but I’m saying. Dumb shit keeps happening to me and I just want no one to judge me in my complaining. By the way, I must say I have been a trooper. I have missed only one day of work as a result of this brutality. It’s truly amazing. The doctor ordered a day of bed rest so that wasn’t my fault exactly. I hate to miss work. The guilt and the anxiety -- not worth it. I'm not even saving lives, but still.

Regardless, pain exists up in this dojo. I am just assuming labor will be a mother fucker. I am hoping a gorilla will throw a barrel from a rooftop right onto my head when the contractions start. I mean, to fantasize about being curb stomped into unconsciousness prior to delivery – that’s saying a lot.

So the daily vomiting lasted from week 6 to week 24. When I say daily, I mean two to three times a day. My husband called it the worst case of bulimia ever because I have still managed to get fat. He is not stupid enough or insensitive enough to actually call me fat. However, he is required to commiserate with me when I look in the mirror and go, “Dude, I’m a gorg.” He usually goes, “Babe, you’re pregnant…” and finds a way to leave the room because I will itemize each area of growth and ask for his opinion. He is a terrible liar. “I didn’t notice that” or “Looks the same.” Umhmmm.

My thighs rub together. There is actual friction, like a friction eczema. Cool rash in there. Fuck.

Dimples and cellulite. Luckily I can only see what’s in front in me. I once tried to examine my back fat but upon turning around, I struck a sciatic nerve and heat/pain radiated through my butt and down my thighs and I had to sit down. And cry.

My face. Wow. With so much more surface area, I am able to have that many more clogged pores and pustules and cysts. Holler. Ooh, don’t even get me started on the mask of pregnancy. In high school, I had a history teach named Mrs. Butts and she pronounced business as “bidness.” Dead serious even though she was a real live educator. She had the worst panty lines too. Anyway, she had the mask of pregnancy (melasma) on her cheekbones and forehead. She wasn’t pregnant. I hated her. And now, this is karma. I have that shit.

The only place where I like the fat? My toes. I have long Filipino finger toes. Google Nicole Richie’s toes. She must got some Lou Diamond Phillips in her ass because her toes are fucked up. I’d say mine are in that range. Maybe not as brutal but I only say that because she can’t have everything – good skin, cash, Lionel Richie on speed dial and unlimited access to all the clothes. Therefore, Nicole Richie, your toes suck. How about that? Yeah, mine. Now that they’ve filled out – looking kinda fly.

On Barack Obama Day, the doctor discovered a white speck on my baby’s heart. She said that this appears in 10% of “normal” babies and my baby might be fine. But she did say that it is a marker for Downs Syndrome. She said in my age group (yes, I’m old enough to be told about my age “group” with a compassionate pause and then a procession of the bad news) the likelihood of Downs is 1 in 700. With this white speck, it’s now 1 in 300. She offered me an amniocentesis to rule it out. But if you do the amnio, the risk of miscarriage is 1 in 300. I’m not necessarily a math person, but I am an alarmist. I know in my heart that the probability that my baby is “normal” is highly likely. However I was not in a place where I could rationalize the true probability of good news. I started crying.

I agreed to the amnio. Brutal. Bed rest. Thought I’d like it. Nope, felt trapped. Waited days for the results. Cried sometimes. Brutal. The bill came. Brutal. Baby’s fine! High five. The doctor did tell me that if I felt sick or suffered a fever within the next two weeks to most definitely call. Fevers were one of the indicators that you may be miscarrying from the amnio. She said two weeks tops to see or feel symptoms of miscarriage.

Yup. Sure enough.

Two weeks later. Exactly two weeks later I had a fever. 102. You’re supposed to call when it hits 101. For some reason, I am scared to call the doctor. Like, I’ll be annoying or something. Or they'll tell me another bad thing. So I never call. That’s so bad. I have girlfriends that call if their pinky toe tingles. I just don’t call. And in this case I knew I had to call but I had definite fear. Hardcore, paralyzing fear. But a part of me really felt it was just a fever and yet I was so scared.

