You won this battle, Hormones...

I had my first uncontrollable weep session the other day. It was pathetic; I was helpless to the tears. I had to leave the room downstairs and just go lie on my bed, alone, feeling like a jerk, waiting for the nonsense to disappear. It was about the stupidest thing too; I can’t even remember what.

I won’t pretend I don’t cry once in awhile, I'd say once a year, maybe, I really lose it, but I really have been lucky in that I’m not affected by the hormones that are supposed to bring on wild PMS and rages that give women a bad name. Sure, I get the occasional menstrual cramp and once in a while just have to chow down chocolate chips and orange juice for no reason…but really, hormones have—up until now—been a non-issue in my life. Well folks, times they are-a-changin’. We’ll see how long I can make it before the onslaught crashes over me again. Just don't mind if I'm talking to you and I suddenly get weepy and then leave and don't come back for awhile...

The Breath Monster

Have I told you how hard it is to breathe lately? Jesus H is it hard. But not consistently, so I have no idea when to be prepared with a paper bag and oxygen tank. Last week I was sitting on the couch, watching TV before bed, and I felt like I was in a documentary about summiting Kilimanjaro. Really, I was sitting on the couch. The books say to prop yourself up with multiple pillows, or to raise the head of your bed a couple inches to ease this problem; well, books, I wasn’t in bed when it happened, so thanks for nothin’. And also, our mattress is on the floor because we’re moving and sold our bed frame, so what else you got for me?

I went on two hikes this weekend. One, with a bunch of my college buddies, was fine. I’m no super hiker to begin with, so it felt pretty normal. Luckily I didn’t look like a complete pregnant woman in front of them because man, do I hate that. The second hike, two days later, however, was a whole different story. And it was a shorter hike, that’s the kicker. What normally takes 30 minutes max to summit took me probably almost an hour. I had to stop and sit down at one point. Pathetic! Hubby is quite understanding (I think he’s got the right attitude—Man Guilt) and stopped with me, distracting me from my racing heart with stories, etc., but I just felt so feeble and ridiculous it was incredible. So I would say I feel officially pregnant and it’s only going to get worse. Ruh-roh!

Bacne

Gross. Really. But it’s not your fault. Or my fault for that matter. And neither is chestne, while we’re on the subject. It just happens. I never judged anyone with acne, I really didn’t; I felt bad for them kind of, because what can we really do about our skin when it goes haywire? It’s not that it’s embarrassing, because we all notice it more on ourselves than on other people, it’s just that wouldn’t it be easier to not have pimples? Well, now there’s ProActiv and that whole Neutrogena system and famous people to admit yes, they have acne too! and so on, but what if you can’t afford those? Man, I’m lucky to have escaped my adolescence as well as I did. I do remember when my mum bought me a bar of that orange Neutrogena soap and subtly put it in my bathroom—so, what are you saying, Ma?

Now, it all seems to be catching up with me during this whole pregnancy thing. This one enormous zit likes to rotate between sides of my chin, so as soon as it starts to sort of fade from the left it appears full force on the right. In addition, as wedding season approaches, my back and chest have begun sprouting little white-headed enemies. Bastards! But can pregnant ladies use or take any kinds of drugs? Of course not! So instead of salicylic acid-ing those uglies I have to make up other ways to zap them (and maybe cheat a little with some benzoyl peroxide spot treatment if anyone else is going to have to look at me—Hubby must apply of course).

Ps. Do NOT Google bacne

Movin' On Up

Or, at least, movin’ on out. The Hubby finished school, graduates in two weeks, and off we go! In the meantime, we have to go through all our junk, weeding out the actual junk and packing the junk-we-like for future use. We’ve rented a U-Haul and are plotting our Westward route. The problem is going to be packing the damn thing. Packing is the worst. Do you know one person who likes packing? I mean, unpacking isn’t so bad, you get to choose what looks good where, and remember all kinds of fun times when you come across some photo in a nice old frame, you get to start fresh in a new place and have all kinds of exciting moments about what is to come…but packing? You realize how much crap you have sitting in your house doing absolutely nothing but gathering dust or taking up space, feel bad that you or someone else spent money on it, and then have to debate if you should try to sell it, give it away, donate it, or throw it out. And then start again with the next thing on the shelf/in the box/molding in the bottom of the closet.

Then there’s the whole eco-guilt I have about tossing anything with the tiniest potential for re-use. Oy. Saving the world is hard, isn’t it. Maybe if this baby can be some scientific genius I can make up for all the stuff I’m throwing out and carbon emissions I’m about to make driving cross country. We’ll see.

Skeletor!

Hubby and I went to another ultrasound. This one, I guess, was just to check on growth and development and all things that should be happening to the Creature. From what I’ve read, ultrasounds aren’t particularly necessary but obviously hospitals want you to have them (cha-ching!)—and why wouldn’t you use modern technology to check on things? I’m glad they are recommended and possible because they are frickin’ incredible.

Last time Hub and I went to check out what was going on in there, it looked like the black abyss with a microscopic white human/alien floating in space; obvious body profile, but nothing else. It was kind of cute because it looked like an old-fashioned black and white profile cut out of paper (you know, the one of your grandfather, where the artist shined a light on his face and traced the outline on black paper behind him).This time it was like a super-x-ray from a crazy sci-fi movie complete with close up of kidneys. Kidneys! The baby is like five inches long and you can see it’s kidneys through my body and its body. What the?! I’m all for modern science but I really don’t understand it. The downside is x-ray science-freak baby isn’t as cute as old-fashioned profile baby. It was all nasal bones and spine. Again, very cool, just not too snuggly looking. At least it has five months to get some skin and muscles on there.

What is that?

It’s official. I definitely have a belly. It’s small, but it’s there all right. It’s not just a my-belt-feels-too-tight-after-eating fluke.

In addition to the general rolo-poliness my waistline has taken, the front area has certainly begun taking its own shape. This is how I have decided it’s an actual belly. It’s not just a spare tire which could have been acquired through any old means (i.e. too many beers or other fun things), it’s a bump. I’m not running out for maternity clothes anytime soon, but it is kind of exciting to have a real belly and a damn good reason for it.

Now I wonder when it will become a “cute baby bump” rather than just a pooch. Anyway.

Stretchy is good

I have to admit I’ve taken to unbuttoning my pants after meals. I suppose this is a sign that the belly is coming in after all. Because said growth has sneaked up on me, my only defense is the old unbuckle/unbutton. I think I’m still weeks away from hitting up the maternity store, but as a first timer I’m not guaranteeing myself anything.

Wearing a belt is a pretty good way to not admit I’m loosening the old waist: no one has to know, because a buckled belt looks the same no matter what hole you use. This does mean I have to wear belts to work every day, but I’ve got a few big buckles I can trade in to spice it up. It’s not a big deal, and if I can keep people from seeing how I’ve begun resting my hands on my belly while I lean back in my chair then I think I can make it eight more work days until my contract runs out and I leave—and then tell everyone as I’m walking out the door so they can’t make a big deal because I’m already on the subway and waving goodbye.

It’s pretty liberating to just let your gut hang out when it’s too big for your pants. This may or may not become a full-time habit. Soon I can use my "BellyBand" which I bought on sale at Target, like, forever ago. It is a sweet contraption that covers the top of your un-buttoned pantalones and the bottom of your belly so you can keep wearing all your old pants even though they aren't even close to closing. I bet it is snug and cozy too.