Tag Archives: Pregnancy

Dear Maternity Retailers


This is an important message for retailers that sell maternity products.

WHAT THE EFF IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?

Here’s the thing.  Pregnancy is a temporary condition, okay?  I know you’re selling “specialty products” which means you should be able to ask more.  And if what you sold was worth the price you charged, I would be on board 100%.  But quite frankly, a majority of your crap is not worth the price and you are all severely lacking in products that I considered no-brainers despite this being my first rodeo.

If you look on Pinterest, you will find an incredible collection of useful blogs built upon DIY pregnancy projects.  Why?  Because no one wants to spend $40 on an infinity scarf/nursing cover when literally 5 min on a sewing machine with scrap jersey knit gives you the same results.  And is there anything worse than shelling out a ton of money (more than $20) on jeans that you KNOW will only be worn while pregnant?  I won’t deny that my maternity jeans were the most comfortable to wear the last 2 months and made me feel the most normal.  A giant jersey band holding your pants up will do that for you.  However, if they hadn’t been a gift from my most generous and considerate MIL, I would not have bothered getting a pair.  One pair, on sale, cost $20.  And at the thrift store, I bought 4 pairs of jeans for $5 a pop in larger sizes that were easily adapted to maternity use via elastic hair bands at the buttons and a belly band ($9 at Target) to cover my sins.  No, it wasn’t ideal.  Yes, I did have to spend an inordinate amount of time pulling up my pants and adjusting the belly band to cover up the fact that I hadn’t done up a zipper in 4 months.  But with the looming costs of actually having a baby resting firmly in the back of my head, 4 pairs of jeans for the price of 1 was easy Math.  Also, those thrift store jeans had pockets.  The maternity jeans, for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, had NO FRONT POCKETS.

I have seen jeans with false back pockets.  Even the cutest pair, regardless of how well it fits, will hit the reject pile for false back pockets.  False front pockets are simply an insult.

I don’t know if retailers actually look at social media or if they just dump their ads and run, but if they did they might notice that the entirety of the female population WANTS POCKETS.  In pants, in dresses, in leggings, in bras.  EVERYWHERE.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, retailers.  “If we give them pockets, they won’t buy purses!”  WRONG, MOFO.  We love our purses.  We will never stop buying purses.  You never know when you’re going to need a book, a back-up book, three skeins of yarn, 4 tampons, an inflatable pillow, and a screwdriver.  YOU JUST DON’T KNOW.  Unless cargo pants come back into style, your purse revenues are safe.  You know what I do know for sure?  There is no place for keys in a purse.  Outside pockets, inside pockets, hanging off a bejeweled hook, they always end up in a black hole somewhere just out of reach, especially if it is dark, cold, and I’m alone in parking lot trying to get into my car.  Also, purses are not affixed to our persons.  I have work keys.  When I don’t have pockets, I have to put those keys in my purse.  And every time I had to open a cabinet at work, I would drag myself up, waddle over to the cabinet, remember that my keys were in my purse on the ground, waddle back, *deep breath* BEND OVER *groan, retrieve purse, retrieve keys, forget what I was going to the cabinet for, realize it didn’t matter since I had to pee and the bathroom is at the other end of the store, speed waddle to the bathroom, and sit on the toilet for five minutes reassessing my life choices.  Why would you add extra stress to someone already struggling under emotional, psychological, hormonal, and physical distress?  HOW COULD YOU BE SO RECKLESS?!?

My point is, all it takes to be a hero is pockets.

Here are some things I was baffled by in the maternity departments/stores.

Maternity Skinny Jeans.  I get skinny jeans, in theory.  They don’t really work for me, but clearly lots of people dig them and I’m not here to judge.  Skinny jeans when I am feeling like a manatee already, I don’t know.

Maternity Holey Jeans.  This is actually just a pet peeve of mine with all jeans.  I do not want jeans that have been artificially worn thin.  If my jeans have holes in them, I want them to be made by years of wear and tear, not for aesthetics.  And considering how much some retailers charge for this particular fashion choice, I feel like I’m being charged twice as much for denim that will only last half as long.

