Pregnant dress shopping

As I wrote in an earlier post, my best friend is getting married 2 days before my due date, and I am the maid of honor.

"Good luck getting to that wedding."...
"We'll see about that."...
"HA--Good luck."

These are just a few of the many highly optimistic jeers I've received upon telling people about this event. They have not phased me, and I am going into this with no qualms about committing to being there. I just ordered my $250 maternity-style dress, shown below, in petal pink. Lovely!



Brief excerpt from the fitting:
Woman who I instantly disliked: "Let's measure your waist next, although that's just going to disappear anyway, isn't it!!"
Me: Ha. ha. [will you leave now?]

Bride-to-be confirms that the woman said all of the wrong things to absolutely everyone the whole time we were there, and I manage to shake it off.

3 days later--voice mail from (thankfully) a different, very nice lady confirming 9-months pregnant sizing calculations:
"Hi there, this is [nice lady] from [nice dress shop], just wanted you to know that I'm going to place the order for your dress, and I'm going to place it in a size 16, because you know, you're going to have milk in there, and you'll need a little extra room. Just give me a call to let me know that that's okay, Thank youuu."

Me: SIX-TEEN? No. That can't be right. That lady measured over my bra, and I probably won't even wear one for the wedding. No. That's too big. I'm calling her--sixteen? No, not sixteen, that's huge.

[Frank remains silent as I dial, still mumbling.]

Phone call to dress shop:
Nice Lady: Hello, Nice Dress Shop
Me: Hiii, is this Nice Lady?
Nice Lady: Yes, it is--
Me: Hiii, you just left me a message about ordering my dress?
Nice Lady: Oh, yes, glad you called.
Me: Yeah.. I'm just a little worried that sixteen is going to be too big. I mean, I'm only an 8-10 right now, and--I just think it's really big.
NL: 8/10 in real dress sizes?

[Note: Real dress sizes are evil, tending to run anywhere from 2 to 10 sizes smaller than the clothes you wear every day. You would think that dress makers would want to make their clients feel great on the special days they're shopping for, not make them feel like whales...You would think.]

Me: [remembers how real dress sizes work] UGHHH, REAL dress sizes...[unsure of what else to say]
NL: Because if you're an 8/10 in real life, you're probably a 12 in dress size, and your bust measured a size 14, and we want to give you some extra room, because the way we aaare, you're going to, you know, you'll have milk in there.
Me: Ugh, I forgot about real dress sizes. The more we talk about this, the more 16 sounds okay.
NL: Yeaaah. We just want to make sure we can zip it up, because the rest of it can stay big.
Me. [Resigns completely] You're right...keep the 16.
NL: Alright, honey. We'll let you know when it comes in, thanks for calling.
[click]

Me: UUUGH I'm going to wear a SIX-TEEEN.
Frank: It's just a number, you just want it to fit you, right?
Me: Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

So there it is. I've invested 250 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers in a dress larger than has ever humanly fit me, with full intent to wear a diaper underneath it. [It's going to be a long day, and I WILL NOT pee myself on the dance floor.]

Despite what will be the odd circumstances, and what seems like quite a gamble, I really, honestly have a good feeling about it. So just get on my team, and get excited about my giant dress, K? Good talk.

The Baseball Spa

Yesterday was a full day of running around--3 tutoring students, and what didn't seem like that many errands...until I was done with them.

