Becoming Mother

A book and a blog for first-time mothers

Tag: Second pregnancy

Week 32: On the Feeling of Splitting Open

Every two weeks for the past six weeks, I have a moment of panic at the end of the day.

Under the increasing growth and pressure of this baby, I feel like my belly is on the cusp of splitting wide open.

Right. Down. The middle.

Spliiiiit!

crack-in-earth

Imagine that a balloon is slowly inflating inside your belly over seven months. Week by week, you gradually grow and adjust. And then at eight months, someone opens the helium valve on full blast. Every day, the pressure increases and you feel quite certain that this is going to be the day that your muscles, your skin, everything, splits wide open.

From weeks 30 until the end of this pregnancy, this baby will increase one-half of a pound every week.

Right now, the baby is about 4 pounds.

And I’m feeling it.

This is my pregnancy wall. This is the point when the physical reality of being pregnancy never escapes my mind. I can’t sit comfortably. I can’t stand comfortably. I can’t sleep comfortably.

If I have to lean over to pick something up or put something away, I stop to think about how I’m going to do it.

I think about how I’m going to manage to tie my shoes.

I perform new acrobatics to shave my legs.

I look down at the scale, imagining that I’ve certainly gained at least 50 pounds. Maybe 80 pounds. Every part of me has expanded and grown. And for how much pressure I feel and how hard it is to move at this point, it has to be at least 50 pounds.

Right?

But it’s only 34 pounds.

I can almost hear this baby laughing at me.

Haha! This is my turf now, sucker! Move out of my way!

***

I turned 35 years old on Thanksgiving Day this year. I had my first child when I was 31 years old. That was just a few years ago, but there is a stark difference in how my body is handling this pregnancy. This time, I tire much more easily and earlier in the day. The whole thing is really wearing me out.

My friend, Cate, sent me a link to Laura Vanderkam’s blog post about fertility and aging. In her post, she talks about the trend of women freezing their eggs, so they can have kids in their 40s.

Which sounds like a good idea… Until you realize, oh yeah, you’re having a baby when you’re 40.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to poo-poo advances in medical science or the choice to wait longer to have kids. I’m just being realistic about how grueling pregnancy can be on a healthy 30-year-old body, not to mention a healthy 40-year-old body.

***

But there is good news.

Relief from pregnancy discomfort has come from a tried-and-true source this time.

Exercise.

Believe it or not, I’m still walking/jogging in the morning. (Everything’s good at the beginning of the day. It’s at the end of the day that I’m really struggling.) If you had asked me a year ago if I would ever be jogging while eight months pregnant, I’m sure I would have laughed in your face.

But it feels cleansing, being outside early in the morning, the world still quiet. Even if it’s cold. It’s a good time to press reset on life. Before work. Before the news.

And bonus: pregnancy turns you into a calorie-burning machine.

I can burn 350 calories just by walking 2 miles in the morning.

Not that any of this leads to weight loss…

Or a decreasing of pressure…

But, still, there’s a psychological satisfaction in seeing those numbers…

Right?

Uh…

I’m so tight. Just. Tight. Everywhere.

My Baby’s Due Date is Inauguration Day

The timing of this is not lost on me.

I started this pregnancy in May 2016 to the devastating news  of the measly 3-month sentence of Brock Turner, a “man” from my own hometown of Dayton, Ohio. A man who raped an unconscious woman.

Then, the Harambe the Gorilla madness.

Then, a crocodile eating a toddler at Disney World.

Then, the Orlando mass shooting.

All of this set against the backdrop of this shitty election, the Syrian refugee crisis, and constant shootings of unarmed black Americans.

Now imagine having a full month of nausea day in and day out while living through this.

But we pulled through.

Once a Bernie Sanders supporter, I swallowed my pride and embraced Hillary.

I believed that Donald Trump would certainly crash and burn.

I think we all thought that.

And when Pussy Gate happened, I breathed a sigh of disgusted resolve.

Certainly, now, there is no way enough people can stomach the reality of voting for this numb-nuts. Look! Every decent Republican is withdrawing their support! They are finally saying he has crossed the line. They are showing that they care about women. 