My husband said I have to call. He was in a state of panic. I could see he was tripping. I called. I told the doctor I’m really hot, sweating and my stomach feels tight.

She said, “Do you have contractions?” I said, “Um. Does that shit hurt?”

She said, “Not necessarily. But you will feel tight in your abdomen…”

I said, “Oh yeah. I’ve been feeling that for a couple days.” I had no idea that feeling wasn't "normal" because everything feels weird. All the days are "off" and so I have no barometer for what is abnormal.

She said I needed to go to the hospital as soon as possible.

Get there. Hooked me up to an IV drip. A fetal monitor. Totally having contractions. Did all kinds of sonograms – vaginal and what not. Baby was in there breach. Sitting Indian style with her face facing my back. Like she was lighting cones and meditating. On the screen, all I could see were her butt cheeks. She’s so adorable. Stayed at the hospital to hydrate for four hours. I have since been so scared of dehydration, I drink nearly 12 bottles of water a day. No exaggeration. I pee a lot. And my hands are dry from all the washing. Totally worth it though. Baby girl needs liquids. After all the tests and stuff, they said she's fine.

Now they think I have gestational diabetes. There’s no way to know just yet. At the three hour test where you have to fast overnight – hmph. They gave me the glucose drink to test my tolerance, I violently threw it up within 30 minutes. In front of everyone in the lobby at the lab. I sounded like a one-man grind core metal band. I was going off. Vomiting like it was for cash money hundred dollar bills. For like three full minutes, six or seven hurls in total. Orange glucose drink spewing from my nostrils and tear ducts and mouth. Insanity. I tried to start cleaning up the walls that I just destroyed with my vomit, but they told me not to worry about it. I felt really bad about that. They sent me home. Once you throw up, the test is over. I have to go back to try again tomorrow. Cool life.

I will say that I have successfully managed to avoid the big baby warehouses. I went exactly one time to the big baby Costco place to buy the “snoogle” because my heartburn is out of control and I need this special long pillow to prop me up in certain places so I can get at least four hours of sleep. I don’t sleep by the way. Can’t for some reason. Anyway, there is something wrong with me. In all baby retail experiences I get clammy and sweaty. The book store, the baby clothes section at Century 21. All retail baby shit makes me uncomfortable for some reason. I get hot flashes. It’s overwhelming. I actually started silently crying to myself in the stroller section at the baby Costco. I feel intensely guilty because I correlate not wanting to be in those stores with not wanting to have a baby but it's so not the case. I want the baby really badly. I love this baby. But I hate this store and these hemmorhoids and this waddling and this vomiting and this nausea and this acne and these needles and this exhaustion, this dizziness and is that my gas? Really? Damn. Sorry. Ugh, my nipples look like Flavor Flav too. Black and crusty.

So yeah. I don’t go in those stores. Just like I intended to from the beginning, I cut and pasted a friend's registry. I am not a bad person. I am not a lazy person. I swear. I just can't be in that store. I changed the colors and stuff, but still. Made my life way way easier.

This baby better poop glitter and cry tears of gold. I love her so much but if I could grow her in a Petri dish, I would. I just can’t wait til she’s on the outside with me so we can hang out and cuddle and I can look at her face and know that this is entirely worth it. I know it is. But I want to feel it already. March 25. I’m so ready. I'm all read up on breastfeeding even! Yes, I am going to man up and breastfeed and bond with Little Miss Thing all organic and natural like. I say that. And then you'll read a blog about how I ripped my nipple off and threw it down the stairwell in frustration, but still. I am mentally prepared for the challenge as of now.

Now, does anyone know where to find a baby dashiki? I saw one years ago at a head shop and like a stupid ass, I did not buy it. It was the cutest thing I have ever seen and have not been able to find one since. My daughter needs a dashiki. She's fabulous like that. Don't think she doesn't already have the tiny gold bangles. Baby girl is about to be laced.

Posted by melissah at January 1, 2009 09:26 AM