The Other Baby Drops

A week ago, Mixon had never fallen off of anything.

Sure, there was the time I hit him in the back of the head with my iPad, the time I dropped a remote on him, and the time I cut him with nail clippers, but we had yet to hear that thud that turns your stomach into a dirty garbage can full of old potatoes and banana peels.

There is a thing that happens with babies, and I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but they get older. The new sounds, expressions, laughs – they’re all great, but there will also be movement.

Mixon is now a champion roller who prefers to sleep on his stomach, thank you very much. He is also seconds away from crawling.

So exciting, right? Sure, but also terrifying. I quickly ordered a play yard that has a small likelihood of actually fitting in my living room and some other safety stuff, but there’s more to do.

That became abundantly clear one day when I was at ‘Milk Club’ at Vanderbilt (a lactation support group that’s really just an excuse to get cute babies together and play). We all put our babies up on the table and talk about naps and poop and boobs.

We talked about falling babies that day, that’s the thing.

Mixon flirted with some lady babies and had some fun and then it was time to go home. I had brought enough toys and gear for 5 babies, which is my norm. I started packing it all up and took my hand off of him for ONE SECOND. I looked back at the table and there was no Mixon.

Stomach

I looked around frantically for five seconds [years] and then I heard it – the shriek of (in my mind) betrayal. It’s a special what-the-fuck-is-happening scream that echoes in your ears for days. He was on the ground under a chair lying on his face. At least we were at a hospital.

After about a minute, he had calmed down, but I was still shaky. I made that hospital joke, kept calling myself a bad mommy, and held him and held him and held him.

Well, at least I had done it. We all now knew that Mixon was a mover and a shaker. Gone were the days of letting him lie.

Nope. As much as I wish I could have done the lesson learning for everyone, some of us have to do it ourselves. A person who shall remain nameless put Mixon on the couch that same day. It’s fun to prop him up, because he looks like this:

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As the lesson-learner, I cautioned him/her that this was probably not a good idea anymore, since he no longer stays there like a potato (if he takes after his parents, we’ll have ‘potato: part 2’ in his teenage years).

I stayed there watching the boy until said person came back into the room and rolled his/her eyes.

Yesterday, though. It happened. A couch-sit, a thud, a brain-shattering scream. He landed on his back this time, so at least he’s evening out. So now both this person and I have been there.

We’re  lucky – no injuries yet. And maybe we have now done all of the learning. No more tears ever, right?

In other news, we started Mixon on solids. We’re doing mainly baby-led weaning. This was broccoli, which he WILL NOT TOUCH until I bite the tree/flower things off.

IMG_2090See? HE’S FINE. I swear.

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Get Out of My Belly

39 weeks today and I am extremely ready for this baby to make its appearance. I know – I still have a week left, and there’s no guarantee that it’ll happen on the 18th (the average is over 41 weeks for first-timers), but THERE IS A HEAD INSIDE OF MY PELVIS!!!

A quote from Pregnant Chicken‘s weekly preggo update seems apropos:

It’s right around this time that there’s a slooow shift from you being perceived as a glowing woman that is creating life, into a fat husk that’s hoarding that adorable baby they all want to see.

I’m not really getting that from other people, I’m getting that from me. And my pelvis. My pelvis really wants to see this baby.

I’m not looking for a solution. I know, ultimately, as the Hypnobabies CD lady keeps reminding me, that “babies are born on their birth days, not when doctors decide.” (I can’t punch her in the face, because she only exists in headphones.)

But naturally, everyone has a way to jump-start the labor, so let’s go down the list:

  1. Walking – I’m still jogging three times a week, so I don’t think walking will do much
  2. Have sex – hard to do with a watermelon between you, but yes, that is happening
  3. Eat spicy food – already do that
  4. Castor oil – yikes
  5. Saffron – this comes from my sister-in-law, but it’s apparently also used for abortions in the early stages of pregnancy. Gets it out either way, but I think I’ll pass.
  6. Stop focusing on it and it will happen – Please. You try to stop focusing on the seven pounds of BS you’re carrying and we’ll talk

(Blame Ziggy for the bitchiness)

Since I’m not even at the due date yet, I should probably stop my whining. I’ve had such a crying-babysmooth pregnancy that I got completely spoiled. No glow, just normal living, for the most part. Now, I’m finally making some adjustments, mostly with my chocolate intake (much more) and my willingness to bend over (much less). Ziggy’s alien moves are still fascinating, though I’d love for them to be less focused on my bladder and ribs…  Most of all, this is getting boring. I know I’m arriving early to the party, but Ziggy is a terrible host.

Notice I said I should stop my whining…


Hungry, Hungry Hippo: A Preggo Update

In the past few days, I’ve been eating more. I won’t say more than I ever thought possible, because I have always been capable of thinking big about food. Unfortunately, the food I’ve been stuffing my mouth with is of the fried, powdered, sugar variety. Ziggy has developed a taste for the not-so-healthy.

I’m also starting to see how this is not going to be so comfortable for much longer. Sleeping has become interesting. So has walking.

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On the eve of my 30th week mark, I still can’t complain. Much. But I’m starting to come up against certain limitations. Opening doors is by far the weirdest and most aggravating. I guess I usually open doors just enough to fit myself through. There is now more of that self, but I still leave the same amount of space. This means that I frequently hit Ziggy on my way into and out of rooms. I no longer have any concept of how large I am. Most times, I feel huge. But when it comes to doors, apparently I’m tiny.

I can also no longer wear pants, or really anything without elastic on it. I’m living in skirts and pajama pants. All the maternity pants I’ve tried on either make my butt look saggy, my crotch look baggy, or both. Leggings tend to come in black, which show everyone what a crazy animal lady I am, plus the long shirts that work with leggings make me feel like a house.

Ziggy is doing the alien thing quite frequently these days. No one else has seen this yet, and I find myself perversely wanting someone to see it and shout out “gross”! This would mean that said person would have to be staring at my stomach, which would be weird. But every time I try to point it out to an unwilling observer, Ziggy stops moving. I don’t want to be alone with this thing! IT’S CREEPY!!!

I just ate three cookies fresh out of the oven. I will be eating more. Salads are a distant memory. Maybe when I go back home, maybe when my life is back to normal (I’m opening the original musical I wrote with my husband this weekend), maybe, maybe, maybe. By then I will be eight months pregs and Ziggy will have free reign. I have a feeling this sweet tooth isn’t going anywhere anytime fast.

Ok, so I CAN complain.

UPDATE: I just ate three more cookies.


Showing and Growing

I ate a whole bag of chips last night.

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To be fair, it wasn’t a full bag, but we’re not talking single-serving, either. There were, in fact, 8 servings. The marketers referred to the bag as “sharing size”. I’m not going to go into the calories, because it will depress me. They were reduced fat, but there’s a point where that stops meaning anything.

Okay (I rationalize), I WAS sharing that sharing size bag. With a fetus who has been gestating for 26 weeks today. My belly button is still an inny, but just. It really wants to pop out.

There’s no mistaking it now – I’m pregnant. This means a lot of people are now brave enough to ask me how far along I am. For months, I wanted people to ask this, to know I was past the pregnant-or-fat stage. Now, I just want to screw with them.

“What do you mean, how far along? How far along in what?”

I desperately want to say this to someone. Not to make them feel bad, just… okay. I probably won’t do it because it WILL make them feel bad. Who knew Ziggy could make me mean? See also: my recent tendency toward sobbing. Until this week, I hadn’t had many tears, but now, I’m crying at large hats and sleeping dogs.

I have also begun feeling a great sense of accomplishment for doing small things. Laundry, for example. I fixed a window with just a minor flesh wound and expected someone to knock on my door and give me a prize. Each time I run, I feel like I won a triathlon.

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In other news, today is my husband’s 40th birthday. He is currently in Florida. On the phone today, we discussed:

  • Whether we’re going to tell our child he/she is “special” and what special really means
  • The fact that I’m becoming more maternal (I don’t see it)
  • How we’re basically going to have about five full weeks at home to really prepare for this child
  • Whether the kid will be more important to either one of us than we are to each other
  • The possibility that a kid will make us cheat on each other

You know, just a fun, light-hearted convo to ring in his new year. We both know that the key is talking it out, the way it’s always been. And we’re good at that. We’re talkers. We’ll just see how easy talking is with a third voice screaming in the background…

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*sob*


I Will Not Choke Down an Entire Jar of Almond Butter

I hadn’t tried almond butter until I used it in my first pre-natal love: Banana Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies. Ever since I made another batch earlier this week, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the goopy, not-quite-delicious almond butter.

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I thought about it before going to bed last night before going to bed.

I just ate about 1/3 of the jar.

It is not as good as peanut butter, which I also have in my pantry. It also has this weird consistency (I don’t think I’ve mixed it enough) that makes it stick to my teeth, my throat, and my esophagus. This makes me eat it much more slowly than I’m inclined to.

I think my small cravings – the cookies, the almond butter – are following the lead of my previous eating habits: convince yourself you love something that isn’t the most amazing thing, because you’re going to eat a whole hell of a lot of it.

That’s how insane I am.

And I’ve already passed it down to the lime inside of me (12 weeks yesterday). Poor thing is craving ALMOND BUTTER.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is two-thirds of a jar calling my name.

[I will probably laugh at myself when I have an actual CRAVING craving. In that situation, I will most likely go for 5 big, juicy hamburgers or three orders of nachos.]


I Will Try Not to Terrify My Husband

This isn’t about mood swings, though my husband has looked at me incredulously after I’ve said something unreasonable and I have yelled out “I’m pregnant!” Oh, what a glorious excuse for being douchey.

The truth is, I haven’t really had a tough go of it so far in my first trimester. I’m in my 10th week and feel a bit like a rock is sitting inside of my belly, but otherwise, I’m pretty good. Except for the constipation. That one sucks. But it (obviously) could be much, much worse.

This post is about what we will feed our child once he/she starts on solid foods. The breastfeeding stage is easy – I just have to worry about what I eat – but in time, I’ll have to worry about two mouths.

The way I’ve ultimately decided to deal with my lifelong weight issues is 1. by trying to eat healthyhealthy and boring as much as I can without stressing out too much about it, and 2. running. Diets make me crazy and fuel up my obsessive side, so it’s better for me to just do my best with baked chips, salads, and chicken/lean turkey. That is how I eat about half of the time. The other half is full of nachos, beef, and wonderfully saturated fats.

My husband has been trying to do this, too. He switched to Coke Zero from regular coke a while ago, and has tried to cut down on sugars, calories, etc. He wants to be around for our kid as long as he can. But he likes beer. He loves fast food. He loves steak and fried chicken and Doritos. And he alternates between feeling guilty and feeling defensive about these eating habits. Now, he’s worried that our child will never know the joy of the Happy Meal.

Despite my forays into horrible foods, I did manage to cut out fast food about a year ago. It seemed like an easy way to focus in on what I really wanted to use those calories for – something that doesn’t sometimes taste like chemicals and has a much better chance of not being horse meat. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some McDonald’s french fries and a nice Quarter Pounder, it was just a relatively easy thing for me to cut out. See also: that disgusted look on people’s faces when you mention fast food.

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I do think there’s something to be said for shaming people into health. It might be the only way to help this country curb its obesity problem. Guilt and shame for change! Without judgement, racists would feel a lot more comfortable speaking their minds these days.

That judgement makes part of my husband want to eat more fast food, and makes the other part eat it in the car before arriving somewhere. While I try not to make him feel bad for doing something he likes, he tries not to make me feel bad for making him feel bad… or something. It’s a precarious balance, but we’ve been able to keep it together for the most part.

i think these are turnips

Now (sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to the point), we’re going to have to find a new balance with Zig. I know there are billions of opinions out there about this, but I do want my kid to be able to be a kid. I want my kid to be a happy kid. But I’d like to avoid, if at all possible, my kid being a fat kid. I was a fat kid. It’s no fun.

Until Ziggy can make his/her own decisions, it’s up to the husband and me to make sure he/she is healthy and happy. I’m sure there are some good books out there about this. How to balance your kid’s diet without projecting your own issues onto the kid… how to do anything without projecting your own issues onto the kid… Wow, this parenting thing is hard.

And I haven’t started yet.


I Will Try To Give Myself a Break

I see a theme developing here…

I know I’m not alone in worrying about my weight, but it’s nice to have a little happy-go-lucky article about it to keep me warm on this Valentine’s Day.

Wendy Korn posted said article on fitpregnancy.com today: “Learn to Love Your Pregnancy Body“. It’s full of positive stuff from people who sound like they know what they’re talking about. I felt particularly comforted by the woman who, at 9 weeks (which is where I’m at), can’t fit into her jeans.

On the other side of it, I have a friend in her second trimester who has gained FOUR POUNDS. She’s already feeling uncomfortable and bemoaning the weight gain (because she’s “already mouth-breathing”). She has been eating healthy, but as far as I know, hasn’t actively been trying to avoid putting on the pounds. I would like to punch her in the face.

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I am not eating healthy. Chips (baked or reduced fat) have replaced my spinach salads as a side dish, and I have a little dessert every night. Sure, they’re the WW/Skinny Cow variety of dessert, but it’s still food.

See? I have to qualify everything! What am I so afraid of? I EAT THINGS.

But I’ve linked to this article so that I can remember to trust my body. And, while I won’t be wearing bikinis like the author suggests (because that’s just uncomfortable for everyone), I won’t be ashamed of my bump. The pounds I gain in my face, my legs, and my already enormous arms… well, I’ll try to go easy on that, too.

lena dunhamI suppose this is an appropriate moment to mention that Lena Dunham is my hero. Last week’s episode of Girls was wonderful and the controversy around it (that it’s ridiculous to think someone like Patrick Wilson would want to bone someone like Lena Dunham) just proves that none of this is in my head. I was really nervous/uncomfortable when she first kissed the Wilson, because of how I’ve spent my life thinking about myself and my body. I would never have kissed him, because I wouldn’t have wanted to see the nausea on his face. But she wasn’t worried about that, nor should she have been. Nor should I have been in not-really-similar situations I’ve had in my past.

I really want to learn to be ok (‘love’ is a bit strong) with my body, and maybe this pregnancy is a good place to start (with a weekly reminder from Lena Dunham). Those 1D images of models in magazines – I’m not going to lie, those are beautiful images. But they’re not ALL there is to beauty. And I’m not really aiming for beauty, anyway. I just want to be confident in who I am and not feel like a monster if I want to wear shorts.

If you’re interested, this is a great post from Kate Spencer about what Lena Dunham’s nudity means to her. You should be interested. It’s really excellent.