And then Election Night 2016 happened.

***

We bought pizza and champagne to usher in the first female President. We invited our friends over and we were festive. It’s like Christmas morning! we cheered.

And then Ohio was called.

We shouted. We felt betrayed by our own neighbors. We looked at the electoral map by county. The only blue counties were the ones with the major cities. Clear as day, you could see Cincinnati, Dayton, Columbus, Cleveland, and Toledo.

And then we understood.

***

I’ve cried a box of tissues since this news broke.

I’ve had to look my international students in the eyes and tell them, without totally losing my composure: “No matter what anyone else says, I welcome you. am not afraid of you. I think you matter. This is not the message that I am sending to the world. Please do not think that the way that Donald Trump acts is the way that Americans are.”

I’ve sat in my colleague’s cubicle, spilling my fears about the future, so thankful that she was willing to listen to me and tell me that she still believes in the goodness of people. (I love you, Jeri.)

I’ve cried all the way home from work, listening to gleeful Trump supporters on All Things Considered share their excitement that Trump was going to bring their jobs back (yeah, right) and build the wall (you seriously believe that?) and stop abortions (whatever).

I’ve cried on and off for hours, while my husband listened.

I told him that what hurts the most is that multiple facets of my identity and my values have been insulted by this man who now wants to lead me.

The pain is not coming from a different political party having power.

The pain is coming from being told that who I am (woman, academic, teacher) and what I value (diversity, humility, inclusivity, compassion) are worthy of insult.

I told my husband that I could barely keep from breaking into tears in front of my international students because I realized that I could no longer pretend that our country is the chief beacon of shelter and protection for those who are persecuted. For those who are striving to attain the civil rights that so many of us take for granted.

Canada is stepping into the shoes that we’ve kicked off and tossed into the face of the world. They are becoming the new face of a country of immigrants–and they’re doing it with compassion and community.

It’s ironic to me that so many white Americans are proud of their immigrant ancestry–yet they cringe at the thought of extending a warm welcome to today’s immigrants. They create these untrue historical narratives about our own ancestors. They say they gave up their culture and their language to become Americans. They say they came here “legally.”

But the truth is, we didn’t even have the vocabulary to consider immigration legal or illegal during the great immigrant influx of the 19th and early 20th centuries. (See Episode 47, “Give Me Your Tired…”) People just came. And we just took them. Because we needed them. The Civil War decimated our population. So did World War I.

And those immigrants took a long time to “Americanize.” They kept their home cultures for one or two generations. They spoke their native language. And they were scapegoated for problems in America, just like so many of us are doing today.

So “Make America Great Again?”

That’s a knife to my heart.

How far back should America go?

Should we go back to before women’s suffrage? Or forcing Native Americans off their land? Or Japanese internment camps?

Or how about those Leave it to Beaver days, which white Baby Boomers keep referencing with sweet, untainted nostalgia. You know. The days when black Americans were lynched for voting in the South and the Freedom Riders were attacked and killed.

“Make America Great Again” makes sense if you are a white Christian–and if you cannot imagine this country through the eyes of someone who isn’t like you.

It’s ignorant and myopic.

Donald Trump’s plans for “making America great again” creates a vision of America that looks like this:

20 million Americans stand to lose their health insurance if Obamacare is repealed.

11 million undocumented immigrants stand to be deported from their families and the lives they have built here.

3.3 million Muslim-Americans have been told that they are responsible for reporting “suspected terrorists” to the proper authorities. (Do we ask Christian-Americans to do the same? Did you just do a double-take of the word “Christian-Americans?” Did you stop to think about why?)

And this land of immigrants wants to completely shut its doors to 11 million Syrian refugees who are fleeing from ISIS. We’re completely content to turn our backs on our European allies who are struggling to figure out how to integrate millions of refugees.

***

I told my husband that I’m working through such immense grief about this election. That the last time that I can remember it being this hard to teach through my pain was on the day that my dad died.

And I still went in to teach.

I told my husband that our baby deserves better than this.