Body-Shaping Hosiery. Because Gawd FORBID I walk around growing a human being and have any sign of jiggly thighs.  Now, some of that hosiery claims to have built-in belly support, which is admittedly very important for most kinds of pregnancy.  I carried high, so the I didn’t need the support belts or anything similar to protect my lower back.  It was my ribs that suffered and strangely enough, none of the “support” apparel focus on controlling the boobs (more on this later).

Lacey Nursing Bras. Again, I don’t get lacey bras to begin with.  Adding lingerie touches to a bra and charging $40 for it without also offering ANY kind of economic alternative for the person who can’t afford to drop 3 bills to replace at least a week’s worth of normal bras with nipple accessible bras, well that’s just a bit cruel.  And I guarantee that my little guys couldn’t give two figs about how cute/sexy my bra is as long as it gives him access to the almighty boob.

Here are some things I think should be sold in maternity departments/stores.

Compression Socks.  Poor circulation is a common problem in the 3rd trimester: ankles and feet swollen and sore so that walking around feels like strolling on bruises.  You look down at your feet and despite having them elevated for hours they still look like someone attached a bicycle pump to your heel and didn’t turn off the air.  It is uncomfortable and worrying to look at.  So why is it in a store dedicated to pregnancy apparel, with it’s plethora of cute dresses and lacy nursing bras I couldn’t find a single pair of compression socks?  I had to get mine from Walgreens.  They are functional, but ugly and make me wary of getting too close to any of the many retirement communities around here just in case someone tries to pick me up.  Would cute compression socks be weird?  Weirder than skinny maternity jeans?

Bra/Underwear Subscriptions.  Within the first month of pregnancy, I had out-grown my bras.  So I bought some larger conventional bras that seemed supportive enough and didn’t have under wires, as I was already dealing with rib discomfort.  Then I grew out of those.  And the next set.  I eventually switched to sports bras, first mediums, then larges.  The same thing happened with underwear, by the way. I stocked up on one size larger and then barely a week later had to stock the next size up.   And I don’t know about everyone else, but I can’t just buy 2 bras.  I’m proud that I limited myself to a dozen sports bras (6 med, 6 lg) since I normally prefer at least enough undergarments for 2 weeks.  And that’s just the regular bras.  You can’t buy nursing bras before your milk comes in.  That would be stupid.  Not to mention how much of a jinx that would feel.  There is no stage of pregnancy wherein you are “in the clear.”  Bad stuff happens and I certainly didn’t want to tempt fate by stocking up on nursing bras, even if I could predict how big the boobs would get.  What I didn’t see in any maternity store was 10-packs of sleeping bras, sports bras, extra elastic underwear, or any kind of economic option so that I didn’t feel like I was stealing from my unborn child just to relieve chronic pain and the inevitable expansion of my booty.  If we can’t offer mega packs of underwear that can be guiltlessly bought and discarded during pregnancy, how about a subscription so I can exchange bras as the mams grow?

Breast Support.  And if we’re going to offer “shapewear” for my thighs and belly, how about something for breasts that isn’t focused on making them look sexier.  I don’t care if your product makes them look perkier or pushes them into unnatural shapes.  I wanted a product that was supportive enough that I could sleep on my side (as is medically recommended) without feeling like I was detaching a rib from my spine.  I did try sleeping with sports bras and the elastic band around my rib cage actually exacerbated the problem.  This product, if it existed, would ideally be tank-top-shaped with support bands running around the sides of the breasts, along the sides of the ribs and under the belly.  Or something.  I’m not an expert.

So to recap, how about instead of only offering cute products, we look at the practical side of pregnancy.  Because I guarantee I’m not the only woman who saw the impending costs of a newborn and started looking immediately on how she could curtail her spending by hitting thrift stores and making her own “maternity” clothing.  I actually swore I wouldn’t be wasting any money on “maternity” clothes and the only exception was the bulk purchases of cheap maternity tanks from Target that are longer than my normal camis and will be used until they fall completely apart, pregger or not. I mean, it’s great that you all want to gouge customers for impractical vanity products, but could you maybe consider that you could make a killing selling products specifically created to alleviate the discomfort of pregnancy?  You know, besides the $60 body pillows and serious looking belly support braces?

