Turns Out I Am Not A Pregnancy-Loving Earth-Goddess. Who Knew?

 I had my kidney stent replaced yesterday.  The doctor thought maybe he'd find and remove a stone, unblocking my kidney and the stent would be unnecessary.  I didn't believe him, mostly because I have been front and center for this comedy of errors called "pregnancy", and he's not fooling anybody with his theories about making life easier.  There was no "apparent" stone ( I read this as "this stone will make its appearance when the timing is much worse") but what was apparent on the x-ray were feet.  Baby feet.  Pushing up against, and thus blocking, the kidney. So cute!
So, I may have mentioned before that I haven't gained much weight.  I am not bragging, I firmly believe that most women experience the same feeling whether they put on 25 or 105 pounds, love being pregnant or deplore every minute of it: that your body is weirdly not yours anymore and that if you have to take one more bathroom break you are going to loose it. People are constantly telling me that I'm "all belly" and I get a lot of questions about getting professional photographs taken, which, believe me, is very flattering as well as good practice in restraint. I really feel like responding "ugh why?!", but I have to smile and thank them. It is a lot of pressure to pretend to love looking like this. As I have mentioned many times before, this pregnancy seems to belong to everybody else. I am pretty sure I am giving birth to a kidney. That's all I think about anymore. But I interact with a lot of people through my work, and in general, people love to talk about babies and pregnancy. It is exciting. I love that people are excited for me. This, combined with my obsessive people-pleasing personality, makes me feel obligated to get these pictures taken. Just one more thing to increase the internal conflict.
Being pregnant has made me exhausted. It has screwed up my insides. It has also changed my life for the better-- my old, oh-so-unhealthy lifestyle seems like it was lived by someone else. I can't tie my shoes. I cried twice last week when I couldn't access ice cream fast enough, and I almost called an elderly woman an asshole at Wegman's. I can't wait for the opportunity to be a parent to this kid, who I am sure is going to be hilarious to watch grow up. I have grown closer than ever to my husband and am excited for the father he is going to be.  I count my blessings every day, and remind myself that it could be way worse. But I'm tired of the whole thing. I told Matt that we won't mention all the kidney problems to the baby, ever, thus reducing, if not eliminating, a whole chunk of his future therapy bill. You know, the whole "I destroyed my mother in order to be born" guilt.  But I am seriously over this  "I only have two more months of allowing my child to destroy my body in order to be born" martyrdom.
With all this in mind, I embarked on my search for the right photographer (due, in large part, to the mounds of homework, papers, tests and housework I had to but didn't want to finish.  Priorities.)
Enter hippie, feelgood, Ithaca NY, commune living, maternity photographer. (We met at the creepy cult cafe on the commons, something I didn't consider far enough in advance- I have mentioned my fear of a zombie apocalypse and those people are waaay too close to the undead for my taste).  The photographer said some pretty hilarious stuff- things I couldn't make up.  I told her that I was due in June and was interested in her work, but wondered if there was time to make an appointment.  She responded by telling me my intuition was correct- that this was the time to meet.  Intuition? I mean, I have a calendar.  Eventually this baby is coming out. Pregnancy is a finite experience (right?).  Next, she went on to tell me about her pregnancy, specifically mentioning that it had been planned.  In the next breath she said that her partner is a woman.  I felt a little compelled to address with her that most same sex partnerships require a bit of planning when it comes to children.  But I didn't.  (I do shudder to think of how much money she's spent on birth control over the years...not my business). On to her portfolio.  It sure was...New Age-ish. This woman's love for the pregnant form was evident. And she is very talented.  She was very easy to talk to about being photographed, which was great because I usually need about a bottle and a half of champagne before I agree to taking my clothes off for a stranger with a camera.  But as I have never been asked to pose covered in Japanese body paint along a frozen stream in the dead of winter to represent the goddess Demeter, I have no real point of reference, alcoholic or otherwise.  The women who found our little photographer for their maternity portraits sure did love being pregnant! I mean, standing in the snow, dancing in a stream, wearing crystals around their bellies, gazing lovingly at their partners- all in the full on, pregnant as hell nude. I am just not sure I'm that into the whole thing.  (Pregnancy, I mean. Naked, I can do, and I have well been known to dance around acting like an asshole in waters of the Finger Lakes over the years). The following words she used, but do not describe my experience over the past few months:  goddess, defiant, empowered, exuberant...um, happy...So again I am torn.  Is there a way to comfortably document my uneasiness?  Like, who makes a living marketing themselves to "beautiful but seriously resentful pregnant women"?  Should I get the pictures taken and try to look for all the world like I enjoy my "body's new shape and strength" while my fetus hiccups, causing his whole body to jerk against my sore kidney? Or just forget about it entirely and hope maybe I won't have regrets in the future?  Cue the guilt.  Shouldn't I love this experience? Am I being a whiny baby or a weakling because being knocked up seems less like an Earth Mother thing and more like a Please Pass Me the Remote and Grab Me A Brownie While You're Up thing?  I'm a creep because I love the smell of gin, still, and get a distinct twinge of jealousy when my friends go out for a cigarette.  I want to lie down and pout and internet shop for bathing suits that fit a body I will never have again more than I want to practice prenatal yoga and decorate the nursery with organic fibers and poison free paint (yeah, still haven't done that).  Shouldn't I be obsessed with the baby and his health and well being and not preoccupied with just surviving long enough to get him the hell OUT?  I feel like hiring this well- meaning woman to capture anything other than my ambivalence will be a silly waste of time and money, if not an outright lie, and taking pictures of me miserable and pregnant surrounded by chocolate cake would be less than ideal as well.  I'm hoping that maybe she's as flaky as me and doesn't email me for a follow up appointment.  That gets me out of any difficult decisions.  Also, it bears mentioning that my mom seems to think the whole idea is a little stupid.  And she's usually right about those things.

Nesting on Raptor Wings

I have heard, that in the final months of pregnancy, an expectant mother begins "nesting".  In my mind a pleasantly plump little preggo waddles around the house fluffing pillows and blissfully choosing a cheery yellow paint color for her offspring's nursery walls.  This image, like most myths about pregnancy, is entirely false. Though the term "nesting" seems to imply a dainty little birdy lining her nest with feathers and love, or, you know, even a creepy stork doing similar work, I have discovered it to be just another of those sneaky little code names meant to disguise the dangerous animal behavior pregnant women engage in. Like all the other lies ("pregnancy lasts 9 months", "you may experience mild discomfort", "I loved being pregnant" and the "surgeon general's warning"), the nesting concept is used to trick women into thinking that something cute is about to happen. Well, the fact is, pregnancy seems to be more on the order of 10 f-ing months and "nesting" appears out of nowhere, hits you like a 100 degree fever and the only bird I can imagine right now is a disgusting vulture or a pterodactyl.
You know that "either someone cleans this house right now or we are just going to have to move" feeling?  It's like that.  But you're really hot.  Because, as I mentioned, stupid crazy shit happens to you when you get knocked up and being incredibly hot even when it is 35 degrees outside is one of those things.  So, naturally, I flew into a rage. "The carpet is muddy, of course, because it is still snowing even though it is now SPRING, and the little area rug I put down to trap that mud as we enter the house gets caught under the door so what's the point anyway?I guess I'll just have to shampoo the god damned carpets AGAIN, but why bother if it is not going to stop snowing ever and the dog is going to poop in the house when he knows I'm at whit's end? What am I going to do when the baby starts crawling? Let him live like this?! With a dirty carpet?! I'll have to clean every day! I'll have to quit my job! And the kitchen! Don't even get me started on the kitchen."  I am obsessed with finding the perfect mop.  I don't really see the point in half- cleaning anything, and mops don't work.  There are about 4 abandoned mops in the closet because none of them were good enough.  Now I want a steam mop and have determined this to be the solution to all my problems. "And I have to vacuum and sweep before I mop and I can't bend over to pick up the dust pan because the baby's in my way and why am I letting all this bother me anyway? The house was just as dirty yesterday as it is right now and if anyone ever bothered to do a dish in this stupid house..."  You get the picture.  Blind Rage.  Over cleaning.  Ask anyone who knows me, blind rages over many, many trivial things, yes.  Blind rages over cleaning my house? Never.
The way I see it I have two options.  Well, 3.  I can clean, move, or set the house on fire.  Cleaning seemed like the rational decision, plus I'm too lazy to pack and not nearly drunk enough to burn the house down. I got the kitchen half way mopped and decided that my energy was much better spent writing about my hissy fit than actually fixing the cause.  So the place is still as messy as a frat house run by an aging German Shepherd, but I have decided, like so many other activities that are no longer worth my time, cleaning the house is going to be filed under "Someone Else's Problem" for the time-being.  Sorry Matt.

Have No Fear of the Pregnancy Doldrums

...Because then you might just get kidney stones. I was feeling a decided lack of excitement  in my pregnancy.  Six months along and it had been smooth sailing. "Smooth Sailing" is not hilarious and nothing to share with my friends. Then came Sunday. "Oh, I have to pee again" turned into "wow, my guts hurt" and then a smooth transition into "I really don't care if I die right now", as we drove to the hospital.  I was relieved to find that I showed no signs of premature labor, although I had a feeling labor would feel different. ( I am expecting more of a super-octane level menstrual cramp not a please, please, please take the Knives Of Evil out of my back type-feeling). If it had been labor, seriously, I wouldn't have cared if they delivered Rosemary's baby out of my spine to stop the pain. Turns out I had a common ailment called Hydronephrosis of the kidney, complicated by kidney stones. I opted for a kidney stent to be placed, which will redirect fluids around my squished up organ.
 In any event, about 4 female nurses I have encountered in my imprisonment on the hospital maternity ward (working on day 5 as I type) have relayed to me first: how many babies they have had, second: when they themselves had kidney stones, and third: just how many more labors they would be willing to endure before even conjuring the memory of kidney stone pain. I feel a sense of relief. I have surpassed the presumed Ultimate Challenge of human pain, and defeated humanity's Titanic foe- the Kidney Stone. I win.  Excuse me while the Rocky theme plays in the background, and I hobble around the maternity ward with my arms raised- sorry, one arm-- I need the other to drag my IV stand. I am super human. I shall breeze through the remainder of this pregnancy and look labor pains in the eye.  "You don't know me" I'm gonna tell them. Just kidding. I did have a spinal though, so I totally know what that horrendous part is going to be like. Like a science fiction movie in which I am the protagonist and am being forced into submission by 3 or 4 masked doctors.  At least I don't have to lie on my back, vaguely aware that someone is inserting a tube into my intestines while he sings along to the Sirius Satellite Love station.  I wept at that point. Quietly wept to "Peaceful Easy Feeling".
Yes, baby Ruiner strikes again.  This time for realsys. He almost shut down an organ. Maybe Matt is right- maybe we should call him Destroyer.
If all goes well I should have the stent removed in a few weeks and I won't need to have it replaced before I deliver. Or, you know, ever. At least being pregnant allowed me to stay in the maternity ward where I got my own room. It's the least Ruiner could do, it was all his fault.

Scraping The Bottom of the Barrel of My Dignity--Tastes Like Frosting!

The pregnancy cravings of myth and legend were a large part of my decision to get knocked up. I mean, if I can't drink, and I'm going to get funny-shaped anyway, what is stopping my indulgence?  Sadly, the bizarre pickle-raw egg combos or whatever I was expecting never materialized.  Much like my enormous D-cup bra, no magic has happened in that department.  I will admit to a growing sweet-tooth but that's not too unusual, right?
Have you ever watched the show Intervention, and the addicts are just going about their normal day-to-day lives and the black screen comes up and it reads something like "Jonny spends up to $6,000 a day on meth" and you're like HOLY SHIT! How does it get that bad? Well, I'll tell ya what happens.
Yesterday I walked in to the Weis market here in town, the awesomest, grossest, center of all scum-baggary, grocery store ever.  In a bit of a hurry, I knew I needed 2 things.  A salad (HOW this place has the best salads in the area I will never know- or question), and cookies with just the right cookie-to-frosting ratio.  I spotted what seemed to me to be slightly over the top, sugar-wise, but relatively harmless.  The item in question was a package of 6 sandwiches made up of chocolate chip cookies and about 4 lbs of frosting.  The counter girl's reaction should have tipped me off.
As I was checking out, Crystal, so smug behind the counter, said to me in a shaming tone "those look reallly sweet".  It's not like I was at Whole Foods for Christ's sake, I was surrounded by people who call Hawiian Punch "juice" and smoke cigarettes while filling their children's baby bottles with Mountain Dew.  Somehow I'm out of line?  Lookit, Crystal, these aren't for you.  They are for my soon-to-be diabetic fetus.  I won't ask how you lost your teeth, you don't need to worry about how I'm gonna lose mine.
I got my treasure home and ate one, followed by the other half of Matt's that he couldn't finish.  Still thinking I don't have a problem, I schemed further.  If Matt was going to judge my cookie intake, along with Crystal, I knew one person who would be down for a nice sugar rush.  My 7 year old niece Reilly.  This kid is truly a connoisseur of all things sweet.  She's got all the bakeries in town ranked.  You want a party with hookers and blow? You're gonna call Charlie Sheen.  More of a frosting and sprinkles kind of person?  Yeah, give this kid a call.  Doing my best to act casual, like her mind wasn't about to be blown, I offered her a cookie.  As expected, her eyes popped out of her head.  She was PUMPED.  Awesome, I thought, an excuse to eat another cookie and the chance to be someone's unquestioned hero.  I devoured mine in about 30 seconds, not counting the time it took to lick my fingers.  I looked up and Reilly is done for! She couldn't finish hers!  "These are sooo good I can't finish mine" she said.  This child, who eats whipped cream on bacon is telling me that I over did it?  The last green thing she ingested was likely a Skittle. Chicken fingers are her main source of nutrition. And I out junk-fooded her?  This, my friends, is how dabbling a little in a substance, any substance, can lead from a casual "I think I'd like some ice cream for dessert" indulgence to smoking stolen meth on the way to rehab abuse.  I have tasted that shame.  Its fucking delicious. And if you are interested, sold along the walls in the bakery section of Weis.

You Want Me to WHAT?

After a few months have passed it is finally time for me to admit to myself that I am no longer just a little-bit pregnant.  The weeks are flying by and June is going to be here in no time.  I had to muster enough courage to skip to the end of the baby How-To manuals. I wished I'd had a few cocktails for that one.  Spoiler alert: they all end the same.  And it looks like it sucks.  First off, there are these illustrations of what a breech baby looks like all squished up inside of there.  It looks painful for all of us.  Especially the one called Footling breech.  In this jolly little illustration, junior has what appears to be one whole leg thrust down the birth canal.  Now...I'm no doctor but that shit just don't look right.  Underneath the diagram there were all these horrible words like "incision" and "abdominal muscles" so I just threw up and skipped to the next page.  A picture of a baby's head with something stuck to the top.  This one read "vacuum extraction" skip skip skip..."Mucus Plug", turn the page, "Not Getting to the Hospital in Time", not an option, I am hereby moving into my car in the parking lot..."Episiotomy"...what's that.  Oh Jesus.  Is there any part of this whole ordeal that isn't disgusting?  This business is downright offensive!  The only thing borderline pleasant in the whole Revelation chapter of What to Expect is the facial expression drawn on the laboring woman.  Well, the one you can see.  She's easy enough to find: she appears to be the first woman of color to make her appearance in the manual and she and her partner look happy as hell to be there.  I wonder who they modeled her after?  Can I call her and ask what her secret was? Maybe she hadn't read the last chapter yet.  Or maybe her hospital has a bar.  Either way, I hope that I look that delusional and relaxed when the time comes.  I know I won't, but here's to hoping.

Aww Thanks! I Don't Think You're That Fat Either!

Turns out that when you are pregnant, especially visibly pregnant, everyone knows that now they can safely comment on your figure.  I know people are just excited, as I keep saying, and really must believe that they are saying kind things to me.  Somehow.  I just can't think of another time in a woman's life when her shape is truly up for open debate. Except for maybe the Miss America pageant or The Biggest Loser.  I, however, am not a cripplingly terrifying beauty contestant, nor am I a willing participant in a nation wide fat-shaming orgy of humiliation.  Just a waitress, showing up for her normal job. 
Now I'm a thin gal.  I was blessed with good genes, mercifully, because I rank up there among the laziest people I know.  Like everyone else, I can pack on a few pounds here or there but I try not to complain about weight as many people have legitimate struggles with fitting into the beauty standards packaged and sold to us by the evil powers that be such as the afore mentioned Biggest Loser (I mean, even the name!).  Somehow, now that I have a teeny baby belly poking out, people seem to have alllll sorts of opinions they would like to share with me.
"Oh look at you! You're so skinny! You won't have any trouble at all losing the weight! Not like I did after Alec was born.  I gained Eight Hundred and Ninety pounds!"...as I'm standing there holding dirty dishes.  What do I say to make this stop?  "oh.  Neat. Um, sorry you got so ungodly fat.  You look better now?  Dessert tonight? Coffee?"
And the there is the occasional "You're HUGE!  You must be just about ready to have that thing huh? Oh my god! What are you gonna look like in 4 months?!"  I'm what? I am?! I'm huge? I didn't think so but Lord! This isn't a "fat" thing...there is a baby in there that's gonna come out.  I mean, come out of me! Stop saying the word "huge"!  You're mean!  And Stupid and I hate you now!
So when does it stop? Like, after D-day will it all just come to an end?  Will people clam up and resume silently commenting on my waistline? I really wouldn't mind that at all.  Maybe I should just start saying all the things that go on in my head. "It took me forever to lose all the baby weight!" Yeah, obviously.  "You haven't gained a pound! Really, how much have you put on?" Aww, thank you! I don't think you're too fat either! about 5 lbs. How about you?  I mean, come on! All the world needs is more commentary on women's weight.  I'm not terribly concerned about it so why should the causal observer be?  I'm sure they are all trying to be complimentary, and many people have succeeded in coming across as sincere and kind.  You know what they say that makes me feel the best? "Hi Sarah! How are you? You look great.  I'll have the dinner special".

Name Suggestions: Yours are All Terrible

And I mean that in the kindest way possible. You know, the kindest way in which to respond to people who seem to believe that I have given no thought whatsoever to my child's first name.  I know, I know, they are just being kind, like to feel included, etc. But for the love of god, leave it alone!  We found out two weeks ago that we are going to have a boy.  The name we had chosen for a girl was always set in stone but for a boy we weren't (and still aren't) 100% sure.  I mean, we have 4ish months to go (is that it?!) and we haven't even met the guy yet.  So calm right down folks.  I think it is great that you have always liked Teegan and Colin and your great grandfather's first name was Arthur and you've always loved that name.  So by all means, name your next baby that awesome name of yours.  Done having kids? Ok great, name your next dog Tyler or Connor or Brindin or whatever name you think is so precious.  I am going to stick with the name I  want, the name I chose years ago, the name I am going to give to my child.  And I mean that with all the love in the world.