Better than sexism, racism, and xenophobia. And better than the rationales and excuses that his supporters make on behalf of this man who cannot control himself. (You’re the puppet! No, you’re the puppet!)

Better than fear-mongering and blaming and ignorance and hatred.

Childbirth is painful. Fucking painful. And I’m familiar with every bit of that physical pain because I did it without drugs.

But believe me when I say this: The physical pain of bringing this child into the world under this next American leader does not compare to the emotional pain that it brings.

Physical pain wanes. Emotional pain scars.

Emotional pain changes the landscape. It can make you callous and cynical. It can leave you hollow and numb. It can drive you to recklessness and disengagement. It can drain your expectations and your faith in others.

But there’s another side to emotional pain that survivors of trauma will unanimously tell you.

It can make you a fighter.

And every time I feel this baby pummel me in the ribs or the stomach, I know that I’m carrying a fighter.

***

My body, and thus this child, have been put through the wringer since the beginning of this pregnancy. At times, my anxiety has been high, but nothing like what I’ve experienced in the last two days. I can only imagine how much cortisol has been coursing through my system.

This morning, I strapped on the pregnancy belt and when for a third-trimester walk/jog. I was still hurt. Still pissed. Still angry.

Then, I started to notice something.

All the political signs were gone.

All the Trump signs that lined our street had been taken away.

And replaced with American flags.

img_20161110_074445

I do not have words for the emotion that I felt in that moment.

But let me draw an analogy.

It was like being punched in the face. And then as my vision returned, seeing an outstretched hand for a handshake.

In the cold, morning light, I started sobbing.

Again.

I thought I was through the pain. But no. It’s still very much there.

Do you mean it? I wanted to ask my neighbors. Does your patriotism extend beyond self-preservation? Beyond white Christian America? 

I wanted to kiss those American flags and set them on fire at the same time. 

How could we all love this country so much and understand it so differently?

This is the complexity of living in a pluralistic democracy. This is the love and this is the pain. There are setbacks, but hope lives on.

I kid you not, as I walked this path of flags, crying into my hands, not caring if the neighbors saw, perhaps even hoping they would see, this song came up on my Pandora feed.

I’ve never heard it before. It’s called “After the Storm” by Mumford and Sons. Let me share the lyrics with you.

And after the storm,
I run and run as the rains come
And I look up, I look up,
On my knees and out of luck,
I look up.

Night has always pushed up day
You must know life to see decay
But I won’t rot, I won’t rot
Not this mind and not this heart,
I won’t rot.

And I took you by the hand
And we stood tall,
And remembered our own land,
What we lived for.

But there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And now I cling to what I knew
I saw exactly what was true
But oh no more.
That’s why I hold,
That’s why I hold with all I have.
That’s why I hold.

I won’t die alone and be left there.
Well I guess I’ll just go home,
Oh God knows where.
Because death is just so full and man so small.
Well I’m scared of what’s behind and what’s before.

And there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

***

Today, I have finally reached my enough point.

Enough crying. Enough sadness. Enough frustration and disillusionment.

Because my baby doesn’t deserve any of that either.

I remember what I once told myself on a desperate January morning in 2014.

When I woke up sick again.

For the third time in a month.

And my 6-month-old baby was sick.

And I still had to go to work.

And there was three inches of snow on the ground.

And I had an 8:00 a.m. class.

And my voice was gone.

Get up, I told myself. You are fucking fierce. You’ve been through worse. You’ve felt worse.

Get up. 

And I did.

But honestly, this time, I cannot do it alone. I’m going to need help. From my family. From my friends. Even from readers of this blog whom I’ve never met in person.

I’m going to need to feel your hands, pulling me up from the thick mud of this grief. I need to feel reassurance that many, many of us are still standing after this massive blow to all the American values that I hold close to my heart.

I need to hear you out there.

I need to know that we’re in this together.

That we are still moving forward.

To all current Millenial Parents out there and all those Millenials who will be parents in the next ten years, I say to you this:

We. Are. Next.