Any other practical suggestions from my pregger peeps?

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Platypus Update: Week 38 + 3 days


Well, it’s been a while.  I hope none of you were worried.  The fact is, I didn’t have much to add that was new and I didn’t want to turn my blog into a COMPLAIN DRAIN.

I am now, officially, in the “any day now” stage.  They guestimate a due date based on the date of your last period and adjust it if necessary when you get your first ultrasound based on the size of the fetus.  But really, the due date is just the middle of a 4 week time period where baby can just decide it’s ready and only 5% of births happen on their due date (like my sister > don’t you feel special?).

I get asked a lot if I’m done.  Which is a silly question, to be honest.  Obviously I’m not done because I still have a person in me.  Am I done wanting to be pregnant?  Well, yeah.  But that’s been true since August.  I never wanted to be pregnant.  I wanted to have a baby.  You don’t want to go to culinary school, but you do because you want to be a chef.  You don’t want to take a driver’s test, but you do because you want your license.  Make sense?  Am I ready to be done?  Well, yes.  HOWEVER, I am not done.

This has to do with muscle failure.  When I first joined the Army, I could almost do 5 push-ups.  On my first PT test, I did 13, the minimum to pass.  On the second PT test, they made it abundantly clear that the goal was to do better than last time, so I managed 14 push-ups.  I still got smoked because one rep is not exactly improvement.  Before my last PT test, my DS explained the mentality behind muscle failure.  If you go in with a number in your head, there is little chance you will exceed that number.  Your brain will tell your body to quit once it hits that number and it will.  So for my last PT test, instead of thinking that I only needed 13 or only needed to do better than 13, I went in thinking the number 42 as that is the maximum goal for 18 yo females.  I did 27.  No, I didn’t hit my goal number, but I nearly doubled what I had done just a month before without changing my exercise regimen at all.  Thereafter, I had a sequence in my head (20, 10, 5, 5, 2) and the number 42 in big bold type when I got down on that mat.  And it worked.

So right now I have a date in my head.  It’s my due date, but with sort of a fuzzy caveat that any day the week after is fine.  Because I don’t want my brain to tell me I’m at muscle failure just because I’ve hit a randomly chosen goal.  Muscle failure at this point would be VERY BAD.  It would mean giving up on caring about what I eat or whether or not I get anything done during the day.  It would mean staying in bed all day and getting depressed and anxious and frustrated.  These are not things I want to do.  They are added stressors on a body and mind already pretty stressed.

Therefore, I am continuing to put in my 12 hrs a week at my job.  It’s not a hard job and it gets me out of the house.  And I’m still going to most of my yarn groups (3 times a week) and I am planning lessons with students through next week.  I am tired, yes, and I am ambling much slower these days because everything is uncomfortable and I get winded if I forget that my normal walking pace was normal 40 lbs ago.  I am also wearing very sexy compression socks on a daily basis to keep my toes from going all piggy (I’ve started avoiding retirement communities so I don’t get catcalled).  I almost got stuck behind the washing machine door this morning and rolling off the couch makes me feel more and more like a beached whale every day.  None of my rings fit.  My ankles and wrists are stiff and sore.  And I am peeing EVEN MORE FREQUENTLY, if you can believe it, since Platypus has started moving south.  On the plus side, this means my rib discomfort, while still apt to flair up, isn’t a constant nagging irritation and I’ve even been able to stand lying on my side for short intervals!

But I am not done.  I won’t be done until he is because I simply can’t allow my brain to tell my body to give up.  And I really hope he sticks to his due date because St. Patty’s Day is an awesome birthday.

If you’re wondering about that whole “nesting” thing that’s supposed to be happening, I get about 30 min of hyper-productiveness followed by 2 hrs of naptime.  And my nesting is not the “scrub everything to within an inch of its life” kind.  Mine is checking and rechecking packing lists, reading all the packets and guidelines I got from my Prenatal Group Classes, organizing boxes of baby clothes, sending out thank you cards, and (last weekend) making 2 months worth of crockpot freezer meals in an afternoon.  Otherwise, I’m just restless, which is another reason to keep working.  Sitting at home for days at a time makes me edgy and, surprisingly, crochet isn’t cutting it for keeping me chill.

