Morning Meltdown

Dear Readers:
I assure you, I have no mental illness. This (hopefully) temporary condition I've been describing over the past weeks HAS to be a result of the joys of pregnancy. If any professional psychologists are reading this, please message me privately with your additional theories concerning my condition. Thank you.

Without further ado, here is the story of how I woke up on Thursday.

I opened my eyes after a good night's sleep, of course, having to go to the bathroom. I get up, feeling a bit light headed, but I make it to my destination without issue. After taking care of morning business, I approach the sink, suddenly very angry. I feel queasy. Washing my hands shouldn't cause me to feel queasy. This is not fair. I've only been standing for thirty seconds, and it's started already. I JUST WANT TO FEEL GOOD. UGH.

I stalk weakly back to bed and bury myself in our fluffy white comforter. I start to huff and puff in shallow breaths, and my eyebrows to furrow unpleasantly. Frank's mama-bear-attack-sensors begin to alarm loudly in his head as he asks me what's wrong.

I can't answer him. I can only make puppy noises and hide my face further in the covers. Frank motions outside. "It's a beautiful day, how about we take a walk."

I make a sound of agreeance, but it's laced with "if only I could".

"Okay honey, I think it's time to get out of bed, come on."

This idea overwhelms me, and I inexplicably begin--not crying, but mindlessly SOBBING. Not the bury-your-head-in-your-pillow-for five-minutes kind--the mourning and wailing kind--the kind where it all comes out with guttural sounds and lots of snot.

The first words out of my mouth are about my sister, who has recently had another in a string of sports injuries. This makes pretty good sense to me--I am very concerned for her health, and also for the fact that it's very difficult to be a dedicated athlete on the DL. "It's not fair" I cry.
And cry.
And cry.

I finally start to calm down a little, Frank is now next to me, assuring me that she will be okay, it's okay, everything's okay.

Then I really lose it.

I am HOWWWWLING in bed. My inner monologue goes like this:

I am not even upset about anything else right now. I was really crying about Dani, but I know things will sort themselves out. This is insane, I'm not even crying for a real reason. Why am I crying? Let me try to tell Frank so he doesn't worry.

Outer dialogue goes like this:
"I D-DONEVENNNNOO WHYYAIMCRYYINGG EHHHHH HE-HEEEEHHH"
"Honey, it's okay, you just cry."

So I do. I continue to cry with a clear and conflict-empty mind, until I make what sounds like a truly sad and likely conclusion out loud:

"III'M CRAAA-ZEEEE HE-HE-HEEEEEEEEEEEEEH"
"You're not crazy, you're just...you should probably eat something. Do you want some toast?"

Since I am, despite appearances, not upset, and I am now able to be calm as I think about the question. Talking becomes the issue. I am now cry-talking.

"CAN YOU MAKE ME A KEE-WEEEEEEEEE? HEH-HEH-HEEEEEHHH.
"Sure I'll get you a kiwi. One for you and one for me? or do you want to be queen of the kiwis? (meaning, "or would you like them all for yourself?")

I AM NOT SAD ABOUT ANYTHING. I AM MAKING A JOKE NOW.

"EMPERORRUF THE KEE--WEEEES (blub blub blub)..." ("yes, I want all the kiwis. there are only like five foods I can eat without gagging. don't touch my kiwis.")

And I cry another few minutes, and Frank re-appears with a freshly cut kiwi for me.

End scene. We go for a walk, and I have a normal day. I WASN'T UPSET.

...and I'm not crazy. (HEH-HEH-HEEEEEEEEEEHHH)

Here's a video of someone on my level:

THERE'S A BABY IN THERE

On Monday (the 27th), after what seemed like the absolute longest week of my life, Frank and I went back to the OB to see how the kid was a-cookin. We had a kind of funny conversation before hand about him having to watch me get examined AND get a pap-smear. It ended like this:


"Are you ready for this?"
"Mmm--No."


So we get to the office, I pee in a cup again, I rest my sleepy head on Frank in the waiting room (it's 1:45), and eventually we make it to the exam room. I have my blood pressure and weight measured, and the ultrasound machine is wheeled into the room. I complain to the nurse about having to get my cervix invaded, and then ask if the machine is here already so we can see the baby first. "No, you get your pap first, then you get to see the baby." Darn.


Frank makes some comment about dangling a carrot, and I laugh in a way that says "oh, you be quiet".  I whimper through the pap like a champ, and then finally, the feature presentation can begin.


The doctor invites Frank to come over next to me, so he can see the screen, and then he preps what I have referred to in my head as "the magic wand".


MYTH: Ultrasound is a rated PG activity, in which cold jelly is put on mommy's belly while the wand goes over it, revealing baby's features.
FACT: We continue laughing as I point to the wand sitting on the ultrasound stand. It looks like this:

 "You know where that's goin'."
The nurse laughs, and reassures that not the whole thing will go "in there"
It is, however, covered with a condom AND lube, just to separate it from any phallic imagery.


Needless to say, it's kind of strange at first, but as soon as the pictures start on the screen I cooperate fully, moving my legs and shifting as asked so that things that should be seen, can be seen. Before you know it, something has appeared before our eyes that is absolutely gripping our attention.


It's not a dot, or a blob, or a sea-monkey--it's our little, itty-bitty, Polly Pocket-sized baby, with a little head, a little body, and a little heartbeat that we can easily see. It is, breathtaking. Part of me still thinks that they must have nabbed an image from someone else's little embryo, it just doesn't seem possible--but it guess it has to be, or they wouldn't have had me schedule six other appointments already. And I will say the baby in motion was even a bit more defined than the picture-- it's a cute little button.


The doctor confirms one healthy pregnancy, with a normal heartbeat of 158 beats per minute, which we could actually hear through the machine when I held my breath. We got pictures printed of our 8-week old "little peanut", and then we were sent back into the world, our heads clouded with awe and excitement.


There is no better feeling than hearing the words "normal and healthy", at least I suppose there won't be until we hear the words "it's a boy", or "it's a girl".

By the way, I labeled what was identified for us as the yolk sac, because it confused us, and I figured I'd just help everyone out.