NOBODY TELLS YOU THIS SH*T!

Last week was my best friend's wedding and as matron of honor, I had a few tasks.  Wearing a giant orange maternity dress was first among them; followed closely by speech writing, gown wrangling, standing for long periods of time and being on call for pretty much anything the bride needed.

This girl is my ride-or-die chick.  I love her like a sister.  SO despite my condition, I wanted to do absolutely everything I could to make her day special.  Still, I was nervous my size and symptoms would somehow interfere.

Happily, they did not!  My dress fit.  My speech went well.  I wrangled that gown like a BOSS!  And not for one second did exhaustion or soreness get the better of me.  The best part:  I got to be there for my amazing friend on the most important day of her life.

I had done it!  I accomplished everything I set out to do while carrying my precious boy.  Only a few days more and my near-perfect pregnancy would end in gentle coos and long-awaited cuddles.

At least --- that was my reality until the following morning.

I awoke to some skin irritation on my abdomen.  Thinking it was just stretch marks, I got more aggressive with my cocoa butter regimen and went on with my day.

By nightfall, the minor irritation had spread like a raised, red spider web covering my entire stomach and itching me to within an inch of my sanity.  I did some research and was shocked to learn there is actually a pregnancy rash called PUPPS.  The rash affects roughly one in every two-hundred pregnancies - usually first time moms who are carrying boys.

A rash caused by pregnancy?  I had no idea!  Nobody tells you this sh*t!

I wrote an email to my doctor asking if there was anything I could or should do.  She advised there is no known cause or cure for PUPPS.  She then instructed me to use some over-the-counter itch creams and take Benedryl at night.  But by the time my Friday doctor's appointment rolled around the rash had spread with a vengeance.

My hands, feet, thighs and breasts were now covered in RELENTLESSLY itchy bumps that no cream in my possession could appease.  I couldn't sleep - I just paced the floor trying desperately not to scratch my skin from my bones.  When I explained this to my physician, she said the best way to get rid of the rash was to deliver the baby.  Since I'd already reached the 40 week mark, she encouraged us to consider induction.  So together we decided to schedule a slot at the hospital for Monday.

In the meantime, my mom and sister came over to help Will with last minute preparations while I rested up.  We found some natural home-remedies that seemed to manage the pain for short periods of time.  Yesterday I took four lukewarm showers with Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap, drank two V-8's and lathered myself in A&D ointment.  All in all it was a good day but still the rash persisted.

I woke up this morning bloody from an apparent bout of sleep-scratching and found myself conquered by agonizing welts from temple to toe.

Horrified, I called my physician's office and spoke with the OB on call.  She seemed completely disinterested in my plight but begrudgingly agreed to call my doctor for instruction.  About a half hour later, I received a call back.

I was presented with two options - move up the induction to tonight or take one round of steroids.  When I opted for the former the on-call OB sighed.

"You know this induction won't work right?"
"What?" I responded in shock.
"I mean, you're not dilated, your baby hasn't dropped and if you weren't itchy we'd make you wait another week."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I've been nothing but an excellent patient this entire pregnancy.  My doctor KNOWS I'm not a whiner and my only birth plan is to get the baby out safely.  I have no agenda other than to do what is medically wise for myself and my child - so to receive this response was incredibly disheartening.

Sternly, I replied "my doctor and I are on the same page, thank you... and I opt for induction.  See you at four." 

With that, my friends and family - it's showtime.  One more pine tar shower stands between me and my party of three.  And whether this induction takes or ends in C-section, I'm more than confident I'm doing the right thing.

Thank you all for the readership and support leading up to this moment.

I love you all.

THE GIRL WHO CRIED BABY

Pregnancy teaches you a lot about yourself.  Something I’ve learned this trimester is that I am NOT the girl who cried baby.  In other words, the many symptoms that parade as labor pain have not driven me into a tizzy.  Constipation, gas and even the occasional contraction have been met with self-control – if not complete denial.

Yesterday however, I was tested in a way I’d never been before.  After my weekly internal exam I went to work as I plan to everyday until this kid pops out.  Toward the end of the day, I noticed I was a bit wet.  It wasn’t a big gush like you see in the movies, but I wondered if it could be amniotic fluid that somehow leaked throughout the day. 

Then the contractions came.  Crampy pain began gathering in my lower abdomen, traveling up until my whole stomach was tight to the touch.  They weren’t incredibly painful – but then again I have a high threshold.  They weren’t exactly timeable, but then again, I kept second guessing myself – rationalizing that every other surge was in my head.  Since I work only a few blocks from the hospital, I had Will come to my office so we could decide what to do together. 

Though I was fairly sure it was a false alarm, the doctor on call felt I should have the fluid tested.  “If you’ve ruptured” she said “you could risk infection.”  That’s all we had to hear.

The contractions continued as we walked through the hospital door. 

“Need a wheelchair?” asked a kind man in the vestibule. 

“No thank you.” I said politely. 

“I’m not THAT girl.” I whispered to Will.  Why would I take a wheelchair from a real pregnant lady; one who was having real contractions unlike the phantom ones I was sure I was experiencing?

Up to labor and delivery we went.  For a moment, Will and I looked at each other with excitement.  No matter the outcome, within the next few weeks – this WOULD be real, and we WOULD be leaving with a baby!  It was all incredibly surreal.

Our sassy nurse Francis greeted us at the desk.  “I’ve been waitin’ for you, baby!” she exclaimed.

Before I knew it I was in a robe, strapped with monitors and having a q-tip shoved… well… up there. 

“Now we put this in here” sassy Fran explained pointing to a vile of clear liquid “and wait to see if it tests positive for amniotic fluid.” 

Simple enough.

In the meantime, I watched the monitor scroll by. 

“What do those lines mean?” I asked.

“That means you’re having a contraction.” Sassy Fran answered. 

AHA! I silently rejoiced.  I’m not going crazy, those ARE contractions.  I felt so validated.

Throughout the hour I was there, I had roughly six contractions.  They varied wildly in interval and severity.  The biggest one ranked about a 5 on a scale of 1-10.

“Okay.” Sassy Fran said re-entering the room.  “You’re not leaking fluid, BUT you are having contractions so I think we need to examine you.”  Will and I looked at each other in disbelief. 

“Oh, really?” I asked. 

“Yup, just want to make sure you’re not dilated.”

And for the second time that day, I was to a medical professional as a dummy is to a ventriloquist.  Sassy Fran and I may have only just met, but we sure got to know each other in a hurry!

She lingered a while, squinting with thought as she checked and rechecked my cervix. 

“Hmm,” she said, seeming surprised “nothing happening.”

I was released with a good education.  The first lesson I learned is that Will and I are a pretty great team.  The whole trip, we remained calm, playful and excited.  Never once was there a tense moment or a miscommunication. 

Number two, I learned I have to trust myself more.  Why should I be so worried about overreacting anyway?  This is my first time at bat, so of course there’s a learning curve.  Even if I had taken every class in the world, nothing can teach you what sort of physical sensations you’ll experience during labor.

Last but not least, I learned that false labor = a night off from the evening chores:

“Will, would you feed the dog when we get home?” I asked.

“Yes.  Since Sassy Fran put her entire hand inside you, I think I can manage that.”

I may have to cry “BABY!” more often.  

AN UPDATE

It’s been over a month since I’ve written and the explanation is simple:  I’m in full-on nesting mode.

All of Bobby’s clothes and linens are washed; the diaper bag is packed and ready; and the nursery is nearly complete.  We’ve taken the hospital tour and filled out all of the intake paperwork.  We tracked down a breast pump and researched a couple pediatricians.  

Yet, the “if my water breaks today” list is still uncomfortably long.  Before my feet even hit our bedroom floor, I find myself repeating the unchecked items like a mantra:  Ready the vehicles, install the car seats, pack the ‘bug-out-bag,’ freeze some meals, watch the shaken baby video, purchase cradle sheets…etc.  Additionally, we’re tying loose ends at work, saving every available penny and trying desperately to keep up with all the other chores.     

In the midst of this mania, I’m still a human going through a gigantic transition.  There have been emotional highs and lows, physical obstacles and external challenges the likes of which I’ve never personally known. 

Truth time:  If I stop long enough to think about some of these underlying anxieties, I cry. 

Many of these challenges involve other people and are thus unblogable; but happily I do have an alternative outlet:  music.  Throughout my life, the gift of song has rescued me from many a spiritual valley.  Now more than ever, I’m inspired to turn all of my joy and pain into honest lyrics.  I’ve been collaborating with a good friend since June and (spoilers, guys) it’s really friggin good.  Easily my best work to date.  I will be very proud to present it to you all when it’s done.

Until then, the catharsis of creation, the promise of Bobby’s smile and my INCREDIBLE husband have been getting me through. 

Of course when all else fails, I can always throw myself into the to-do list.

THE SHOWER

Waddling into the bright room adorned with safari animals and soft blue wrapping paper, I let out a sigh of relief.  The busy morning was behind me; I was here and ready to celebrate our little boy.

***

Only 18 hours prior, our friends arrived from Virginia.  I tell ya, nothing makes you feel like more of a grown-up than your first houseguests!  Conversely, nothing makes you feel like less of a grown-up than your houseguests’ children. 

I was confident our home was clean and safe.  Naturally our friends’ adorable toddler shot that delusion to hell. 

He bee-lined for a glass heirloom before tugging on a metal shelf stacked with kitchen appliances.  “That’s not bolted down!” I warned, imagining disaster at every turn.  This was all before he fell backwards down our ungated staircase.  Will caught him in a feat of INCREDIBLE Dad-to-be heroism – but man was that close! 

I could just see the headlines: 

“Prospective parents lure innocent family into death trap.” 

“CPS demands immediate surrender of unborn child; report cites ‘sharp edges.’” 

The words “would you bring your kids HERE???”  printed over a picture of our perilous living room.

Happily, our friends handled it with cool and grace.  They joked with us about taking notes for our own child and only had to tell their kids once what not to touch.  I was incredibly impressed by their behavior; everyone lived and a great time was had by all.

The next morning, I awoke early to make coffee and grab bagels from a local deli.  Once everything was laid out on the table, I handed the hosting reigns to Will and set out to make myself pretty. 

Now, it had been quite a while since I cared about my appearance.  Pregnancy exhaustion has a way of striking unnecessary primping from the itinerary.  People were coming from all over to see me however and I was determined to look halfway decent.  A little hairspray and a lot of shellac later, I was faced with the ever-daunting selection of shoes.  It had been at least three months since I tried to wear heels.     

Why not?  I thought.

Of course, before we even left the driveway, my feet were swelling like overly yeasted cake batter.

Right.  That’s why not.  I was reminded.

***

No matter – I had arrived.  The room quickly filled with smiling faces and big gifts.  My Mom and sister did a wonderful job organizing every last detail.  The food was amazing, the décor was adorable, the games were HILARIOUS and the company was outstanding.

I opened the beautiful gifts (barefoot) with the help of some girlfriends.

We now have everything we need to prepare for our little prince.  Once we trash every breakable, cover every outlet, and bolt every piece of furniture to a load-bearing wall – we’ll be all set!!!

A special thanks to everyone who made our day so special.  <3

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM

It’s a beautiful day and I’m in a field.  I watch as a parade of bikini-clad women walk in a tidy circle, each stopping briefly to pose in front of the crowd. I realize I’ve found myself at a beauty pageant sponsored by our county fair.  But it slowly dawns on me that this is no ordinary beauty pageant.  It’s a mating ritual.  Each time a woman stops, an interested man emerges from the crowd to inspect and retrieve her. 

I look around - I’m the only woman in the audience - everyone else is an ex-boyfriend.

In front of me stops a slender chestnut brunette with smoky eyes and pouty lips.  Her bikini is colorful; coordinated perfectly with the impractical surf-board she’s carting for effect. 

I look her up and down.

She doesn’t have a protruding belly.

She doesn’t have cankles.

She doesn’t waddle past the crowd.

No – she’s gorgeous.  She’s graceful.  She’s thin.  She’s everything I’m not right now.

To my horror, I feel someone letting go of my hand. 

It’s my husband. 

He’s interested. 

He’s walking toward her. 

He’s picking her up. 

He’s whisking her to a shady knoll and he’s kissing her passionately beneath a tree.

I stand there watching helplessly from a distance as my heart audibly shatters.

And that’s when I wake up, sweating and gasping desperately for breath. 

“Another bad dream?” Will asks, sleepily.

“Yeah…” I say wiping my brow “I’m sorry --- go back to sleep.”

---

Leading up to my wedding I had a series of terrible anxiety nightmares.  But nothing compares to the absurd visions I’ve been plagued by this entire pregnancy.

The earlier ones were quite humorous.

During the first trimester I dreamed I was lost and late for an important class. 

“Join us” said the teacher as I rushed through the door.

Everyone was naked, so I quietly disrobed and got in line.

When it was my turn I was asked to shove my breast into a random man’s mouth while he ate a sandwich.  The crowd applauded my proficiency.  The next morning my husband and I decided it was a breast-feeding dream.     

I’ve also had several strange sex dreams.  In one such fantasy, I was engaged with my husband in an underwater bunker only to be discovered by a VERY judgmental Leonardo Di Caprio (circa Growing Pains.)

But as my due date approaches, my dreams have become more dark and menacing.

Virtually every night, my son rolls off of something.

Or I forget him somewhere.

Or I fall down the stairs while holding him.

One time his head was so big I literally COULD NOT negotiate my way through a door and I kept walking him repeatedly into the wall.

And yes – despite the fact that my husband is the most faithful human being on the planet; who has done nothing but compliment my changing body and pregnant glow every step of the way, I do have the obligatory “I miss my body” dreams.

What I’ve discovered is that pregnancy comes with some unexpected emotions and your subconscious can do a real number on you as it sorts everything out.  But just like my wedding day, I know it will all be okay in the end.

THE CRIB

After receiving normal glucose readings (YAY!!) Will and I got down to the business of nesting.  

Though my muscles are aching beneath the weight of our growing child, my legs are restless.  I’m CONSTANTLY itching to ready our home for Bobby’s arrival and it pushes me through the pain and discomfort of the third trimester.

The to-do list is lengthy, but I’m blessed to have tons of help.  My father painted Bobby’s room; my grandmother is sewing Bobby’s curtains; and my in-laws bought Bobby’s GORGEOUS crib.   

Though I was exhausted, I awoke Sunday anxious to build our baby’s bed.  I waited until a respectable hour and slowly kissed Will awake.  His eyes still closed, he began to smile. 

“Good morning, baby.” He said.  “What time is it?”

“10” I lied.  (It was really 9:30, but I knew he wouldn’t budge until the clock struck a double digit.)  “Come on…” I said “we’re building the crib.”

“Before coffee?” he asked, his voice still groggy with sleep. 

“It’s for Bobby!” I whined, kissing his cheeks and nose and lips and forehead. 

“I can see you’re convinced” he laughed.  “Okay, okay – let’s build the crib.”

I sprawled the instructions out in front of me – telling Will which bolt to use next, what washer was needed, what rail to grab.  I wiped the stray Styrofoam from each component and bagged up the garbage as Will did the rest.  In an hour, it was done. 

And… there it was.

Bobby’s bed – just sitting there waiting for him.

Will and I walked to the rails and stared blankly at the mattress.  I practiced leaning in to make sure I could reach.  “Not so bad!” I said.  I watched Will give it a try and suddenly it hit me. 

We made this child with our love seven and half months ago.  In that time, I’ve felt him grow and move and kick and hiccup.  But watching my amazing husband pretend to lift our bundle from his freshly assembled crib made it all real and wonderful.

A warm tear rolled down my cheek as I grabbed Will’s hand.  He looked up at me with glassy eyes.  

Its official, I thought.  We’re a family.

GLUCOSE FOR COMFORT

Ah, the glucose drink:  equal parts Hi-C and Satan’s semen.  #fact  

I had five minutes to consume the repulsive concoction.  Always the overachiever; I chugged it in two. 

Oh boy, did I feel lousy!  My heartburn was off the charts.  I was sick, unfocused and sluggish.  But as I waited the requisite hour for my blood draw, I tried to remain positive.  It will all be over soon I repeated to myself.

At least that’s what I thought until the nurse called today with the results.  158.  Almost 30 points over the normal level.

I’d have to schedule another test – this time a three hour fasting blood draw.  Again I’d suffer the saccharine solution.  Again I’d starve.  Again I’d be KO’d for 48 hours. 

Of course, next up in the parade of feelings was guilt.  Did I do this to myself?  Could this have been prevented?  Have I endangered my baby? 

A few deep breaths later I did some research.  Here’s my rudimentary understanding so far:

During pregnancy, it seems the placenta is created to manage baby’s food and water intake – like some kind of bloody, amorphous nutritionist.  

"...the placenta is created to manage baby’s food and water intake – like some kind of bloody, amorphous nutritionist."

Unfortunately, the placenta can step on your own insulin’s toes.  With baby’s new food management system interfering with yours, the body produces more insulin to compensate… and away we go…

I read somewhere the normal pregnancy weight gain for a woman of my BMI is 1 pound a week – if that’s true, I’m right on target.  And while gestational diabetes does occur more often in females over the age of 25; it seems without a history of obesity or familial diabetes I had no real reason to fret ‘til now. 

If this all a fluke – great!  But even if it isn’t, I read most women with GD go on to adjust their diets; birth healthy babies and quickly shed the condition themselves.

I should know one way or the other early next week.  Until then, I’m resolved to walk a little more and eat a little better.

I’ll keep you guys posted!