We are responsible for raising this next generation of children. What we teach them matters. How we talk about people who are different from us matters. Whether we are serious or joking, our children hear everything. They see what is acceptable and what is completely unacceptable.

And if our kids’ history textbooks whitewash away the pain and oppression that the ancestors of so many non-white Americans have suffered, it is our responsibility to tell those stories. Those stories matter. Those stories are America, too. Even if these stories are painful, we must tell them so that this next generation is equipped with the empathy that this country needs to engage in effective communication in a globalized world.

Let’s raise these kids to once and for all value everyone’s voice, not just the voices of those who have always been the loudest and most heard.

Let’s teach our kids that the road to our own prosperity shouldn’t be paved with the suffering of others.

And to White Millenials specifically, I say to you this:

Let’s stop churning out entitled white children who never interact with anyone of a different religion or race or language. That shit matters. It matters that our kids have friends who are different from them. Because when you have friends who are different from you, you stand up for your friends.

You don’t let people tell your friends that they aren’t what makes America great.

In 20 years, when the Baby Boomers have lost their political power and the Millenials shift the political landscape, let’s make certain that our children will not have to face an election like this ever again.

Are you with me?

Portrait of a White, Suburban Ohio, College-Educated Woman on Election Day 2016

I wake up at 6:00 a.m.

I roll from my side to my back, feeling the weight of 29 weeks of pregnancy.

I put on some maternity leggings, several layers, and the ever-so-sexy pregnancy belt.

Carrying 27 pounds of extra weight, I walk and jog in the cool darkness, the road lit by the occasional lamp post. I watch my heart rate rise and fall.

I count the political signs.

I run on.

At 6:45, I return home and wake up my husband.

Our three-year-old daughter, still asleep in her bed.

I make her lunch and set out her vitamins.

I eat a bowl of oatmeal, topped with raspberries.

Take a breath.

Climb the stairs to coax the kid out of bed.

She is pissed.

Her voice is hoarse, so I know she’s getting sick.

Through screaming and tears and some negotiation, we get her dressed and vitamin-ed.

Then off to daycare.

In the car, she asks for music. I played her favorite, Grouplove’s Tongue Tied.

Then, she bursts into tears.

Yeah, she’s feeling pretty miserable, I think.

I set out her breakfast once we are in her preschool room. Today, she insists that she does not want milk on her cereal.

She gives me a hug. And a kiss.

Across from daycare, the church is a polling place. There is extra traffic. Turning left without a stop sign or stoplight is a nightmare.

Back at home, I make a second breakfast. Because pregnancy.

Eggs and English muffin. And coffee. Because second pregnancy.

I listen to NPR’s Morning Edition.

Shower. Dress for work. Make-up.

My husband is running behind.

So we decide to vote together.

We have a nice conversation in line for 30 minutes. We talk about last night’s dinner with friends. Our daughter. Our church. His work’s potluck.

Then, we vote.

Because we are Americans.

Because we are parents.

Because we are feminists.

Because time moves forward. Not backward.

We hold hands on the way out. Give each other a quick kiss and hug.

We go to work.

voting

Week 28: I Understand TV as a Babysitter Now

(Which isn’t to say that I resort to this frequently.)

But, mea culpa, Experienced Parents. Mea culpa.

I’m probably a bit more strict in my opinions about how much TV I let my daughter watch. Before she was 18 months old, my opinion was that she didn’t need any TV. At all. Between 18 and 24 months, I thought, A few minutes won’t hurt. Maybe nature shows are okay.

Then between 2 years old and 3 years old, she developed an active interest in TV. Who were all these characters on her classmate’s lunch bags and backpacks? Who were the princesses that adorned the dress-up clothes at school? Who was this magical big-eared mouse that everyone called Mickey?  Who was Thomas the Tank Engine and did he exist in our house?

I was okay with Dora the Explorer. No problem. It had a focus on problem-solving and language skills. Clifford the Big Red Dog also seemed fine. It taught her social and relationship skills.

And although I find it incredibly boring, I had to admit that Thomas the Tank Engine was fine, too. The episodes focused on managing relationships and contributing to society, or “being really useful” as all the engines call it.