The day in order:
Miss shower
Prep for reading lesson
Student 1- 10am-11:30am
Assemble pregnancy snacks
(drive for half hour)
Student 2- 12:15-1:15
Catch up on student reporting
Research surprise for someone online
Call someone to talk about it
Call someone else to talk about it
Eat apple
Post office drop
Drug store for candy treats for turtle feeders
Walmart to waste my time because they didn't have what I wanted
BACK to office to furiously order surprise after final confirmation from someone
Harried drive to student 3's school, only to find that she has been picked up from school. Just as well.
2 minutes later--It's student 3's mom--she is so sorry! Grandma didn't know about lessons. Sigh.
Student 3- 3:45-5pm
Wendy's for junior cheeseburger deluxe and water and bloating
Bank for deposit
Yell at car I know is beeping at me because they want my front row spot at the bank
Back out of spot and mouth "IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?"
Realize that car is just notifying karate student next door of its arrival.
Call customer service line to change certain details of surprise after tip from someone
Mall for secondary treat for aforementioned surprisee
Pee at Macy's
Walk in two full circles around escalators before re-arriving at "down" escalator
Call Pei Wei for carryout--pickup time will be 6:40.
Waste time at a totally different Walmart because they don't have a totally different item I want.
Pei Wei pickup--no fuss, no muss.
Trader Joe's for simple item that Walmart didn't have, plus fresh flowers.
(drive for half hour)
Other post office drop
Smash and shear thumbnail on steering wheel reaching for keys in ignition. Still sitting in driver's seat.
Deliver treats for turtle helper neighbors. Yay, skittles!
Home at 8--put away uneaten snacks.
Divide Pei Wei and garnish with mini container of extra peppers and carrots
Husband is home, looking dapper.
Anticipation for Pei Wei builds as blood sugar makes final pre-dinner drop--everything is READY.
Spill every drop of giant glass of water while adjusting flower vase.
Grumble about wet socks
Get large towel from upstairs
Marvel at pattern and span of water strewn across dining room floor.
Shake head and scoot towel with feet, burning final existing molecules of glucose.
Sit opposite of spill site and allow husband to pray before impending explosion.
No explosion--eating instead.
Husband draws bath upon request
Enter husband's impromptu-named "Baseball Spa"

Here the list stops, because here starts a completely new, delightful portion of my day.

Frank has the laptop set up on the sink with live streaming of the Orioles/Yankees game. I start relaxing right away, soaking, scrubbing and shaving away layers of pregnancy-induced dry skin and a skin-darkening coat of leg hair. IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW, DON'T READ IT.

He helps me scrub my back, and the game is tied when I hop out of the tub.

Next was the mud mask. I was very proud of this purchase--Rite Aid had all sorts of fun beauty treatment stuff for like 75% off, and I had indulged in about $20 worth of reduced-price goodies. I got some nice, oceany-smelling body butter, another great organic lotion that smells like magic, my sugar scrub, and then the crowning glory--a 14oz, clasp-sealed jar of detoxifying face and body mud, originally over $20, which I had yet to try.

Frank had me lay on the (spa)bed in the next room with a towel under my head, and used his extra barber brush to apply the cold gook on my face, carefully avoiding my eyes and lips as per the instructions. There was a coldness, but also a slight burning sensation through the 15-minute process, which I figure was just a foreseeable part of the procurement of firmer, fresher skin. I brushed it off, focusing on the ninth inning of the baseball game, but also expected some redness after rinsing the mud away.

What I didn't expect, was greenness.

"Um...my face is stained green."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I mean I look like a zombie."
[enters the bathroom]"Hmm...did you use the sponge to wipe it off?"
"YAH, I used the sponge."
"...I'm sorry, babe."

Frank is feeling it bit bad between making jokes about photosynthesis, but I'm not particularly mad. I'm mostly worried about health implications of having stained skin, especially while carrying a child. Perhaps discount spa treatments aren't the best way to go...although my skin is firmer and very soft at the moment. Besides, I'm still having fun being pampered, and there's still a foot treatment I've been hoarding with soft little conditioning socks to come.

So here's an approximation of before and after:

Before

After

I may be exaggerating slightly on the shade, but it does make it look like I have a dirty hobo beard. Meaning that it still looks like this today.

I put on a yellow sweatshirt recently passed to me by my sister this morning, which Frank seemed to think looked really great on me. He even suggested that I wear yellow more often, which I know, from 25 years of experience, is not the best advice for moi. I don't [normally] have a yellow complexion.

"Maybe it's because my face is green"

"...maybe it is. But it still looks nice."

And I have to smile, because even though he keeps calling me "Triceratops" and "Plant lady", I know that even if I had on something red that made me look like I was about to vomit, he'd probably find a way to call me pretty.

Thanks for "The Baseball Spa", Honey.

Shopping for Mommy

I went to the mall yesterday to order some new glasses from Lenscrafters. I had put a pair on hold the day before that were quite different from any I've had before, and while I wasn't 100% sure on them, I was looking forward to trying them on again after my tutoring sessions. They had these ambery acrylic frames, a bit large, but I didn't think they were bad. Dolce and Gabana--so fancy, although not a deal-breaker since my insurance covered most of the frame price.

I walk into the store, the guy finds my frames, and instantly tells me that he doesn't like them. Cool.

He doesn't like the color ("just personally"), and after another 45 minutes of trying these amongst all sorts of other frames, he also lets me know "they're too big for your face". WAAAAH. I also liked a similar pair of clear purple frames against my better judgement, but in the end, after hemming and hawing, and almost not signing the paperwork after it was printed, I went with these:

Ooooh, how cute, you say. Sooo nice! If you worked at Lenscrafters you might add something inane about how well my eyes are centered. And while I like them quite a bit more after about 4 hours of wear the next day, I have a very strange feeling about this purchase.

See, I wanted something different from my current [slightly warped, very filthy] glasses that I bought about 2 years ago. Theses specs had all sorts of color and zazz that really got me excited about buying, and thusly wearing them. But I didn't want "different" to mean "average" or "boring" or "domestic-looking". As soon as the guy was sitting with me, hammering in the details which would allow me to purchase these lovely frames, I began to feel trapped by their simplicity. I felt I had sacrificed some of my own personal flare at the tauntings of this salesman, but perhaps not only because of him.

I know I'm gonna have a kid in 6 months (I'M GONNA HAVE A KID IN 6 MONTHS.) There's a weird feeling that I get when I get dressed for a baby doctor appointment, where I feel like I have to wear a dress with my hair down, and some light feminine makeup. That feeling started to sneak in on me while I shopped for glasses.

I felt, and kind of still feel like I'm strattling this line between the obvious idea that of course, I can still be my one-click-off self, and that maybe I need to grow up--whatever that means. That maybe I shouldn't wear buzz lightyear hats in public,

or wear dresses with sneakers and sweatshirts,

 or pretend I'm a dinosaur in a dress with sneakers and sweatshirts,

 I've been thinking about what my baby is going to see when he (maybe she) starts hanging out with me. For some reason, I can't shake the thought that I don't look like a mommy.

This of course, is ridiculous, because one day, when my kids want to wear their buzz lightyear hats with dresses and sneakers and sweatshirts, and stomp around like dinosaurs in public, we'll all be on the same team. So, that may be one point for Lenscrafters, but I've decided, family first--I won't melt into a boring suburbanite without a fight.

Awwwww Baaaabyyyyy

12 week ultrasound/first trimester screen today. Checks for some big genetic abnormalities, makes sure everything's growing right (brain, arms, legs, kidneys), and also checks for CUTENESS.

     Baby Padilla face up

Baby Padilla face down

7.34 cm Human Baby Padilla (yes, that's the name we chose.)

Danielle says the baby looks like it has a duck beak, but I quickly let her know that that little "beak" means that he likely doesn't have Downs Syndrome, so we'll take a little ducky baby for now.

By the way, you're looking at my kid. That lives in my body. That's growing like crazy. THAT IS SO CUTE, RIGHT? Everything on this baby is as good as it could look now, according to the doctors. We are so, so happy, and it was totally insane and addicting to see him moving around on the screen. Arms and legs everywhere. Fingers and toes, the whole bag. Even opened his mouth--AWWW--kind of weird and gross because he pees and drinks the same stuff. Yeah--now it's EWWW, but look at it this way:

it's a circle of LIFE.

And one day Frank and I will be presenting our baby on Pride Rock just like Mufasa and Sarabi.

Baby's still cute. End of discussion.

Turning the Corner

I went on a trip to Florida with my family. I will spare all of the details for now, except for the one where I began eating real foods again. HALLELUJAH.

It actually happened the night before I left (Monday, March 26th). Frank suggested we go out somewhere, and that my stomach and I choose where we go. I'm sure he was expecting the pasta place around the corner (good salads and bread), or... he was probably expecting that. Not much variety in my world as of that moment.

However, where I did decide I'd like to go, was totally out of the box of eating relative to pregnant Carla.

I had a bright, shining image in my head of a plate of Greek food. Lamb shanks, orzo with a richly seasoned tomato sauce, and oven roasted potatoes. "Let's go to Acropolis", I said.

"Are you sure? I mean, we can definitely go but...you really want to eat meat?"
"YES! I'm positive. Worst case scenario, I'll just eat the orzo, but I have a good feeling about this."
"Allll right! Let's do it!"

With that, Frank and I hopped in the car, and made our way to Greektown, where we shared a meal to the exact specifications of my vision--call it mother's intuition, but I ate more of the lamb than the pasta. It was...an incredible feeling. I imagine it's the same feeling you get when you just make parole for a crime you didn't commit, or you finally don't have to use your emphasema oxygen tank in heaven.

Week 12--I love you.
One pound a week--here I come.

Food, my frenemie.

So I got kind of tired of blogging for a minute, not because I don't enjoy doing it, but because I started to feel like all I was doing was complaining. I hadn't been feeling so hot, and eating was a huuuuge chore and a daily struggle. I wasn't enjoying my pregnant state, the way it made me feel physically (gross and sick). Here are some bulleted/shortened ideas about how things were going back then:

List of foods and how I feel about them:

Popcorn: too dry after one bite
Cereal: tired of dry cheerios, intolerant of cereal and milk
Grapefruit juice: mmm, thank you Frankie
Eggs: please don't cook these around me
Turkey Burgers: Let me lock myself in my room upstairs before you cook these, and please open all the windows and doors to get the smell out.
Chicken: Nose wrinkle, sniff sniff, tiny bites for a few minutes--thank you, all done.
Fish: UGHHHHH WHAT IS THAT SMELLL??
Pasta: SO TIRED OF YOU
Pizza: TIRED OF YOU TOO--yes please.
Kiwis: Okay!
Apples: Okay!
Bananas: On the fence!
Yogurt: Tolerable in 4 oz servings, hooray!
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese: first week--good, second week--bad
Salads: Good when prepared for me at a restaurant
Steak: NO.
KitKat bars: please buy me
Gatorade: liquid life
Sun Chips: breakfast please
Tortilla Chips: backup breakfast
Graham Crackers: I want to like you, but I don't.
Water: wish you were Gatorade
Milk: I need some space
Coffee: I don't miss you
Dried fruit: fill baggie, eat one piece
Izze soda: nom nom, ugh drank too fast
Bagels: done with you
Toast: 3/4 of one piece max
Chik-fil-a sandwich: good once a week over the course of 4 hours
Subway Veggie Sub with provolone: Should be called a "Hero"--spent $40 on 5 dollar footlongs

Weight gained: 0 pounds
It appears I will have to learn to eat all over again...this should help:

Thank goodness for prenatal vitamins.

Better than Mozart

Awesome news for the whole Padilla family--Frank got 3 admissions for the price of 2 (baby's comin' with!) to the June 3 RADIOHEAD SHOW! We got great seats (yes, chairs) just far enough away to not be blown away by subwoofers, but still a great spot to see the stage, and sit when necessary. I am SO EXCITED I am actually laying down while I type, because my stomach is still a bit overcome by the news.

This was the second presale day--Radiohead had one on their website yesterday that went live 10 and a half hours later than it was supposed to, but still sold out in 0.3 seconds--at exactly the time when Frank was on his way to work, and I was taking a shower. Womp, womp.

Today's was on the Live Nation mobile app, and required a password. Frank got tickets right away at 10am when the "find tickets" button finally appeared. However, they were General Admission (floor standing room/mosh pit) tickets, which would NOT be ideal for a lady who's five months pregnant, so he threw them back, and was having trouble getting tickets that were actual seats.

He probably searched about 25 times, silently tapping at his phone, decoding those smeary letter things over and over, eyes on the prize, determined that tickets would be re-cycling soon. Nothing, nothing, nothing [I give up and lay down], nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, PERFECT TICKETS. PERSISTANCE PAYS OFF!

After we got up and danced pretty much just like this:

...we had a quick celebratory make-out session, and Frank went off to work with a frat-boy "WHOOOO!" as he went out the door. I sipped Gatorade and finished half a bagel to compose myself, and then grabbed the computer to share the good news.

Forget the classical music--Thom Yorke is going to make my baby a GENIUS. He or she (we'll know by then!) will be swimming in my tummy with Weird Fishes in its functioning little baby ears, just about the time it starts recognizing our voices and starts busting dance moves that I can actually feel.

I assume the dance moves will look something like this on an ultrasound: