Fatty Failure

I've gained a lot of weight. People smile when I say this, and immediately jump in with "but you're pregnant!" as if I have somehow forgotten when said pregnancy has enabled me the wondrous experience of having fetal tap dancing on my bladder. But as of my doctor's appointment this afternoon I have gained twenty five pounds. Which, honestly, could have been a nice gain for the whole pregnancy. I have more than thirteen weeks to go. If I am honest it is all in the front (except the huge amount in my boobs and the water pooling in my ankles) which is a positive but let us not kid ourselves. Kiddo weighs about two pounds right now, she isn't driving this bus.

I was not small to begin with, I don't think of myself as tall though technically I am. Almost 5'8". And I have the blessing/curse of being able to carry more weight than people imagine I am. This is a blessing because who wants to look like they weigh more than they do? But at the same time, I am not light. I am a solid German girl.

I have to confess I had hoped I would be one of those women who wouldn't gain that much since I wasn't tiny to begin with. Yes, my weight was normal, but it's the high end. And I didn't need to do the sixty pound pregnancy thing like my mother. Pregnancy has exposed to me how really fucking shallow I am. I don't like looking this fat. I don't like being this weight. And when my doctor mentioned that it was a little high I just heard the chimes of doom in my head.

Honestly, I should have asked her to clarify for me, because I am an obsessor. So is this something I should freak out about and eliminate sugar and worry and fret or is this just a sign that maybe I should get off my ass a little more often? But I didn't ask and now it's like the day after a big date, well how did she say it? It's sad really.

I wish I could say that I have been eating really well this whole time. I don't think I am eating a ton but I mean it's not all lean meats and vegetables, if it were I wouldn't worry. This would just be how my body does pregnant. But I mean I have been eating a lot of carbs and lets be honest there have been cookies and cereal and that two weeks of really intense ice cream. I am thinking in terms of how our culture thinks of food--good and bad--something that I try not to do. My mother dieted my entire childhood and with my sort of fretty personality I could morph into crazyland food issueville FAST. I don't want to do that. But I don't want to doom my kid to childhood of obesity because I can't put down the peanut butter either.

Weightgain during pregnancy is a hot button issue. There are eighty-seven million articles about how you shouldn't gain too much weight (but they never really say how much is too much, they just tell you the averages which aren't adjusted for height and starting weights) but never ever diet either. Which just leaves you with worry. And feeling like you have already failed.

Fuck. I thought I escaped my mother's diets and my women's college with a pretty decent body image. Guess not.

Babbling

As a Cubs fan I am supposed to be rooting for the National League team but feh I hate the damn Rockies. I have no good reason other than the phrase "Rocktober" makes me want to cut their marketing team into tiny little pieces.

So hopefully the Red Sox wrap up this shit tonight and we can all just think about how the Cubs will blow their season next year.

We bought a crib today. Um. Is a baby going to be moving here? My sister has been so sweet (and has been knitting like a fiend I think) and offered to sew baby bedding. But after another disastrous fabric store trip last weekend I told her I give up. There isn't anything cute out there. Apparently I am the only person who isn't into pastels and bears for babies. I have a feeling that this kiddo will be sleeping on the two pack of plain white sheets for 9.99 at Target. She'll get used to disappointment I am sure.

Did you see that we bought a crib? A CRIB FOR A BABY?

I slept for 20 of 36 hours Fri/Sat and woke up feeling a little perkier. If I could just stay in bed and only get up for soup and raisin bran I think this pregnancy/cold thing would be a breeze. Sadly, it is back to work tomorrow.

How many subjects have we covered so far?

Last night we went to a surprise party for a friend of ours. His fortieth birthday. WTF y'all, how do we have a friend that is forty? It was a friend night, and I was BRAVE because it involved socializing with people I didn't know. Especially the guest of honor's mom who was a scream and also had maybe one wrinkle and at sixty-six could have gotten carded at the restaurant. But I talked to strangers y'all! Like a big girl.

Fuck, maybe I still have a fever? I am babbling.

The Plague

I'm home from work today. For the last couple of weeks my neighbor at work has had what I have semi-jokingly called the plague. He has a cough, a sore throat and is either fever flushed or shaking with the chills. He gets better and then worse. It's awesome!

He has stayed home a couple of times but somehow his wife and kids and him just keep passing it around and can't get it. I'm not Catholic but maybe they need an exorcism? All week I could feel myself slipping down into this sick funk. And this morning my face melted off and my throat screamed and I whined enough that J said "baby you should stay home."

J works all the time now. I am trying hard not to take it personal. Because it really isn't. He is working on a big project (which sadly doesn't deliver until a couple weeks after the baby is due) and until then well his ass is at work. It makes this pregnancy even more lonely but it's also my high stress season at work so I should understand. I do have moments when I can't seem to keep it in my head that this is temporary. That he won't be at work late every night until the end of time. There are nights when the chimes of doom get to me.

Those nights happen when I have a sore throat especially.

The plague is not making me a joy to be around. Except to Darla who thinks the bedridden me is fucking fabulous. We are propped up on pillows and watching 90210 on Soapnet.

Too Bad It Didn't Knock Him Unconcious And He Wouldn't Remember

J and I switched sides of the bed a few weeks ago. Our bedroom is t-tiny and the space between the bed and the dresser was starting to become a tight squeeze for me. Besides, his side had a straight shot to the bathroom which was An Issue. We had been sleeping on the same side of the bed for our entire time together--regardless of the room orientation--so switching had some rough patches. Namely, he still fucking tries to sleep on this side and just push me off. He now bangs into the furniture the way I used to. And well, my alarm clock is on his side. One of the joys (!) of an old house is that there are about three outlets in the whole place. We have surge protectors and power strips everywhere but for modern, electric gadget people this is tough. So the alarm clock is on his new side. And I get up like three hours before he does. And he cannot fucking figure out the clock. He always ends up turning on the radio or throwing it. So the current solution is that I lean over him and turn it off (this means there is no snooze button which means I often just go back to sleep but you know . . .we all do our best).

This morning I leaned over and basically . . .well crushed his face with my belly. Because the pregnant belly has no give.

Why do I feel like if he gets a black eye that fucking story will get told over and over until I rip my own face off?

In other news my lap top is off being repaired but sadly the Sony center is right in the middle of those damn fires. I know these fires are tragic for many reasons that are much more important than my computer but I DON'T CARE BRING BACK MY PRECIOUSSSSSSSSS.

Woot Indeed

My laptop mysteriously died the other day. Of course when I say mysteriously died I am really saying I am pretty sure J spilled something on it. This is a damn shame because I love my laptop and the glorious freedom of playing on the internets while lounging like a lazy trollop in bed. And also because there will be a seriously lack of blogging until it is returned to me. Though I will try.

I have entered the third stage of fucking giving up of pregnancy. The first stage is the first trimester where maybe you wash your hair slightly less often, rock the ponytail sometimes at work, maybe give up your most uncomfortable shoes. The second stage is the slightly portly stage, and more days without eyeliner. The third stage is the comfortable shoe stage and lord I bought me some clogs. Clogs which made my feet swell up like fat sausages and screech in protest (this is not due to the shoes but due to my instep and a poorly chosen size). They are not cute with my dress up work clothes and really signal my full descent into third stage. Where my hair is just cute enough and most of my makeup time is devoted to the dark cavernous circles under my eyes. I am sure fourth stage involves going to work in my adidas workout pants and baby pink t-shirt that reads "What's kicking" with little baby feet in puffy paint. And surfing the internet for minivan prices because FUCK WHAT ELSE PEOPLE.

I had lunch with a friend of mine today who has a fourth month old. She spent the whole time either giving me advice that I didn't ask for (and really didn't want), talking to the baby like I wasn't there (which FUCK I hate that) and telling me how AMAZING IT ALL IS. In all caps people believe me I could tell.

I hate the MY BAYBEEE IS AMAZING thing even though I am sure I will do it (and also the advice thing and possibly the damn talking to the baby instead of people who can answer) because it squicks me out. And also, I am just not mushy like that and it makes me feel guilty. I love my baby and all but I don't think that she is amazing. She is standing on my fucking bladder which makes me hate her a little (but just a little). This makes me less than mother of the year I am aware.

I am pretty sure this post guarantees that I will be the world's most annoying new mother. WOOT!

Job Description

I've acknowledged that I am not the best at being pregnant. It's been very hard for me, with the puking and the heartburn and the killer fatigue. I tore my rectum people, in a hotel room a couple of thousand miles from home. I've struggled more with body issues than I imagined possible given that I look totally fine and normal. I don't like being pregnant and I really don't trust these women that claim that they loved it so damn much. I've yet to meet a currently pregnant woman who gasps in ecstasy about this conditional but I suppose the mythical creatures may exist.

But as much as I wanted to be pregnant, and I did for so long as those of you who have stuck with me through all of this are well aware, it wasn't for the experience. I don't give a shit about the gift of giving life, even though I do feel grateful that I was able to do this. I wanted a baby and there was no way else to get one (first one to mention adoption gets kicked in the balls, people with our middle class incomes and J's family history don't get to adopt, not without knocking over a convenience store and greasing a lot of palms). Actually, not so much a baby, I wanted us to have a child, a family and I am amazed every day that this is coming true.

But I hate being pregnant and I am no good at it. And J cannot wait for it to be over because as much as people want to believe that he is a cocksucker he actually does love me and he hates to see me this way. When people ask him how I am doing he makes snarky comments about the little parasite and I can see them think what an asshole he is. I don't make these comments, not because I don't think they are funny (they are) or because I don't agree (um I do) but because I know people tolerate these things from fathers but from mothers they speed dial CPS and forcibly deliver this kid now because GOD if I could say things like that I probably eat deli meat too. SAVE MY BABY.

I feel stretched to my limit. I work a lot, fifty hours a week, at a stressful job with a two hour daily commute. This is my busy season. And just maintaining my home, my marriage and treading water on everything else is all I can do. I cannot do drama. I cannot do conflict. Anything outside of getting shit done in the next couple of months is going to have to wait. People are making demands that oh fuck them, I know they love us and they love our baby but fuck . . .No one gets to make us do anything right now. If I don't want her bedroom to be pink, that is my choice. We can use whatever name we like. I do not have to take any belly photos (my sister is like GASP at this but actually she was nice about asking and lovely when refused unlike others who are ogres from hell). The other day I cried a little at the end of Iron Chef America and honestly that is a sign that things are Not Going Well. It is just too much.

So my job is this. Go to my actual job and do the best that I can and not freak out about the rest. Be a good partner to my husband and not make him panic. Maintain the bare minimum of livability in my home. And eat ice cream, I am definitely in charge of eating ice cream. Everything else? Fuck it.

Goodreads

I deleted my book blog. I am guessing no one but me noticed since I hadn't updated it in more than a year. It would just stare at me all accusingly on my dashboard on blogger. I felt guilty because I just couldn't type up the books I was reading, and then they added up and then . . .

I am pretty wimpy.

So I joined Goodreads. You will notice that I have zero friends. SAD. So feel free to join up (search for me under anyabeth@comcast.net) and add me. It is a wonderously geeky kind of tool to catalog all your books.

And clearly I need help figuring out what to read next. HELP ME

Pregnant Face Goes to the Gap

I just want to say ALL HAIL THE MOTHER FUCKING GAP. I've been struggling with clothes, since my belly has just exploded and wearing the regular stuff just doesn't work anymore. My super long torso with a big belly is a recipe for the kind of exposure that traumatizes people (including me). I had to give up my regular pants weeks ago, something that delights me (because honestly I thought I would have to give them up in week three) even though I know I pulled it off through laziness. I had some pants that I hadn't bothered to alter the waists in, which were too large. Bless the lazy yo!

At any rate maternity shopping is fucking annoying. A lot of pants only run up to size 12 and the sales girls admit that they run small. Or they sag in a way that is just not ok. Or they are so ugly that I cannot stand to even think it. I was seriously thinking about using black electrical tape to cover the white stripes on my Adidas sweats and calling them dress pants. I don't think my boss understands that I was totally not kidding when I told her that was my plan for the week before I go on leave. But I am pretty sure I will be large and frightening enough that she won't fuck with me by then.

I ordered two pairs of pants from the gap plus a jacket and GOD BLESS THEM. They look like real pants, fit the leg nicely and were not a million dollars (they were not cheap though). The jacket is cute and soft and while note PERFECT will serve me well I think the rest of the way. I also have a couple of t-shirts and a sweater from the line and am pleased with the fit (just by your normal Gap size) and quality (seems to be normal Gap quality which is definitely higher than most maternity wear). Best of all? They carry large sizes, up to size 20. As some one who is just at the high end of regular sizing (hilarious that, since I am smaller than the average American woman so I can't be alone here) the other options are infuriating (I am aware that plus sized women have it even worse).

Gap isn't perfect. The jeans I bought are the best option I've found so far, but they are a hair shorter than I'd like and not the cutest wash. And it's annoying how few sizes and styles they have in-store. And their selection this summer was HORRIFYING, full of florals and baggy tops and capri pants. But this fall they have sensible and tailored career options and cute casual things.

When you are six months pregnant and tired and trying to do a million things you really don't want to have to worry about how you are going to cover your ass appropriately.

Of course I do wish that they had something that would somehow give the illusion that I do not have pregnant face. Which appeared this week. And J was too foolish to lie to me about.

SIGH

Cosmic Joke

Now that day seven of Operation Get That Yeast Out of My Cooter is past I welcomed back my regular underwear. I was in giant cotton boyshorts for the duration and I am not a fan. They are comfortable but I missed real underwear. I do not recommend yeast infections, by the way, may my lady bits never be visited by such things again.

My Cubs exited the playoffs in an unremarkable and rather pathetic fashion. I am in acceptance phase. In a weird development I have found myself rooting for the Yankees. Who are in the process of going down in flames too. MAYBE IT REALLY IS ME.

J and my dad did manly things this weekend and now we have an aqua second bedroom. Which is not the guest room anymore but I am not sure I am ready to call it the baby room. Having it all painting seems to have brought it all home though. Did y'all know they are going to let me take home a baby one day? MADNESS SURELY.

We are down to a list of three names for Muppet. And we had a very pissy argument via email today about the middle name. I thought it was settled and told my mother accordingly. J didn't think it was settled and mean things were said . .er . .written. I am still kind of mad but am trying to be an adult about it. We'll see how that works out.

Oh dear more swearing. Me thinks the Yankees are losing more now. SHIT.

One side of my belly is growing faster than the other. This would be interesting and maybe funny except earlier today the side that is growing just slightly less felt as though some one had Nancy Kerriganed it and DAMN I could barely walk. Like all sorts of strange and uncomfortable symptoms (yeast infection, deformed nipples, sinus swelling, and giant threatening toenails) this is completely normal during pregnancy. I feel confident if I wake up tomorrow with a blue nose and fangs my doctor would assure me that "that happens for some women during their second trimester." The crowbar slapped side isn't throbbing right now but I am sort of gun shy about it. I keep looking for a bruise because SURELY THERE IS A BRUISE.

There is an evolutionary purpose to all of this I am sure. Or it is a giant cosmic fucking joke on womankind.

SOB

I was very calm about the Cubs losing last night. I am not doing as well with them being down tonight. In fact I am a sniveling wreck. So I am going to just pretend it isn't happening.

For those who emailed me about my mystery in the cooter. It's nothing too mystifying really (this is your cue to look away if you are squeamish) just a yeast infection. Which I had never had before and hope to god that I never do again because LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH. It has now been addressed but not before I scarred both myself and J with making him look at it repeatedly, caved and bought giant all cotton boy short underwear (which are SEXAY) and shot various creams up my ladyplace.

DAMN IT, I keep looking at the Cubs game and wailing. WHY DO THEY HATE ME?

Apparently yeast infections are one of those lovely things about pregnancy that just come with. Like killer heartburn and dry skin and zits on your boobs. At this point anything that is strange and ugly or uncomfortable is just something that "completely normal during pregnancy!" I could wake up tomorrow with my nose rotted clear off my face and I am sure that google would reveal that sometimes that just happens with all the extra estrogen during pregnancy. It's annoying and yet oddly reassuring.

I look somewhere between just pudgy and hugely ready to pop pregnant all depending on who you ask and how much I am abusing black at the moment. I was telling my sister that I would save my maternity wardrobe for her and she made fun of me. Asking how I could have a wardrobe yet. But I cannot wear regular clothes at all. Well other than my beloved Adidas sweatpants and since I have the kind of job that requires more than Adidas sweatpants (and sadly involves no lying around in my bed eating pretzels dipped in cheese--though if you know of a job like that available I am your girl) I had to invest in some clothes. So yeah, I have a wardrobe, even if it is small and kind of pitiful. I do remember before I was pregnant, and even at the beginning, thinking that oh I wouldn't need much and my long shirts would last until the end but HEE. My pants do not even come close to buttoning, and though I can still make the belly band thing work sort of the maternity sort are way more comfortable. Shirts are honestly worse, because they are too short. So yes, I have a couple of pairs of pants and an assortment of shirts and SISTERS WHO MIGHT WANT FREE CLOTHES (because this shit is expensive man) SHOULD NOT MOCK THOSE WHO MIGHT PROVIDE THEM AND EVEN PAY FOR SHIPPING.

But really I just need that job dipping pretzels.

And for the Cubs to stop making me cry.

Starting NOW

In the coming weeks if you pay attention at all to baseball you will be bombarded with tales of the Cubs’ “curse.” This curse is stupid, and entirely the creation of sportswriters who really should have to write something original to get paid but instead trot out this nonsense every year. Like the Red Sox were prior to their World Series win, the Cubs have been defined by failure and this curse that seemed to follow their every season. Unlike the Red Sox, I have never met a Cubs fan that really believes in the curse.

This doesn’t mean that any of us are optimists. We aren’t. I firmly believe that the Cubs will blow this, as they have so many times before (but believe me I would LOVE TO BE PROVEN WRONG GUYS). But I don’t believe it because of a goat or whatever crap ESPN and Fox and whomever is going to trot out until we are knocked out. These are the same networks and writers who portray Cubs fans as know-nothings who just come to the games to get drunk and don’t care about or know anything about what is happening on the field. They are lazy writers in other words because Cubs fans are obsessive and crazy and spend a lot of time worrying about Kerry Wood’s pitching motion (yes, even now). There are countless Cub blogs and podcasts and message boards. There are people like me (and my grandpa) who have watched the team since they were little kids but have never been to Wrigley. Baseball is a game about history and emotion and feeling connected to a community. I love the Cubs because I remember watching them in the afternoons with my Grandpa. And having a crush on Mark Grace. That is my only reason. I have never lived in Chicago (I grew up in Iowa though so what were my choices—the White Sox? SHUDDER). But I feel that connection. It is literally the only thing I have in common with my grandfather or cousin at all. So I watch them. And obsess. And silently acknowledge that they will probably lose.

But I think the fans of the Cubs deserve more than the crap on ESPN about how baseball needs the Cubs to lose because you can’t create that kind of futility overnight (sure you can, it’s called the Nationals). They deserve more than whatever crappy goat graphic TBS is going to trot out through every game (though how thrilled am I that the National League isn’t on Fox? SO THRILLED). Broadcasters and sportswriters should just cave and learn the sports that they are working with (this is a little unfair because some of these guys are talented and manage great articles about other teams so MAYBE they are bullied by their employers for this crap but if you can write something interesting about the Royals than maybe you can come up with something about the Cubs that doesn’t mention their last World Series?). As annoying as the curse talk was during the Red Sox run at least their fans believed in it. They were more obsessed with it than their team. They reveled in that, gloried in it, and some of them seem a little psychotic now without it. But Cubs fans really aren’t like that. So leave us alone.

Let us blow it in peace.

Weekend

Saturday I got a massage. It's been years since I've had a massage, which is ironic since I am still a licensed massage therapist, and GOOD GOD I needed it. I also got my neck and back adjusted by the chiropractor and I was a new woman. Add to that a Dick's deluxe and fries and Saturday was one of the best days I've had in a long time.

Of course Sunday I had a mysterious thing happen with my cooter and the 49ers played like crap and J and I didn't do much but lay around and bitch about football and obsess about baseball playoffs. I spent too much time worrying about baby related finances and didn't wash my face for 24 hours and Sunday was just bad. Any time there is a Scooby worthy mystery in your cooter it is a bad day.

So today I trudged to the doctor and MYSTERY SOLVED which is excellent and then I realized that my driver's license expired a month and a half ago so shit it's a good thing I am not going to work anyway huh?

I am realizing that honestly just taking it day by day is the only way to do this pregnancy thing but it is still hard. Especially when you are googling inappropriate things at midnight on a Sunday trying to figure out what the fuck is going on down there.