We weren’t exactly sure how many episodes of TV was too much for her. We played it by ear. Two twenty-minute episodes seemed okay. If we let her roll into a third episode, we would get more noticeable push-back when we tried to turn it off. Clearly, after that much time, she had the expectation that another episode was just around the corner.

How we’ve been monitoring our daughter’s media use so far aligns well with the American Academy of Pediatrics’ recently updated recommendations for children’s media use. Although I will say that the few times that we tried video-chatting between 18-24 months were not good experiences. While I was at a conference in Toronto, Canada, I video-chatted our then 18-month-old daughter a few times. As soon as we disconnected the call, she started crying and ran to the door to look for me, convinced that I had just left the room.

Talk about breaking your heart.

Among the AAP’s new media use recommendations is this statement,

For children ages 2 to 5 years, limit screen use to 1 hour per day of high-quality programs. Parents should co-view media with children to help them understand what they are seeing and apply it to the world around them.

In theory, I totally agree. Yes. More time outside time. More play time. Go to your room and play with toys! Color! Get out your Play Dough! Dress up! Be a kid!

But the tired, 7-month pregnant side of me mumbles, Oh my God, just sit in one place like a zombie for an hour so I can rest. Let the magical TV cast its powerful spell of distraction so you will not move from that chair, come hell or high water.

Then a thought occurs to me.

“Hold on,” I shout from the couch where I’m almost passed out. “Do you need to pee?”

“NOOOO!!!! I don’t NEED to go potty!!” she screams.

And then I’m back to not caring.

Can I just say, that hefting around 25 extra pounds (which incessantly pushes against your bladder, your intestines,and your spine) really, really tires you out. By 3:00 p.m. on most days, my body feels like it’s 8:00 p.m. By 5:30 when I’m making dinner/ unloading the dishwasher/ re-loading it with new dishes, I feel like it’s 10:30.

By 9:00 p.m. when I fall into bed, I feel like it’s 2:00 a.m.

So imagine how I feel at 9:30 p.m. After I’ve fed, bathed, dressed, and read to our daughter. When she tenderly pushes open our bedroom door and says…

…I’m not tired.

When she did that last week while my husband was still outside doing some kind of yard work at 9:00 p.m., I had no cutesy, sympathetic words for her.

I just looked at her and said, “Go lie down in your bed. Right now. I don’t care if you sleep or read a book. Just stay in your bed.”

So done.

So, Experienced Parents, I get it.

I totally get the desire–nay, the need–to sometimes sit your child in front of the TV so you can just get through the day.

adulting

Week 27: Here Comes the Weight Again

Last week, I pulled on a pair of underwear and thought, “What happened?”

Tight. All over.

And these were the underwear that I wore at the end of my first pregnancy.

I stepped on the scale, the number staring me in the face.

Well, that makes 25 pounds so far

And still 13 weeks to go.

I tried to put it out of my mind, but when my husband asked me what was wrong, I just started crying.

pregnant-woman-black-and-white

***

Now, I’ve been through this whole thing before. I know how this goes. You gain a few pounds in the first trimester. Things kind of “explode” in the second trimester. But it’s the third trimester when you really start packing on the weight.

In my head, I know this.

I also know that I was able to drop the weight after the birth. I wish that the way that it melted off me for the first two weeks had continued until I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight. But the truth is, after those first weeks of blissful, unintended weight loss, losing weight resumed the same old narrative that it has always had in my life.

Losing weight was a fight.

I’ve won that fight three times already.

Up in the 190s and then down to the 130s.

Up to the 170s, then down to the 130s.

Up to the 180s, and then down to the 140s.

But it’s still hard.

I am used to navigating the seasons of my life when I need to “batten down the hatches.” I become goal-oriented, willing to forego what I want in the moment for the results that I want in the future. Even when it doesn’t pay off immediately. Look at how I spend my time: I teach. I write. I knit.

These things come easy to me because I have control.

But this season of my life is markedly different.

Pregnancy is a time of growth and expansion. That’s pretty easy to see. It’s probably the most widely understood parts of pregnancy–that you grow bigger and bigger and bigger.

But if you’ve never been pregnant, let me tell you how this is effectively me internally.

At 27 weeks, this baby is now pushing up against my rib cage while at the same time kicking and brushing against my pelvic bones. Since this is my second pregnancy, I’m feeling round ligament pain. My lung capacity is starting to shrink so I’m taking more breaths per minute now. My stomach is compressed so I can’t eat a full meal like I used. I feel so stretched on the sides that sometimes I wonder how I’m going to possibly contain this baby for another 13 weeks without my stomach just splitting wide open.

13 more weeks…

But the physical stuff is a lot easier to deal with than the emotional stuff. And the emotional stuff is a lot harder to see.

It’s not just that I’ve gained a lot of weight. And that I have more to go.

It’s that I’m struggling to let go.

Struggling to surrender.

Struggling to relinquish control.

Struggling to humble myself, once again, to this great task that lies ahead of me.

Cure for the Election 2016 Blues

Like other Americans, I’m working hard to detach this election year from my emotional well-being.

I’m reminded of this clip from The Tudors (one of my favorite series of all time), in which two of Henry VIII’s advisors discuss a translated poem about what it means to have a happy life.

On the left, Henry Cavill plays Charles Brandon, one of Henry VIII’s lifelong advisors. On the right, David O’Hara plays Henry Howard, another member of the court.

What strikes me about this scene is the emptiness of a life lived in the pursuit of power. Both of these characters spend years and years scheming and blackmailing that result in some gruesome plays of power that end the lives of others. Including thousands of innocents.

All in the name of rising above others.

But in the end, the things they long for are things that they could have without any power at all.

They long to live the lives that many of us are living right this moment. 

While this election season drones on and we watch politicians seeking to bury each other in quest of power, let’s not lose sight of what truly makes a happy life.

The happy life be these, I find

The riches left, not got with pain

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind

The equal friend, no grudge nor strife

No charge of rule, nor governance

Without disease, the healthful life

Wisdom joined with simplicity

The night discharged of all care

For much of human history, no place like this has existed in the world. I think our greatest challenge is to exist in the tension between seeking to improve this nation while still being grateful for it.

Let’s keep it in perspective.

Let’s remember that we owe many of these elements of a happy life to the simple fact that we live in this time period, in this country.

We have come a long way from the days of burning people at the stake for being the wrong kind of Christians or having our heads cut off because of our political dissension.

Let’s remember to love what we have.

stamps

 

Week 21: Streeetch

I forgot this feeling.

The feeling of a weight underneath my skin, pulling at my sides and stretching me forward.

It makes me do that “pregnant stance.” The one you see women doing, hand on the hip, rubbing the sides of their bellies.

Yeah, that.

pregnant-belly

It makes me sore.

I totally forgot about the soreness of being stretched like this. Last time, I swear I didn’t start feeling like this until I was about 7 1/2 months pregnant. But, like I’ve said in previous posts, everything is happening earlier this time.

Perhaps it’s fitting, then, that my daughter is also being stretched right now.

***

This Sunday, she began Sunday School.

Revise that: She tried to begin Sunday School.

Until now, her concept of church has been the thin path between the front doors and the wonder that is the nursery, full of wall-to-wall toys. Not one, but two dollhouses. A Lego table. Blocks, blocks, blocks. Books and puzzles. It’s a veritable playground of fun. We started taking her regularly to the church nursery when she was about 14 months old. After the first few weeks of newness, she began to love it. The church nursery entered the category of “familiar things” in her life, just like our home and daycare.

But this past Sunday, I think I overwhelmed her. I took her into the church sanctuary and introduced her to a new concept of church.

Singing. Listening.

Streeetch.

More singing. More listening.

Streeetch.

Prayers.

Streeetch.

The pastor called all the kids to the front of the church and I led her squirming, protesting body to the front of the church.

Streeetch.

She sat in my lap, pressed against my ribs. We listened to the pastor’s children’s message.

Then it was time for Sunday School.

Streeetch.

SNAP!

Let’s just say, we tried.