Notes on things not to say to pregnant women (most of these you probably know):

Wow, you look about done!  (What the eff is that supposed to mean? My belly button is still an innie, thank you very much.)

Are you having twins?  (Even if you are joking, I will stab you in the neck.)

Here’s a horrible story I heard from a friend of mine about her delivery.  (I have heard all the horror stories.  I requested all the stories because I wanted to know what I was getting into.  You, stranger, are not going to shock me or scare me or whatever.  Frankly, I’m bored because this isn’t even in the top ten of awful I’ve heard.  I will take firsthand accounts, though.  All info is useful, even if it’s just confirming that I’m better off already.)

Should you be eating/drinking that? (I haven’t actually heard this one.  Which is also why I’m not in prison for murder right now.)

Are you ready?  (No.  Is anyone?)

Pretty much the best policy is to tell me I’m beautiful and give me cookies.  Oh, and know that pregnancy rage is a real beast which can attack at any time.  I have no power over this.

If you are anywhere near a pregnant woman right now, tell her she’s beautiful and give her a box of GS cookies.  I guarantee that she needs it.

 

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Platypus Update – 30 wks


You may be wondering why you haven’t heard from me.  Or you may not.  I’ve been rather dreading this post.

“But why?” you ask.  Am I not enjoying the beauty and majesty of this little miracle?  Am I not daily struck with awe that there is a future person growing fingernails and eyelashes and a central nervous system out of nothing but the supplies my own body provides?  Do I not stare in wonder at the mirror as my body changes to envelop this magical being?  Am I not suffused in that mystical glow of motherhood?

Well, duh.  Of course.  Except for the glow.  The glow is a fracking lie and I’ll fight anyone who says differently.

Now some of that joy and awe and wonder comes in the form of “my belly button looks weird” and “why are you kicking my bladder, I just peed” and “OH MY GAWD, MY STOMACH IS MOVING ON ITS OWN, I’M HAVING AN ALIEN.”  I promise you that I do just lay here with hands on stomach, constantly feeling that little pressure that could be a back or a foot or a hand.  I smile at funny hiccups and wake someone up on purpose just so I can feel that bizarre little squirm that reminds me of indigestion, but without the dread.  I mean, the dread is there, just for completely different reasons.

However, I told myself I would record honestly.  Not for your sake or the sake of future mothers or the sake of my child getting thoroughly embarrassed when I share these posts with prom dates.  I told myself that I wouldn’t allow selective memory to turn this experience into a glowy, fru-fru, fantasy, which ignores how much it can utterly suck.  That way, if we decide to do this again I can go in with the knowledge of exactly how much it sucked the first time.  The problem is in order for this to work, I have to share everything publicly.  Why?  Well, a private diary would accomplish the same thing as far as recording the events, I suppose.  But sharing the experience publicly is healthier for me emotionally.  And, yes, of course I tell people at work and prenatal group and Buddy all about everything (poor traumatized Buddy).  I just tend to temper some of my accounts, as we all do, so as not to sound whiney.

And I want to be clear before I start into the actual whining that I am in no way ungrateful that I am in the position to whine.  I am eminently aware that this is a miracle not granted to all, that it isn’t some kind of automatic privilege/penance for having a uterus, and that some people would kill to be in my position.  Countless women have been killed by my position.  Others live with a misplaced feeling of failure because their bodies will not accommodate their desire to be in my position.  Others have every right to despise me for having the option to simply get pregnant without any to-do and then have the nerve to complain that it isn’t all puppies and chocolate.

But it isn’t all puppies and chocolate.  It’s reality and it sucks.

There is no way to be comfortable.  Not sitting, not laying down, definitely not standing.  Back in October (4 months), I started experiencing pain in my ribs from standing.  At first it was standing for a few hours.  I would start to feel discomfort under my breasts, right where the band of my bra sits.  I tried changing bras a few times.  I tried belly support bands.  I tried Icy Hot and (doctor approved) pain killers.  Nothing would relieve it until it was a lovely white-hot brand of pain across my front and gradually leeching to my sides and back.  Now, I can stand for 5-10 minutes before it starts.  It isn’t just when standing, either.  If I sit or lay the wrong way (there is only one right way, btw), the pain is there.  And it hurts, it really does.  It feels like my inflamed gall bladder is being forced through my sternum, like my ribs are trying to secede from my spine, like my kid is claustrophobic and is pushing the walls out just to breath.  Even if the active pain isn’t going on, I can run my hands over the front of my ribs and they feel bruised.

Now, before you hit me with advice to try this remedy or that, or to tell my doctor or whatever, just slow your roll.  This is not a request for help.  I have talked to my midwife and nurse and they assure me that neither my gall bladder nor any other internal organs are trying to Xenomorph their way out of my sternum.  (If it was a problem with my gall bladder, there would be other rather obvious symptoms.)  This is just part of being pregnant.  My body is expanding to make space for a person and support system and it does that by forcing everything out of the way.  My ribs are simply in the way.  As for remedies, I have a microwavable sock filled with rice that helps a little.  Sometimes, I lay flat on my back to relieve the pressure, but that is not recommended for a few reasons (primarily the weight of my uterus possibly cutting off circulation to the rest of me, etc).  Besides, it hurts my back.

Yes, because if my front doesn’t hurt my back does.  And frequently they hurt together.  I spent part of my Christmas break sequestered in the guest bedroom of the In-Laws because I couldn’t get comfortable anywhere else.  If I did hang out in the living room, which features beautiful recliners and lots of pillows, by the end of the day I’d be wincing from every sudden movement.  Believe me, I tried.  So I stayed in the bedroom in my one (temporarily) comfortable position and tried to assure everyone that I was fine.  Seriously.  I’m fine.  I feel bad that I can’t socialize except at meals and for causing any undo concern for my welfare.  This is, apparently, part of the pregger cross I bear.

And it is definitely the worst part.  It makes life difficult.  There’s no such thing as leisurely wandering a store for an hour, pausing to contemplate labels or price tags or wait for someone to move from in front of the lemons.  The longer I’m in there, the more pain I’m in until I’m getting weird looks from people because I am sitting on the floor in the baking aisle to relieve it.  I suppose this is good training for when I’m trying to run errands with a baby/toddler/teenager, not that I’m dreading that at all.

And yes, you may poo-poo me for being bummed that shopping is a race rather than a meander.  You would be right, I suppose.  However, the other major issue is that I’ve had to give up working the floor in my retail job.  I still have my office work, but that is only 12 hours a week.  I know, I should be happy that I’m not pressing my nose to the grindstone for these last few weeks, that I have the option to relax a little, that I don’t live in a 3rd World Country where women work in the rice fields until the drop the baby in the patties.  But I am deeply selfish.  I don’t like losing the pay.  You see, babies are expensive.  And while Buddy has a stable job and good pay, that extra 13% I bring to the financials is a nice cushion for the disasters that are sure to come.

And having to tell my boss that I can’t do it anymore hurt my pride more than I care to admit.  So, hey, if you see me at work and you wonder why I’m not racing to the register to check you out, why I instead point to the call button that everyone walks by rather than to scan your stuff real quick, it’s because real quick hurts.  I pushed through it for the holidays, even bringing in a stool for the last week or so, but now I’m done with standing.  I’m sorry if that is inconvenient for you, but if you insist on making the pregnant woman ring you out to save you 5 min (especially the pregnant woman who isn’t wearing the standard uniform of salespersons, i.e. a bright green apron), then you can bet I have a very special set of vocabulary set aside for you in my head.

As I said, that is the worst of it.  I can’t work the floor.  Running quick errands is an endurance trial.  There is no way to be comfortable.  And I can’t sleep on my side, despite that being the recommended sleeping position and totally normal for me before I started growing a person.  I sleep sitting at a decline or half on my side with a pillow at my back.  Or I don’t sleep.

And in case you were wondering, I am aware that it’s only going to get worse.  I know that when there’s nothing else to say or when you’re speaking out of experience that this phrase is going to come up.  It is obviously only going to get worse.  For the next 18 years or more.  For the rest of my life perhaps.  But definitely for the next 10 weeks.  I wish there was something to be done or said.  Mostly though, I wish I could stop hearing this phrase.  Which means I should probably stop complaining as it does nobody no good.

My belly button looks weird.  Not in the “button popped, turkey is done” way (yet).  But some of it is seeing the light of day for the first time ever so I have an expanding circle of pale skin right in the middle of my freakish belly.  We don’t measure my growth by scale or tape measurer.  We measure by how shallow my belly button is.

I get nose bleeds more frequently now, too.  I know I’m not drinking enough water, despite having to pee every couple of hours.  Still.  I had to pause my yoga this morning for 10 min while I waited one out.  It was gross.  And I’ll continue to have intermittent nose bleeds for the next few days or so, mostly just a little red when I blow my nose, rarely a full on “grab the Kleenex and start making nose plugs until it stops.”  This is also normal.

And I need to blow my nose frequently because my compromised immune system has been fighting some cold or another for the last 6 months.  To the lady who came in on Black Friday and admitted to just recovering from bronchitis, I hope your cat gets into your craft room and marks all of your fabric and yarn, then yacks 16 hairballs on your sewing machine.

I wake up to pee at 4 in the morning.  Or rather, I wake up at 4 in the morning and then go to pee because I’m awake now so I might as well.  If my bladder does ever get full, it’s too late and I’m going to wet myself.  Thankfully, the bladder is a regular punching bag so it never has a chance to fill before someone thinks maybe 2 Tbs is too much to be carrying.

Amazingly, I haven’t had an uptick in migraines.  Which will change now that I’ve jinxed myself.

Also surprising, I haven’t really been making baby stuff.  My yarn groups have asked me what I’ve made so far and all I can say is that I made a shawl in Nov that will make a nice cover-up.  Yesterday I started making a floor mat for the nursery, but only because I ran out of yarn for the capelet and shirt projects I had started and I have to wait for more yarn to arrive.  And I made a bunch of little red newborn hats, but those were to donate to hospitals over the holidays.  My nesting instinct is not to make a bunch of cute stuff.  It’s to troll thrift stores for cheap onesies and make lists for what we still have to do.

Shout out to Buddy for putting up with this particular branch of my crazy.  We’ve been talking about big projects that we want to finish before the ARRIVAL, like bringing in pros to fix the back yard (clear the woods some, build a patio/deck, build a storage shed, etc).  And recently, the big nag in the back of my mind has been getting the nursery set up.  Even though the little bugger is going to be in our room for the first few months and it’s not like Platypus is even going to care if we get around to painting the walls.  Buddy has the entire nursery planned out in his head and on graph paper.  But I need concrete plans so I make lists.  What’s the first step?  What next?  And after that?  Have you ever built cabinets before?  No?  Well, I have total faith in you.  (He’s taking a cabinet-building class the end of this month which just sounds awesome and I wish I could take it with him.)

The office is now nearly empty except for the litter box.  (If you were planning on using our guest room when you come to visit, it is currently packed with the office.)  We have spent the last week of his block leave purging like crazy.  Usually, we go through a purge period when prepping for a move since that happens every 3 years or less.  We have been in this house for 5 1/2 years now.  We have accumulated a lot of stuff.  And since space is becoming more of a premium, we’re deciding that maybe I don’t need all these sketch books from 7th grade.  And it’s about time we got those watercolor post cards I got in Korea framed.  And while we’re at it, the big wedding collage has been sitting on cardboard for 4 years.  And this box is still sealed with packing tape from the last move.

Actually, we’re entering into year 2 of the GREAT PURGE.  We just have a much more pressing motivator than we’ve had in a while.

Now the only thing we really have to watch out for is the “while we’re at it” mentality.  Since we’re ripping out the old closet and putting in built-ins, we might as well put up display cabinets for the Legos and a kitty highway around the ceiling while we’re at it.  Since we’re doing some demo, why don’t we replace the vanities in the half-bath and guest bath while we’re at it?  Maybe we should go ahead and rip up this sh*tty carpet and put down hardwood.  You know, while we’re at it.  Let’s fix all the little annoying things about the house that we’ve been putting off WHILE WE’RE AT IT.  Oh, gawd, someone hide the sledge hammer from me.  We only have 10 weeks.

WE ONLY HAVE 10 WEEKS.  If that.

Only 2 1/2 more months to become a grown-up for real.

 

 

 

 

Crap.

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Platypus Update: It’s probably the Hormones, Right?


Depending on what I’m wearing, I get the unsolicited question, “How far along are you?”

Now, among people in the know, this does not faze me.  Nor does it bother me when strangers ask if I brought up the topic that I am pregnant.  However, if I have given no indication that I am pregnant (as far as I know), I have to fight the irrational response to be offended by the question.

Girls, you know why.

See, last year, I had an apron that was adorable but had the unintended side-effect of making me look preggers, especially to people who worked with me.  In such cases, the tentative question are you?  would sneak in and ruin my day.  What?  How could you think that?  I mean, I have a bit of a pudge, but that’s mostly the pocket of the apron and the fact that I have a high waistline.  Right?

Logically, I should never have felt offended by the question since it was never meant to offend.  Honestly, I should give mad props to anyone brave enough to pose the question even to someone they know because we have ALL felt mortified by the insinuation that we look so out of shape we must be harboring a human parasite in our wombs.  That kind of misunderstanding is hurtful for everyone.

And now that I am harboring said parasite, I have to turn off the part of my brain that’s all EFF YOU FOR THINKING I LOOK PREGNANT SINCE WE ALL KNOW THAT’S A HUGE INSULT TO A WOMAN.  Isn’t it weird how brains work?  I’ve been pregnant for 5 months now and I’m still in denial.

For instance, I had my second prenatal group meeting a couple weeks ago, which involved a brief check-up (blood pressure, weight, etc.) with the nurse and midwife.  An insidious part of my brain kept insisting that this is all a ruse and that when they went to listen to the heartbeat, it wouldn’t be there.  The universe is playing a massive trick on me.  My boobs are huge and I haven’t needed a tampon in nearly half a year, and yet…

I don’t look pregnant enough.  I haven’t felt it moving much.  I mean, a few butterflies, but that could just be indigestion.  I’m acting on faith that there is something in there that I can’t see or really feel, hanging out, sucking my energy and eating my food so that I feel like I’m always hungry and I absolutely can’t risk real hunger SINCE I WILL PROCEED TO EAT EVERYTHING.  I have to trust that there is a reason I can’t sleep comfortably, can’t stand for more than 30 min without my ribs hurting from holding up my boobs (did I mention they’re HUGE?!?), can’t go an hour without peeing, and can’t decide if what I’m feeling is my normal reaction to a situation or some over-blown hormone-induced response.

I spent the last two days trying to find a boob solution.  You ladies who have bazungas know what I’m talking about.  Finding a bra that fits is only half the battle.  It has to have enough support and has to be comfortable regardless of what you’re doing.  And it has to keep the ladies in check.  Bras are the bane of our existence and when we find one that works, we do NOT deviate.  However, my bras stop fitting month 1.

Things that I didn’t expect to happen the first trimester: frequent urination, mood swings, and bazungas.  Why is it that only thing I expected (morning sickness) wasn’t as bad as I thought while also being worse in unexpected ways?  Who called it “morning” sickness?  Was it a man?  I bet it was a man.

Did I mention that right before we found out about platypus I had just bought several new conventional and sports bras since it was time to replace my stock?  I bet I didn’t.  In June, I bought new bras bc reasons.  In July, they stopped fitting.  Ugh.  August, I went out and got a few more that offered more coverage, avoiding the nursing bras like the plague.  In October, they got bigger.  Now the problem isn’t the embarrassment of spilling out.  It’s the fact that part of my job involves being on my feet for 4 to 6 hours.  Which recently has started causing pain and not where I expected.

It feels like someone has taken rib-spreaders to my side, especially my right side right underneath my right boob.  And I LOVE how inadequate the solutions are for this problem.  Apparently, all I can do is buy more GORAM bras.

If you enter the lingerie department of any major store, you will find all kinds of solutions for hiding your tummy or back or thighs.  Because that’s what really matters to a woman: stuffing everything into an appeasing spandex shape underneath their business skirt or LBD.  What you won’t find is a section for “My boobs are temporarily too big and I just need a tank top that will help reign them in for the next few months until they stabilize enough for me to shell out money on nursing bras – also, it needs to be comfortable enough that I can sleep in it without cramping because this problem doesn’t seem to go away just because I’m not vertical.”  Seriously, that’s all I want.

What I don’t want is to spend hundreds of dollars repurchasing undergarments for the next 5 months.  Bras are expensive and I already have a whiny panic in the back of my head about all the stuff we have to buy for the human being we’re going to be putting up with for the next 18 years.  This is not when I want to be frivolously spending money on myself just because the industry thinks it’s more important to put my girls on display than to have them cinched in and supported.  I swear, if they focused more on back support than tummy control, well, they’d lose money because I wouldn’t have to keep buying more bras.

In the interim, I bought six new cheap sports bras to sleep in.  And I might start doubling up my camisoles.  Thank goodness it’s starting to cool off around here.

Okay, enough boob ranting.

Here’s something uncomfortable I don’t really want to put out there, but I’m going to or it will continue to scare me.

I don’t want to buy anything for platypus.  Earlier I said that I’m in denial still, which is very true.  I look at me in the mirror, I run my hand over my belly that won’t let me suck in my gut, I wonder if that was Platypus or just my imagination.  The topic comes up every day and it still doesn’t feel real.  Which might explain why I haven’t filled out the baby registry or done serious research on cribs and strollers.  It doesn’t, though.

The thought that makes me avoid making direct eye contact with the baby department is a nugget of paranoid fear.  Preparing for this baby is tempting Fate.  Picking out names, painting the nursery, fawning over baby clothes, all these acts are simply begging the universe to change its mind about this baby actually happening.  It doesn’t matter that I just heard its heartbeat a few weeks ago and next week we’re having the second sonogram.  If I make any decisions on the assumption that this is reality, the universe will kill my baby.

Okay, that’s the extreme dark end of the spectrum of this paranoia, I promise.

How about, if I commit to this then the joke will be up and it will all turn out to be some freakish mistake.  All the piss tests and blood tests and machines and symptoms will turn out to be a fluke.  And it’s too late for me to be okay about that because I picked out a breast pump system so I’m invested in this being real.

And I’m scared about it being real.  This is normal, I know.  So normal, in fact, that most of you will say that me not being scared about my first kid would be disconcerting.

What I’m trying to say, badly, is that there are so many things that can go wrong and I’m not sure I can handle it so I’m trying not to get attached to Platypus in order to protect myself.  And don’t say that nothing is going to go wrong.  It doesn’t have to be with this pregnancy or with its childhood or teenage years or adult life or even directly to Platypus.  Things go wrong because that is life.  And knowing that means I will fail this kid somehow.  I won’t respond the right way, say the right thing, make the right decision, whatever.  I will not be able to protect my kid from the world and I know, I know, I shouldn’t want to.  And I know that I have no control over whatever is going to happen and no amount of unhealthy denial about reality is going to change that fact.

So this is definitely the hormones talking.  That’s got to be it.  I’m going to eat some pudding, good night.

 

Stage: 21 weeks (2nd Trimester)

Weight: 145-ish

Boobs: More than a handful, according to Buddy

Mood: Not that great, a complete 180 from yesterday

 

Post Script:

Periodically, we hold little potlucks at work where people leave food in the break room that we shove into our faces during our 15 min breaks.  The last couple of days, the boss decided to do our Holiday potluck since the actual holidays are a freaking nightmare.  They also decided to have a mini-baby shower for me for lots of reasons, including Halloween being my favorite holiday and the other pregnant girl is further along than me (she actually quit right after they decided to do the baby shower, but they chose to do it anyway).

I got some wonderful gifts, all very practical and adorable and I don’t feel worthy of having such considerate and talented people to work with.  And it’s definitely the hormones that are making me tear up right now.

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