Category — Singleton Pregnancy (child #3)

I finally took my first trip to Labor & Delivery this pregnancy. On Saturday afternoon, I started feeling sick to my stomach. This progressed to horrible nausea, stomach pains and indigestion. Saturday night I was in and out of sleep with awful, painful contractions and indigestion. Sunday morning, we had the girls’ birthday party. The painful contractions had subsided but I went to L&D anyway since I was still feeling terrible.

The monitors showed I was having regular but mild contractions. They gave me a shot of terbutaline (UGH. One of my worst memories from the last pregnancy.) An internal exam showed that I am a whopping 1 centimeter dilated, 50% effaced, baby at -2 station (still high), and my cervix, according to the nurse, is “not posterior.”

Now, based on how long I was walking around dilated and effaced with the girls, I know better than to get excited at the news. But dammit, I’m excited at the news! Something is happening and it gives me hope that someday, this pregnancy WILL be over.

On a related note, one more event in the countdown to my due date is over. We had the girls’ birthday party on Sunday and it was a great success. There was bouncing, laughing, bubbles, screaming, crying, pizza, cake and balloons.

Now, we just have the girls’ actual birthday on Wednesday and then Thanksgiving before it’s Baby Time. I plan to pack a hospital bag this week. I think we’re getting somewhere, people!

I basically have absolutely nothing to report.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant. Pretty legit, I guess. I still feel far (far, far) away from the end.

Luckily, other life events are starting to pick up so at least the time isn’t completely standing still. Halloween is over. The girls’ birthday party is this weekend and their actual birthday is just over a week away. Thanksgiving follows shortly after, which we’re hosting at our house this year. Then, it’s either baby then Christmas, or Christmas then baby — or baby on Christmas, I guess.

The slight panic of giving birth is creeping in. I haven’t stressed about the actual birth so far, but now I find myself actively suppressing the fears. What if she’s born early? What if she’s born late? What if the cord is wrapped around her neck? What if she doesn’t flip and stay head down? What if they want to induce me? What if I want to be induced? Will the labor go quickly? Will I tear or need to be cut — something that didn’t happen last time? What if my preferred OB doesn’t catch her? What if I end up with a C-section?

That last worry is what’s weighing most heavily on my mind. Obviously, I don’t want to offend any reader who has had a C-section or anything like that. I just do not want one. I feel like I pushed my luck with delivering twins vaginally and now my number is up, know what I mean?

I’m combating this worry with as much positive imagery and thought as I can muster. I picture my cervix opening like a gigantic, exploding blueberry muffin, birthing forth a wonderfully healthy baby. I picture my vulvagina remaining intact. I picture the baby latching perfectly onto my Nat Geo boobies. I picture my stomach looking something like this afterward.

Hey, you can’t blame a girl for dreaming.

I’m starting to feel disgusting.

There’s really no other way of saying it. I feel gross. I have a layer of fluid that is accumulating under my skin. My face, my neck, my chest and shoulders, all feel puffy and fluid retention-y. My fingers look fat. My feet bones are becoming less defined, disappearing under a thickening layer of nastiness.

It’s just not pretty.

And you know what else? I’ve identified a new body part: the vulvagina. This is the area encompassing the vulva, vagina, pubic bone, ass crack, etc. You know, the nethers. And mine hurts. Between the separated pubic bone, the hemorhoids (did I spell that right?) and the vulva swollen to the size of a Nerf football, my vulvagina is a sad lady.

(I guess that little bit of info should have been preceded by a courtesy TMI Alert. Sorry ’bout that.)

Add to this some crazy mood swings and you’re looking at a woman in the latter stages of pregnancy for sure. Man, I’m really starting to get weepy and whiny. I couldn’t find my sunglasses. I burst into tears. I burned a hot dog bun. Wept like a child. Chris was breathing too loud. I punched him in the face.

All of this is going to become a problem in the coming weeks. You see, toward the end of this pregnancy, I’m going to want to do the dirty with my husband as much as possible to try and get the baby out. And at that point, I’m going to be such a huge, weepy, puffy, purple-vagina-ed mess that Chris will want nothing to do with me, even if I do offer him my warm and willing, if gigantic, vulvagina.

Sob!!

Shhhhhh! I’m going to share something with you guys that has me very concerned.