I managed to wrangle her squirming, protesting body down the stairs to where the other kids were gathered.

But she was just. Not. Going. In.

No amount of consoling or explaining helped.

It was just too much for one day.

We went back to service, took communion, and then I took her back to “home base.”

The church nursery.

She hugged the nursery workers and settled in with her favorite toys. We talked about how hard change and adjustment can be on kids.

But who am I kidding? It’s hard on me, too.

It hurts to see your kid stretched way beyond what they can handle. It hurts to see them curl into themselves to protect themselves from the uncertainty of the unfamiliar.

But that is part of our responsibility as parents. To reassure our kids that change is part of life. That the unfamiliar is scary because it’s new–but that doesn’t mean that the unfamiliar is bad.

“Sometimes, new things are scary,” I told her. “But when you do them again, they’re not new anymore. And you might even like them.”

She hugged me.

Streeetch.

***

Last Thursday morning, my husband and I watched the image of our next child take shape on the screen as the sonographer moved the wand across my belly.

20-week-ultrasound

It’s funny.

I don’t really remember much about my first pregnancy prior to 20 weeks. It was all a blur of nausea, indigestion, and fatigue. Most of what I remember happened from 20 weeks to 40 weeks.

Childbirth education classes. Hospital tour. Baby showers. Key conversations with my doctor. And all the weight gain and discomfort. It was a continual ramping up of events, week by week.

So I know that we have a long way to go.

We still have no idea how the second half of this pregnancy will go. And then there’s labor. Birth. And the hell that is recovery and the postpartum period.

But in the face of all this uncertainty, it helped to hear the sonographer’s words, “Everything looks great.”

So I, too, will work on adjusting. This pregnancy and birth will be entirely different, no matter how similar they may feel now.

This is a new life.

A new path.

Streeetch.

Week 13: Welcome, Muffin Top

I saw this image on Pinterest and couldn’t help myself.

I believe I’m at the “Welcome, Muffin Top” stage.

stages of pregnancy

In my first pregnancy, I didn’t reach this stage until about 20 weeks. I was kind of proud about that. Hey, look everyone! I’ve only gained 10 pounds so far! And I’m not really showing much at all.

Occasionally, I’d find myself in a conversation with another mom.  A smirk would cross her face and she’d say something like, “It’s because it’s your first. You show a lot earlier with your second.”

Those words haunt me.

As I dressed for work at nine weeks pregnant, I thought, Oh… That’s a little tight.

At ten weeks, I thought, Hmmm… Think I’ll need to dress strategically.  I wore larger pants that I had stashed away from those months when I was losing baby weight last time. I wore well-placed cardigans at work.

At eleven weeks, I realized that my profile had actually changed. I tried to suck it in. Ha!

In my default state, I have some floppy abs above my belly button, but it’s normally no big deal. I don’t do mid-riffs and I exercise enough so that I can still wear fitted dress shirts comfortably. Exercise has helped, but it has never made the flobby abs go away.

At twelve weeks, my uterus has just compressed my floppy abs, much like a push-up bra. Only, this shape isn’t very appealing. To be clear, I’m not talking about a rounded, pregnant belly. That’s not what this looks like.

This is more like a two-hump muffin-top.

This past Sunday, I put on a boxy, long tunic and some black leggings. I looked in the mirror and thought, Come on. You still have a bit of a figure left. Enjoy it while you can. It’s not time to completely lose your waist.

So I put on a black, chunky belt over the tunic. Kind of like this one:

belt

I thought it looked okay. It brought my hips back into view and I thought, Yeah. We’ll go with this.

That was until I sat down.

I sat on the couch and felt self-conscious about the way my boobs and my two-hump pregnancy bump crowded around the cinch point.

Then, my daughter turned to look at me. Her eyes zeroed in on the belt. She couldn’t look away.

“You, you, you…” she started pointing.

Oh, God, she’s even stuttering. Here it comes. The moment my daughter says something that makes me feel humiliated.

“You, you…. You got your seat belt on, Mommy?”

Oh, sweet child of mine.

%d bloggers like this: