Mom was here Friday, and Frankie got the day off for our first baby doctor appointment! Pretty exciting, but also slightly nerve-wracking, what with all the poking, examining and blood about to be taken. Frank was acting a little strange, but of course so was I, and he's earned himself a turn. Although it mostly consisted of him washing a lot of dishes, and getting slightly snappy with me for not being hungry (even though we just bought a hilarious amount of snack-food), so compared to my recent episodes of Looney Tunes, I'd say I got the better end of the weirdness stick.
I basically demand to drive to the appointment, and end up making a wrong turn toward the end of the trip to the doctor, blaming it on Frank's bad directions. To be exact, he had given me only one direction, and I had waved it off (because (pff), I already knew how to get there). Until the small dark spot in my brain covering a portion of the trip showed itself.
The one direction WAS actually wrong--a left should've been a right--or I wasn't listening properly or something. So as a combination of me being proud, and Frank always looking at the MAP instead of at the LIST on Google maps like I always TELL HIM TO DO...we were a whole five minutes later than we planned. We were still ten minutes early for the appointment, but it was a great excuse to get hyper over nothing.
The appointment itself was less eventful than we had pictured, based on What to Expect's description of the first visit, but we scheduled that more invasive and revealing meeting before we left. Turns out we were mostly asked a bunch of questions and given a lot of information. No poking around or thorough examining, but there was blood taken. Here was the exchange between the nurse and I:
Nurse: Go ahead and have a seat.
Me: So how much blood is this?
Nurse: (nonchalantly) 6 tubes
Me: ..You're kidding, right?
Nurse: (points to the counter riddled with tubes) Yeah, I'm serious.
Me: (deep breath) Okayy, well just to warn you, I'm not really good at this.
Nurse: It's really not that much--
Me: No, you don't understand. I was actually kicked out of one of those medical studies in college because I wasn't good at giving blood samples
Nurse: You're not gonna pass out are you?
Me: Mmm, I might.
Nurse: Oh, Lord, I don't think we have any rooms right now.
The nurse proceeds to check as to whether there are any rooms available for one to have their legs elevated after a blood work chair schlump. Negatory. A cold compress (wet paper towel) and cup of water will have to do. She reassures me that it's REALLY not as much as I think, and straps one of those horrible rubber bands above my elbow. I shade my right eye with my left hand to block sight of the needle, when the nurse suggests that I call my husband over to talk to me while I get the life force sucked out of my veins. Sure, why not?
Me: Frankie, come over here.
Frank: (peeks around the corner) ...Hi.
Nurse: Talk to her.
Me: Your job is to distract me so I don't pass out. Tell me a joke.
Frank: (brightens) Ah, all right, uh, Knock, knock.
Me: (smirks through worry) Who's there?
Frank: Duane.
Me: Duane who?
Frank: Duane the baftub, I'm dwoowwningg!
The nurse loves it, and he fires up another riddle about Beethooven's favorite fruit (Ba-na-na-naaaah). The nurse observes that I'm not finding the jokes as funny as she is, and I reply that is mostly because I have heard them about a hundred-thousand times. He had to think fast, and those are his staples of crowd-pleasing humor. Good jokes, but not the freshest.
He leads into a third story-based joke about a lawyer, when I interrupt. "Don't tell this joke. It's too long." I am quickly overruled by the nurse, who insists that she's never heard it, and would really like to. "I am lovin' this--go 'head Frankie."
I had a band-aid on my arm right as the punchline was delivered, just in time for the nurse to support her weight on the counter laughing. Turns out it was the perfect length, and while I still felt the color wash from my face around what I assume was tube 4, I remained conscious.
The nurse's review was a resounding five stars--"Good Job, Frankie! I wish we had you in here all the time--nobody be passin' out with you around!! If you be doin' this while the kid's comin, Imma love it."
Thanks to Frankie, and also to that lawyer who bought a new car. Ask him to tell you about it.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Dear Hormones,
While I appreciate being spared by-and-large from the vomiting bit so far, being plagued with what seems like never-ending bout of nausea is, I feel, a really crappy alternative. I heard you can make my nails grow and my hair look awesome, how about you concentrate on that? Or maybe you can at least make me crave something that will reverse your effects--you lied to me about pizza, and pickles don't have enough calories to carry me through the day, so either get over yourself, or drop clearer hints.
You're not respecting my body. You make me gag over my leftover juice from breakfast (because somehow it smells like the drippy-yolk eggs that Frank ate), cause me to blubber over figments of my own imagination, and transform my normal fiber-filled diet into fuel for a noxious bio-hazard.
I hope you understand where I'm coming from, and that you could take it easy on me. Just know that my mom is coming to town tomorrow, and if you don't start chilling out a little, she's going to have a little sit-down with you and straighten you out. I heard she made you some macaroni and cheese to be nice, so behave, or else you'll get just what you want--YOU WON'T GET ANY.
Deepest resentment,
Carla
P.S. I know I get a baby at the end. I'll thank you then.
You're not respecting my body. You make me gag over my leftover juice from breakfast (because somehow it smells like the drippy-yolk eggs that Frank ate), cause me to blubber over figments of my own imagination, and transform my normal fiber-filled diet into fuel for a noxious bio-hazard.
I hope you understand where I'm coming from, and that you could take it easy on me. Just know that my mom is coming to town tomorrow, and if you don't start chilling out a little, she's going to have a little sit-down with you and straighten you out. I heard she made you some macaroni and cheese to be nice, so behave, or else you'll get just what you want--YOU WON'T GET ANY.
Deepest resentment,
Carla
P.S. I know I get a baby at the end. I'll thank you then.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Happy Valentines Day
Today was a great day, thanks to my loving husband. We actually stayed up late last night watching Bridesmaids and laughing and actually feeling a bit energetic for the first time in what feels like a very long time. I've pretty much felt tired since the end of January, and I just feel like a tire at about half air pressure--I can still do what I need to do, but I don't have as much bounce as I'd like. Anyway, today being our day off, we actually slept in til about 11, and Frank made us a batch of Martha Stewart's pancakes! My first choice was heart pancakes, in honor of the day; second choice was Mickey Mouse pancakes, but I ended up with my third choice--round pancakes. Even without the added ingenuity they were delicious, though I could only stomach one of them with some juice.
After breakfast, we decided to make Valentines for each other. I am a compulsive keeper (not hoarder) of useful craft supplies, which include (but are not limited to) various construction and other fine papers, glue, pipe cleaners, old cards, pom-poms, glitter, paints, pens, crayons and googly eyes. We chose carefully from the roomful of supplies I managed to amass for our activity, and spent a happy hour-and-change hand crafting love cards to one another while listening to (amongst others) The Beatles and Dashboard Confessional. Che romantico. Photo below of finished product!!
Next, we watched the Princess Bride (I for the first time), and afterward decided on a nap. Believe it or not, this is where the day gets a bit complicated, many thanks to my loose-cannon hormones.
It's a bit before 5pm when I lay down, joined by Frank. I sleep easily, but Frank is a bit restless after less than an hour, and decides to get up to call his mom and look for houses online. Time goes by, Frank gets lost in what he's doing, and I continue to sleep without stirring for quite some time. When I finally stir, it's a quarter to seven, and after I start semi-coherently whining, it becomes clear somewhat quickly to my unknowing sweetheart that this is a problem. You see, we had reservations for Tersigel's in Ellicott City at 8:30. We live a half hour away, and Frank had let me know that we should try to arrive around 8:15 or so. That means of course that we should leave 45 minutes from moment of sea-sick consciousness.
Picture this: you are a woman, newly pregnant. You've been nauseous most of the day (only because the whole day hasn't transpired yet). This is your last Valentines Day without a child. In months, you will be very convex. Your legs are very hairy, which you planned on taking care of calmly and coolly when you woke up at six o'clock. You want to wow your husband--this being one of the last legitimate reasons to dress nicely before your measurements start to escalate rapidly. Hair takes time. Makeup takes time. Switching accessories around to achieve the perfect harmonious combination that makes you feel like a genius/supermodel takes time. And getting out of bed at ANY time of day when you're pregnant--due to relentless sleepiness and queasies--TAKES TIME.
I begin to wimper and make my ugliest cry face (I know what it feels like). I begin to gripe at Frank for being concerned with the future dwelling of our very new family because we have SO MUCH TIME (we really don't.) and how he should have been in bed with me to aid consciousness at the time I never told him I wanted to wake up. He takes this well, blaming himself for my benefit (as I am clearly losing my mind at this moment), telling me to take my time getting ready, and drawing me a warm ("not too hot" is blobbed out between sobs) bath.
I get myself into the tub, still pouting, but at least now moving, and start shaving my legs. Sweet Frankie P shows up with an apple juice spritzer in one of our fancy champagne flutes, and I smile gleefully, but it's short lived. Once I get myself out, I realize we are quite short on time if we are to make it to the restaurant--someone said they close at nine. It's quarter to eight. Hair and makeup done quickly, but it's not perfect, and so baby brain starts crying again. I am assured that I look beautiful, and asked to take a minute to relax before we leave. It is already 8:15, and I find relaxing unattainable, so instead I convince Frank that we should go.
I am stiff and uncomfortable in the car, and continue crying for 20 of the 25 minute car ride. At this point, it is a certifiable fact that this is hormone induced. I know there is nothing to be upset about--my husband is more than pleased with the new dress I put on, the restaurant is open later than we thought, and it is no problem that we're late. MY EYES ARE LEAKING.
Perpetuating this trail of tears during the ride was the realization that I couldn't take a full breath in my dress while I sit. I recalled hearing that somewhere toward the mid/end of the second trimester, a woman can no longer fill her lungs fully with air because of baby girth. I have a panicky moment where I realize I would really like to fully inhale while I can, so I wrestle my coat open, and unzip my dress about 2 inches underneath the back of my sweater. Able to breathe a bit better, I manage to calm down in the parking lot. Magically, my makeup is lighter, but largely unharmed--an advantage of leaking crocodile tears versus voluntarily crying.
I am feeling pretty okay by the time we sit at our table, which was actually in the same room we had our nice little post-wedding lunch/reception. We make our tweaks to the pre-fixe orders, I pass my complimentary starter cocktail to Frank, and before we get the Mous Bous (weird French appetizers), I am stricken by a feeling of total discomfort. Though I'd already released some pressure in the car, the waist of my dress (purchased on the vacation in which I was knocked-up), has what I realize is a VERY inflexible waistline.
I start making colic faces. Frank is concerned. I explain the issue, at which time he suggests we switch seats. My back is currently to the rest of the room, and our plan is for me to continue to release my back zipper from duty. Thank the Lord I wore this sweater.
We make the change, and my back is now to the wall. Luckily, the two tables on either side have just cleared out, and remain open. I pull the zipper down to the nape of my back, and feel a release of pressure similar to the bottles of champagne that everyone else is drinking. There may have been a physical noise.
I have to button the top two buttons of my sweater, since the top of my dress is suddenly very lazy. Frank and I crack up as I make my way to the bathroom with a faint but large V visible on my back.
We're both in much higher spirits by the end of the meal--I have fully apologized for what I of course could not help, and we both got to eat a lot of great French bread, amongst other things. Ooh, and these amazing little blueberry tarts--they were incredible. Happy Valentines Day to us!
After breakfast, we decided to make Valentines for each other. I am a compulsive keeper (not hoarder) of useful craft supplies, which include (but are not limited to) various construction and other fine papers, glue, pipe cleaners, old cards, pom-poms, glitter, paints, pens, crayons and googly eyes. We chose carefully from the roomful of supplies I managed to amass for our activity, and spent a happy hour-and-change hand crafting love cards to one another while listening to (amongst others) The Beatles and Dashboard Confessional. Che romantico. Photo below of finished product!!
Next, we watched the Princess Bride (I for the first time), and afterward decided on a nap. Believe it or not, this is where the day gets a bit complicated, many thanks to my loose-cannon hormones.
It's a bit before 5pm when I lay down, joined by Frank. I sleep easily, but Frank is a bit restless after less than an hour, and decides to get up to call his mom and look for houses online. Time goes by, Frank gets lost in what he's doing, and I continue to sleep without stirring for quite some time. When I finally stir, it's a quarter to seven, and after I start semi-coherently whining, it becomes clear somewhat quickly to my unknowing sweetheart that this is a problem. You see, we had reservations for Tersigel's in Ellicott City at 8:30. We live a half hour away, and Frank had let me know that we should try to arrive around 8:15 or so. That means of course that we should leave 45 minutes from moment of sea-sick consciousness.
Picture this: you are a woman, newly pregnant. You've been nauseous most of the day (only because the whole day hasn't transpired yet). This is your last Valentines Day without a child. In months, you will be very convex. Your legs are very hairy, which you planned on taking care of calmly and coolly when you woke up at six o'clock. You want to wow your husband--this being one of the last legitimate reasons to dress nicely before your measurements start to escalate rapidly. Hair takes time. Makeup takes time. Switching accessories around to achieve the perfect harmonious combination that makes you feel like a genius/supermodel takes time. And getting out of bed at ANY time of day when you're pregnant--due to relentless sleepiness and queasies--TAKES TIME.
I begin to wimper and make my ugliest cry face (I know what it feels like). I begin to gripe at Frank for being concerned with the future dwelling of our very new family because we have SO MUCH TIME (we really don't.) and how he should have been in bed with me to aid consciousness at the time I never told him I wanted to wake up. He takes this well, blaming himself for my benefit (as I am clearly losing my mind at this moment), telling me to take my time getting ready, and drawing me a warm ("not too hot" is blobbed out between sobs) bath.
I get myself into the tub, still pouting, but at least now moving, and start shaving my legs. Sweet Frankie P shows up with an apple juice spritzer in one of our fancy champagne flutes, and I smile gleefully, but it's short lived. Once I get myself out, I realize we are quite short on time if we are to make it to the restaurant--someone said they close at nine. It's quarter to eight. Hair and makeup done quickly, but it's not perfect, and so baby brain starts crying again. I am assured that I look beautiful, and asked to take a minute to relax before we leave. It is already 8:15, and I find relaxing unattainable, so instead I convince Frank that we should go.
I am stiff and uncomfortable in the car, and continue crying for 20 of the 25 minute car ride. At this point, it is a certifiable fact that this is hormone induced. I know there is nothing to be upset about--my husband is more than pleased with the new dress I put on, the restaurant is open later than we thought, and it is no problem that we're late. MY EYES ARE LEAKING.
Perpetuating this trail of tears during the ride was the realization that I couldn't take a full breath in my dress while I sit. I recalled hearing that somewhere toward the mid/end of the second trimester, a woman can no longer fill her lungs fully with air because of baby girth. I have a panicky moment where I realize I would really like to fully inhale while I can, so I wrestle my coat open, and unzip my dress about 2 inches underneath the back of my sweater. Able to breathe a bit better, I manage to calm down in the parking lot. Magically, my makeup is lighter, but largely unharmed--an advantage of leaking crocodile tears versus voluntarily crying.
I am feeling pretty okay by the time we sit at our table, which was actually in the same room we had our nice little post-wedding lunch/reception. We make our tweaks to the pre-fixe orders, I pass my complimentary starter cocktail to Frank, and before we get the Mous Bous (weird French appetizers), I am stricken by a feeling of total discomfort. Though I'd already released some pressure in the car, the waist of my dress (purchased on the vacation in which I was knocked-up), has what I realize is a VERY inflexible waistline.
I start making colic faces. Frank is concerned. I explain the issue, at which time he suggests we switch seats. My back is currently to the rest of the room, and our plan is for me to continue to release my back zipper from duty. Thank the Lord I wore this sweater.
We make the change, and my back is now to the wall. Luckily, the two tables on either side have just cleared out, and remain open. I pull the zipper down to the nape of my back, and feel a release of pressure similar to the bottles of champagne that everyone else is drinking. There may have been a physical noise.
I have to button the top two buttons of my sweater, since the top of my dress is suddenly very lazy. Frank and I crack up as I make my way to the bathroom with a faint but large V visible on my back.
We're both in much higher spirits by the end of the meal--I have fully apologized for what I of course could not help, and we both got to eat a lot of great French bread, amongst other things. Ooh, and these amazing little blueberry tarts--they were incredible. Happy Valentines Day to us!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Preggo Progress
You're not getting a picture of this one, but currently my most comfortable underwire bra is losing its most comfortable status. Even when I'm standing up straight, that thing has its work cut out for it. I heard they get bigger and bigger through the whole 9 months. I know some people get pumped (<-haha) about this, but I was comfortable with my C-cup. Very comfortable.
Also, I have been Marty Farty to the max lately. WHATEVER, YOU SHOULD KNOW. If you're reading this, I probably care enough about you that you should be warned. After bloating all day, I feel almost second-trimester, and sound like a tuba now that I'm home.
Word is slowly starting to sneak out, even though we figured we should go to the doctor first. It's just SO HARD not to say anything!! But the way I figure, there are plenty of people who I would tell the whole shabang to if things went south, regardless as to whether they knew in the first place, so we might as well be excited now.
As worried as I could be, I'm trying to keep it to a minimum. Whatever goes on is nothing we can't handle with prayers and support, and besides, I am super optimistic about this baby. I'm GONNA HAVE A BABY!! I hope it's a girl. I told Frank I'd be happy either way, and I ABSOLUTELY would, but... I'd like a little girl <3.
Eating heart raviolis with my honey tonight (I didn't eat the red one--just for show). OH! AND Rutabagas for the first time. They are a consistency between potato and beet, and a flavor between a golden beet and cauliflower. Needs salt and pepper to be palatable.
Tomorrow is our 2nd Valentines Day, and the last one we will spend without spending on a babysitter. We have dinner plans, and may also make glittery valentines for one another after breakfast. Sounds like a winner :D
Also, I have been Marty Farty to the max lately. WHATEVER, YOU SHOULD KNOW. If you're reading this, I probably care enough about you that you should be warned. After bloating all day, I feel almost second-trimester, and sound like a tuba now that I'm home.
Word is slowly starting to sneak out, even though we figured we should go to the doctor first. It's just SO HARD not to say anything!! But the way I figure, there are plenty of people who I would tell the whole shabang to if things went south, regardless as to whether they knew in the first place, so we might as well be excited now.
As worried as I could be, I'm trying to keep it to a minimum. Whatever goes on is nothing we can't handle with prayers and support, and besides, I am super optimistic about this baby. I'm GONNA HAVE A BABY!! I hope it's a girl. I told Frank I'd be happy either way, and I ABSOLUTELY would, but... I'd like a little girl <3.
Eating heart raviolis with my honey tonight (I didn't eat the red one--just for show). OH! AND Rutabagas for the first time. They are a consistency between potato and beet, and a flavor between a golden beet and cauliflower. Needs salt and pepper to be palatable.
Tomorrow is our 2nd Valentines Day, and the last one we will spend without spending on a babysitter. We have dinner plans, and may also make glittery valentines for one another after breakfast. Sounds like a winner :D
Snacking Spree
So Sunday was a fairly lazy day.
Started out by not going to church. I threw up, and Frank was obsessively looking for a new house for us to move into over the Summer. After we got that out of our systems, there was scuffling around the house to finish odd ends of laundry and dishes, followed by us passing out in bed again until about 4pm. I'm making a baby, and Frank's been dealing with me yelling about how he smells all the time, so we were both pretty tired.
Upon waking, we decide to go to Costco to stock up on snackypoos for Preggers. I feel sick in the car, rush inside for a wedge of doughy, cheesy pizza and a bottle of water. Frank eats the cheese because my hormones don't want it, and we're back at full recovery and in action.
I actually gagged at the sight of a 4 foot by 6 foot hotdog on the wall of the store (which I realize may not far off for non-pregnant people..). My mom says she couldn't even look at pictures of most food through her pregnancies. She'd turn over magazines to avoid them. I thought it was weird, but I'm starting to get it.
Also, the pickle thing is real. Something about the sour salt is oddly relieving. I thought I was projecting pregant stuff on myself the first time I had one this week, but I've been back to the pickle jar more than once since then. A giant jar was one of the first things in the cart.
Along with the pickles went Goldfish, some snack bars, dried cherries, granola, cashew squares, juice, seltzer, tons of cheerios, whole grain pasta, and baby bags of popcorn! (Not FOR the baby. Well..kind of for the baby.)
Over an hour and 100 bucks later, we headed back home to catch up on our select Hulu after-the-facts. A solid 2 hours of that, and I was ready to pass out drooling on my Hubbo. Seriously. Fact: It was reported this morning that Frank actually woke up because of the puddle of drool on his back in the middle of the night. A gross, but common-enough-to-be-in-What-To-Expect side effect of buns in the oven. I had no idea, but I'm like Pavlovin' 24/7.
Here's a picture of our newly dubbed "snackie table". Complete with ziplock bags.
Started out by not going to church. I threw up, and Frank was obsessively looking for a new house for us to move into over the Summer. After we got that out of our systems, there was scuffling around the house to finish odd ends of laundry and dishes, followed by us passing out in bed again until about 4pm. I'm making a baby, and Frank's been dealing with me yelling about how he smells all the time, so we were both pretty tired.
Upon waking, we decide to go to Costco to stock up on snackypoos for Preggers. I feel sick in the car, rush inside for a wedge of doughy, cheesy pizza and a bottle of water. Frank eats the cheese because my hormones don't want it, and we're back at full recovery and in action.
I actually gagged at the sight of a 4 foot by 6 foot hotdog on the wall of the store (which I realize may not far off for non-pregnant people..). My mom says she couldn't even look at pictures of most food through her pregnancies. She'd turn over magazines to avoid them. I thought it was weird, but I'm starting to get it.
Also, the pickle thing is real. Something about the sour salt is oddly relieving. I thought I was projecting pregant stuff on myself the first time I had one this week, but I've been back to the pickle jar more than once since then. A giant jar was one of the first things in the cart.
Along with the pickles went Goldfish, some snack bars, dried cherries, granola, cashew squares, juice, seltzer, tons of cheerios, whole grain pasta, and baby bags of popcorn! (Not FOR the baby. Well..kind of for the baby.)
Over an hour and 100 bucks later, we headed back home to catch up on our select Hulu after-the-facts. A solid 2 hours of that, and I was ready to pass out drooling on my Hubbo. Seriously. Fact: It was reported this morning that Frank actually woke up because of the puddle of drool on his back in the middle of the night. A gross, but common-enough-to-be-in-What-To-Expect side effect of buns in the oven. I had no idea, but I'm like Pavlovin' 24/7.
Here's a picture of our newly dubbed "snackie table". Complete with ziplock bags.
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