Cherries, Pricks and Shoes

Yesterday we learned that Tempest hates dried cherries. Not enough to cause immediate digestive evacuation, mind you, but enough so that somehow my digestive system set them aside for the better part of six hours, and then evacuated them. By themselves. Nothing but dried cherries and water came back up, just before dinner last night. I have no idea how this is physiologically possible, but I swear it happened.

He has also finally discovered that there is more to his little uterine home than the area just above my pelvis. Now he's stretching and pressing against the area where his umbilical cord attaches to the placenta (once again: this one's placenta is located at the top center of my uterus. The cord attaches on my right side.) He's still moving strong, but his movements are thankfully losing momentum as he fills the space more and more. For this small favor, I am extremely grateful.

This morning I went up to the Little Hospital for the most-evil-blood-test-ever: The glucose tolerance test. The orange goo isn't as gooey as it was when I was pregnant with Pooka, thank goodness, but it's still WAY more sugary than anyone should reasonably have to ingest. I sat around the waiting room for an hour; my brain buzzing irritably from the sugar high; and then the phlebotomist didn't take enough blood out of my arm after having jabbed me more painfully than anyone has in a long time. So I got a second "pick" about a millimeter above the first, and even that one had to be "adjusted." Needless to say, my arm is sore. Pleh.

On the plus side: I'm almost seven months pregnant, and not only can I bike 8 miles a day, but I can still tie my shoes by myself! BOO-YAH!

Recuperating

Yesterday (Wednesday) I had to take the day off from work to recuperate. Tuesday evening, Bamf and The Ginge came over and made delicious breakfast for dinner. It’s one of my favorite types of dinner. In fact, I was so enthusiastic, I ate what had to have been half my weight in food. (Go, hyperbole, go!)

As it turns out: Tempest, like his sister, has chosen to cause his gestational carrier to become an unintentional, involuntary bulimic. Roughly translated, this means that when Preggosaurus eats too much, Tempest forces her to puke it all back up. Whereas his older, gentler sister would only force the excess out, Tempest insists on punishing poor Preggosaurus, making her throw up every possible bite that may not be fully digested and assimilated into the rest of her body just yet. For those of you who don’t know, this process takes the better part of an overnight to complete. It is not pretty and not pleasant.

I have therefore resolved to keep my meals tiny and regular over the course of the day, and to try not to eat anything after 7:00 pm. Just to be on the safe side. 

Fundus, The Destroyer

Tuesday I went back up to the Big Hospital for my monthly checkup. I had expected to see Dr. Badass, as that was who I.F. and I had arranged to see. The lady that preregistered me Monday evening said it wasn’t with Dr. Badass, but I didn’t believe her. Apparently Dr. Badass had something going on that week. The NERVE! As if doctors should have lives of their own. Pssh. Pff.

The doctor I did see was very nice, if a bit careless about his vocal decibel level. He is henceforth dubbed, “Dr. Loud.” He and his very fashion-forward nurse were very nice, and very attentive, though; and very, VERY loudly reassured I.F. when I called him, that Tempest’s dangling choroid plexus were nothing to worry about; that they’re very common, and that they resolve themselves an easy 90+% of the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if poor I.F. had had to hold the phone at arm’s length to avoid going deaf.

But seriously, the doctor was very nice, checked all of my current prenatal info with me, showed his intern how to measure my belly (26” from pelvis to the top of the fundus), listened to Tempest’s heart rate, and declared me “perfect.” We arranged to set up my glucose tolerance test within the next couple weeks and that was that.

Speaking of fundus: Hubs has decided that this particular (top) part of the uterus sounds like; and therefore IS; some kind of mushroom-monster. He has declared mine, “FUNDUS THE DESTROYER.” It has to be said in a deep, rumbling, threatening tone in order to affect the appropriate response in the listener. A number of amusing doodles have ensued as a result of this declaration. Ladies and gentlemen, how horribly DULL would my life be without this man? I think I must keep him.

Flail, Tempest! Flail!

Tempest is awake. And pissed. Or hyper. I'm not sure which, but no part of my abdomen is safe from his fury. Thankfully he's still small enough that it's just an odd feeling - I'm grateful that as he grows, the amount of space he'll have to build momentum will shrink; otherwise I might wind up with a broken rib or six.

I'm on my fifth straight work day out in the field; in a different district every day. The upside is that I get to go home every night. The downside is that I work 11 or 12 hour days, and it's seriously wearing me down. Thankfully tomorrow is the last one for this week, and then I only have one more until the end of April. This is not to say I won't still have plenty of work to do, but I'll be able to do it in the office, in 8-hour work days.

Anyway, our next OB appointment is a week from today. I don't think there's going to be much to report, but it's a visit.

I.F. called me last week. He said he read the articles that the ultrasound doctor mentioned at our last visit, and by the sounds of it, he agrees that there isn't enough evidence, and too small a sample size to really be able to conclude anything about a dangling choroid plexus. I'm glad, too. He works full time and is a dad to a toddler to boot; he doesn't need extra stress.

I guess that's my rant for now. I'm only writing because I need to look busy. I work too fast for my own good, sometimes.

Big, Round Thoughts

As Tempest repeatedly kicks the iPad, I am forced to finally recognize that I am now officially bulbous. Not "oh my god, how much longer" bulbous, but my tummy is noticeably round and sticks out past my not-inconsiderable chest. I can't use it as a dinner table yet, but I am resting my wrists on it as I type, and the iPad is resting on it, leaning against my thighs.

It is becoming a strain to bend down to pull on my socks or tie my sneakers. I am determined, however, to continue to prove to my fellow preggosaurs that it can be done without assistance right up through delivery day. I did it with Pooka and WiggleWorm; I will do it with Tempest. I do not need Hubs to do my shoes for me. I will admit that I need him to help me reach high shelves that I can normally get at without a belly, but since the bulbous mass does get in the way, it limits my reach.

I had a chat with my grandmother earlier today that got me thinking. She told me, when Pooka and I arrived, that she didn't want me doing a bunch of housework when I got here. I asked her later on if she had done much sitting around when she was pregnant in her thirties. Of course she didn't. She was a registered nurse who worked nights at her local hospital and tended the kids before and after school when she wasn't at work. So why, when I am 33 and pregnant, should I do any differently? (Little does she know that I tend to do more than she thinks I do while she and Grampy are away at church on Saturday evenings. Muahahaha!) I have to wonder where this attitude of "sit and rest" came from. My OB when I was pregnant with Pooka said to maintain my pre-pregnancy activity level throughout the gestational period. Dr. Badass seems to agree, so long as the pregnancy remains low-risk. It's a strange attitude that has pervaded the layperson's culture.

Anyway: I made marinated lamb chops for dinner tonight. I have come to the conclusion that wrapping individual pieces of meat in aluminum foil with a little bit of marinade or oil, then baking for 30-40 minutes at 450 degrees, is the best way to cook meat... EVER. It comes out moist and juicy and is a hundred times easier than trying to watch it in a pan on the stove. We also had steamed asparagus and potato and cheddar pierogi. The grandparents approved. I win.

Bullying: Unrelated Rant

"Yeah I wish I’d been, I wish I’d been a teen, teen idle

Wish I’d been a prom queen, fighting for the title

Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible

Feeling super, super (super!) suicidal

The wasted years, the wasted youth

The pretty lies, the ugly truth

And the day has come where I have died

Only to find I’ve come alive"

Pooka has been listening to Marina & The Diamonds a lot lately. My sense of the songs is that they’re making fun of modern society and trying to slap listeners around a little. Pooka’s favorite song at the moment appears to be “Teen Idle” (See the lyrics above.) And while I feel like the majority of the song is bashing those kids in high school who were the stereotypical definition of popular, I think the chorus rings true for some kids, including Pooka herself. Even I found myself identifying.

I joke with my daughter about how “I was a nerd back before it was cool,” but the truth is, it’s still not actually cool to be a nerd. The majority of kids these days may enjoy Dr. Who or Big Bang Theory, but the truth is: If you’re not like everyone else, you’re gonna get it. Pooka got thrown into a bank of lockers yesterday by some of the more athletic boys in her class. She likes cosplay and anime and isn’t afraid to show her classmates that yes, she does in fact really like Spiderman. She’s been bullied at school and still tries like hell to come home with her head held high, which is more than I was able to say at her age.

It wasn’t much different for me in elementary and middle school: The same school system through which my Pooka is journeying now. Bathroom stall doors were kicked open so I’d get hit in the face; other (sometimes younger) kids would push me around and knock me off play structures; girls would spit and put glue in my long hair – all because I was different, and outspoken about it. It was awful. And despite all the new bullying laws being put in place in the US right now, it’s not making a damned bit of difference.

Things got a little better in high school, but I was still labeled a “nerd” and my friends and I were shoved off into a corner of the cafeteria at lunch to be ignored by the popular kids. We were still teased in class and laughed at, but at least by then we had each other.

I try to be mature about what’s past, but I must admit a little bitterness for some things here and there. I’ve run into old classmates since graduation who made it clear that they thought little of me in school and who still think me little more than dorky white trash because I had my daughter at a young age. And I get a sense of vengeful satisfaction when I tell them that I am in fact a professional, working for the state, and that I do other things that make a difference in the world, while they sit back and stroke their overweening egos.

But the truth is: Even those folks who look down on me because we weren’t friends as kids, are doing the best they can. Some of them have remarkable, marketable talents. Others are exceptionally well-educated. And some people have approached me since school to tell me that they thought *I* was exceptional. What a surprise that can be after years of being teased and bullied!

Pooka:

I know it doesn’t help to hear that I learned later on that people actually did think well of me, but were too wrapped up in their own lives to stop other kids from bullying; or were intimidated by me; or sometimes may even have been jealous of me. But you’ll hear it someday too. In the meantime, keep your head held high; know that you are magnificent; and don’t let childish behavior get you down. I’ll always be here for you; and so will Daddy and the rest of your very, very big family.

Love,

Mom  

No CMV. A Bit Of Strangeness, Though

Well today seems to be about hurrying up to wait, so while I’ve got nothing to do, I may as well blog a little.

I called The Big Hospital yesterday afternoon to see if my blood work had come back yet on the cytomegalovirus test. It had, and showed no signs of CMV whatsoever. We didn’t figure it would, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry where someone else’s baby is concerned. I emailed I.F. to tell him, but haven’t heard back yet. I dunno how he stays sane, as busy as he is.

I ran into an old neighbor at the grocery store yesterday; what a surreal encounter. I told her I was pregnant, and she asked if she could touch my belly. I thought her request was reasonable, and she was polite about it, so I said sure. The next thing I knew, she was on her knees in front of me as we stood in front of the deli counter, and had her ear and cheek pressed against my stomach. People were staring; it was really bizarre. She said there was something magnetic and special about Tempest, but to be careful of salt in my last trimester. I’m known to swell up like a balloon in the last half of the third trimester, but she’s never seen me pregnant, so it was odd to hear her say that. We’ll see, but I generally try to be mindful of sodium intake anyway.

I also ran into Wifey, which was a nice surprise, and got to chat with her a little bit about what’s going on with her and what her plans were for the rest of the week. And I got hugs, which are ALWAYS good.

I was kind of an idiot though, and bought about $100 in groceries, but had decided to get some exercise, so I had to bring it all back home on foot. This after making dinner and doing the dishes. Then I made lunches for today, did more dishes; prepped salad for Hubs, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Not bad for a day’s work, especially if you include a full day of working at my job.