I think the government is performing some kind of experiment with my pregnancy.

I think they’re trying to see if I can be pregnant long enough to give birth to a seven year old.

I’ve hit a point in this pregnancy that I’m running out of mental motivation. I’m just over 32 weeks and I feel like it might as well be 32 years. I have been pregnant FOREVER. I don’t feel anywhere near the home stretch. I can’t believe there are still two months of this left. Two months! Do you have any idea how that fact makes me feel?

Yesterday, I broke down crying to Chris. I was having painful-ish contractions in the morning, followed by a full day of Braxton Hicks. The girls had no mercy on me at all. I just couldn’t take it. So I cried it out.

Every day, I remind myself to enjoy the pregnancy, as we don’t know if it’ll be my last one. I think of how many women give birth to premature babies, and how it must feel to want to give anything to just keep being pregnant again. I tell myself that the next 7 1/2 weeks are filled with one event after another — Halloween, the girls’ birthday, Thanksgiving — and that the time will go flying by. I think back on the newborn days and remember that it’s much easier being pregnant than it is having a newborn.

These are thin threads to hold onto some days, but I’m trying.

I do get a little motivation looking at these photos of our new little girl in 3D. Chris took me to get one of those creepy-yet-awesome ultrasounds last week. We saw that Baby Girl has chubby cheeks and a head full of hair already. She seems to look like a mix of Elise and Althea when they were newborns.

(And one day.)

It’s that time of the pregnancy. Time for the Pregnant Lady Gangsta Lean.

This is when a pregnant woman can no longer comfortably sit upright on the toilet,  so she has to lean her back against the lid and tank.

Aww yeah. It’s that time.

This singleton pregnancy is still pretty uneventful. I miraculously passed my three-hour glucose test, so Wilford Brimley hasn’t cursed me this time around. Compared to the twins pregnancy, this shit’s pretty easy. I mean, I’d still rather not be carrying a watermelon around my mid-section. I wish I could fit into regular underwear. I wish my feet wouldn’t swell with a single-digit rise in temperature. But still. No comparison. A singleton is infinitely easier to carry than multiples.

I think that the reality of there being 11 weeks left has kind of hit me. Eleven weeks feels like forever, but I guess it’s not that long.

We’re pretty much ready for this little girl, though. We don’t really need any new clothes. She’ll be sleeping in the co-sleeper bassinet in our room for the first few months like the girls did. I found out the first time around that newborns don’t need toys or a fancy nursery. I guess we just need diapers and a diaper pail and we’re set.

Right? I’m not missing anything, am I? If I remember correctly, the first couple of months consist of:

• Crying (baby)
• Crying (mom)
• Sleep deprivation
• Nursing
• Carefully examining human feces to determine the state of the child’s health
• Soul-scorching glares at the father for not contributing enough around the house, not being able to lactate, having a penis, stimulating the baby when we’re trying to teach her how to sleep, leaving the house to interact with adults (a.k.a. “go to work,” fucking jerk), smiling, sleeping, and eating

So yeah. I think we’re pretty much ready.

Sunday morning reading time with Daddy. This makes me happy.

You know what makes me sad, though? Thinking about losing this.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m getting excited for the new baby and am feeling much better about her and the pregnancy overall. But during those moments of utter contentment with my husband and two girls, I get intensely sad at the loss of our little family of four.

I like our family. We understand each other. It’s comfortable. It’s familiar. It’s fun. I like how we’re figuring out how to communicate with each other. I like the age the girls are at, I love their little voices, their silly words. I love the time we spend together.

I also like sleeping through the night, daily routines, children who know how to walk, three-hour naps and not being outnumbered.

Some of my friends with a toddler and an infant used to ask how the hell I survive having twins. I would tell them honestly that the thought of trying to handle a toddler and a newborn sounded MUCH more difficult than having twins.

The thought of trying to handle TWIN toddlers and a newborn, however, is a level of difficulty I can’t even conjure in my worst nightmares.

It’s almost laughable.

Today, I’m 28 weeks pregnant and so marks the official start of my third trimester. I’m starting to get worried about how we’ll handle having three kids. Specifically, how am I going to handle having three kids, since it’s mostly just me with them?

What do I do when Althea goes tearing down the street by herself while I’m trying to unload groceries from the van?

What happens when, three minutes into story time at the library, Elise decides she’s over it and she starts yanking on my hand, shouting “NO! NO! NO!”

I’m also afraid I’ll forget someone at home. Or in a shopping cart. Or that I’ll accidentally drop the baby out of her sling while chasing after one of the girls.

The logistics of everyday life is going to get complicated.

I have all sorts of loose ends to tie up, posts floating around in my head, photos to share. Problem is, all of my shit is in boxes in the garage right now so any sort of order or updating is going to be a while.

This week’s belly shot is a little different, right? We’re in the new house now, so get used to the obnoxious stripes.

I’m 27 weeks pregnant today, nearing the end of my second trimester, and it couldn’t come any sooner. I’m trying to remind myself that this could be my last pregnancy and to enjoy it, but frankly I just want to move things along. Even if there were to be another pregnancy at some VERY VERY DISTANT POINT IN THE FUTURE when we’ve won the Lotto and can hire an energetic but not-too-attractive nanny to help me, I would still want to fast forward to week 39.

Besides, now that we’ve officially closed on the old house (longer post on that later) and we’re setting up in the new place, I’m getting anxious and excited to meet the new baby and see how we make our lives with her.

Physically, I’m really starting to feel pregnant. Silly at this point, I know, but all the commotion has had me distracted. I’m starting to struggle to stand up and move around. I think I let out an audible “Oooofph!” as I turned over in bed last night for the billionth time because my hips are killing me.

There is also now a bottle of Tums on my bedside table.

The baby is spending a lot of time hanging out either on my right side or up high on my stomach and ribs. She’s very active and beats me up regularly, especially at night.

Much to my pleasure and surprise, I’m fitting into maternity clothes that I had long outgrown by this point in the twins pregnancy. I think I’ve gained about 11 pounds so far. Trying to stay away from the scale in general.

Next on the pregnancy calendar:

• I failed my one-hour glucose test (surprise, surprise) and have to return for a three-hour test. Ugh. I really hope to escape gestational diabetes this time because that was a real buzz kill last time.
• After my next OB appointment, I start seeing the doctor every two weeks. Progress, progress.

(And one day.)

My twin skin has pretty much filled out, so I finally feel okay about taking a bare-belly shot.

Until I took this photo, I didn’t think I looked or felt any smaller than I did when I was carrying the girls, but comparing the belly pics of the same week, there’s definitely a difference.

Speaking of skin and bellies, though, I understand something about pregnancy that didn’t quite gel for me before: Just because you got stretch marks with one pregnancy doesn’t mean you’re done. I knew I was getting new stretch marks, but I didn’t know know, you know? I’m thinking the weakened skin must be actually just as, or maybe more, prone to getting more stretch marks the second time around. Oh, I just LOVE being a woman sometimes!

Anyhow, I’m feeling physically good. No aches or pains to speak of. I feel the baby a ton these days. Light kicks have turned into decently strong jabs. I can feel definite limbs — the sharpness of a heel or elbow as my little girl turns over in her watery home. I think I’m starting to feel hiccups too. From her, not me.

Whenever I remember that I’m  pregnant and get twenty seconds to think about it, I actually get a little excited for the baby. Sure, I have natural worries about how she’ll fit in, what she’ll be like, how she’ll sleep and eat and so on. But I’m starting to have some faith that everything will work out fine, or as fine as it can, and I just need to focus on enjoying this pregnancy and the final months I have left with just Elise and Althea.

That said, the pregnancy is dragging. A blessing right now that we’re about to move (more on the house nonsense later), but generally pretty lame. The first time around was full of novelty. This time, I just want to get to the end.

Other general stats: I’m up almost nine pounds now. After my next OB appointment, I’ll have to do the glucose tolerance test, which I plan to pass this time because having gestational diabetes last time sucked. Interestingly, unlike the last pregnancy, I don’t smell weird or have any other manifestations of excessive hormones. I also don’t have much of a linea nigra this time, either. My stomach muscles, which never came back together after the twins, are split about three inches apart now and it’s pretty uncomfortable to sneeze or cough because it feels like my uterus is going to burst through my skin.

Meanwhile, my boobs and skin look pretty amazing so . . . hey. I’ll take it.

This pregnancy is posing a lot of issues for me — issues I didn’t have or feel with the twins, so this is all a bit scary. To explain:

When I found out we were having twins back in April 2008, I felt like we’d been somehow “chosen.” Silly, I know. But I saw it as a gift, a great responsibility with which I’d been entrusted. I took it as my sole duty to nurture and grow those babies to the best of my ability.

Despite having battled serious body issues throughout my life, I felt little trepidation about the weight I purposely gained. It was all temporary, I thought. When the stretch marks appeared, I took them in stride. When I explored my post-partum body, I accepted its changes for what they were and promised myself I’d do the best I could to improve it.

At 16 months post-partum, all was beginning to feel fine and well. I was back in the gym, just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I’d finally pulled out my “skinny” clothes, even fitting into some of them. I had weaned the girls from breastfeeding so I could get back on Lamictal, a medication for bi-polar disorder that I’d had a ton of success with.

I finally felt like I was getting my body and life back.

In the back of my mind, I was dreaming of the surgery that would re-join my stomach muscles. In an even further recess of my mind, I thought maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have more kids. Our girls were perfect and awesome. Why mess it up?

And then . . . Well, I got pregnant again. I really, really wasn’t ready for it. It’s not that I didn’t or don’t want or love the baby. It’s that it wasn’t planned and really caught me off guard.

So this time around, I’m having body issues. 21 weeks into the pregnancy and I’ve gained about five pounds. This is nothing compared to the twenty-ish I’d gained by this point with the twins, but every ounce of this new weight is filled with panic and self-loathing.

That nagging bitch of a voice in my head questions, Five pounds so far — so what does that mean for the rest of the pregnancy? How on earth am I going to keep my weight gain below 25 pounds? 20 pounds? 15? I don’t want to puff up, I don’t want a fat face, I don’t want melting thighs and a monster ass.

The bitch goes on. My stomach . . . Ugh, my god, my stomach. The silvery-white stretch marks circling the center of my abdomen, scarring the folds of loose skin left from my last pregnancy, are turning faintly purple. The weakened skin is going to give out. Again. And stretch even more. Again.

I panic. I self-pity. I don’t understand. I thought I paid my dues with my first pregnancy. I sacrificed and worked hard and did everything right. I let my body do what it wanted and needed. I grew two full-sized, healthy babies, delivered them vaginally, nursed them for almost a year and a half, stayed home with them to raise them in the best environment I could give.

And this is what I get? Anxiety about weight gain, depression, stress and more stretch marks?

I realize all of this is unhealthy thinking. Frankly, it’s shameful and embarrassing to feel any of this at all. It’s so superficial, so shallow, so silly.

I’m supposed to be jolly and maternal. I’m supposed to give motherly smiles to strangers. I’m supposed to be glowing, goddammit.

But that nagging voice, that belittling bitch that tells me how worthless and disgusting I am, is seeping in.

I thought I was too fucking old for this shit. I know better than this.

These are just feelings. They are temporary. I love this baby, her little punches and kicks, the weight of her growing body, the thought of her in our lives. I will grow her and adore her and do a good job with her, too.

But these damned feelings…

So I tell my little girl I’m sorry and I love you and This has nothing to do with you.

My only defense right now is not thinking about it too much. It hurts — hurts to feel it, hurts to admit I feel it.

I promise I’ll try to be sarcastic and funny again soon. Right now, I’m just working through this the best I can.

I think I’m looking legitimately pregnant and not just chubby around the middle.

This pregnancy is so different. I’m still pretty mobile and strong. I’ve only gained two pounds so far. I can sleep comfortably on my back, I don’t pass out from blood sugar drops and I’m finding myself in decent spirits most days.

Come to think of it, stretches of time go by without me thinking much about the pregnancy.

And then … I feel something. A flutter. A tiny flick of a limb. The roundness of a little body growing inside of me. And I remember, happily and gratefully, that I am carrying our third child — a beautiful little girl who is going to make her own unique place in our growing family.

***

We got a cash offer on our house last week. Therapy is going well. My mom is coming tonight for a two-week visit and I can’t wait to show off my wonderful daughters to their Amama.

Life’s not so bad today. I think I’ll go out and spend some time with my three favorite girls in the world.