The Old Man and the (Pregnan)Sea

GET IT?! I crack myself up.

For the past decade, I’ve believed I was a 80-something year old man trapped in a female body. Starting in college, I became hooked on Tums and then later, Zantac. I have a beer belly. I have strokes. Okay, so they are really migraines, but the first 30 minutes of my migraines are signature stroke signs – droopy face, loss of sight, loss of speech, numbness in limbs, etc – so it counts.

And the biggest old man tendency of all? My favorite cocktail is a Manhattan. Which is apparently an old man drink, judging from reactions I continuously get from friends, acquaintances and bartenders. And I suppose it sort of makes sense because I am 89% sure my love of Manhattans started at grade school age, when my Dad and Grandpa would both give me the bourbon-soaked cherries from bottoms of their consumed Manhattans.

But lest I ruin my computer with drool because I would kill for bourbon right now, enough about that.

So, I have an inner old man who has strokes and wicked heartburn and enjoys bourbon-based cocktails. And while I thought nothing could bring him out further, I was mistaken. Pregnancy has awakened the old beast.

I have to pee all the time. All. the. time. I gazed longingly at a pack of Depends the other day, thinking maybe that crazy astronaut who wore diapers on that road trip to confront her lover or whatever was more brilliant than nuts.

Artist Depiction of me in the morning. With added sea hat.

Mornings are stiff. Now, get your minds out of the gutters because I am talking about my back. As I hobble to the bathroom to pee for the 10th time of the night I find myself wishing for a cane or a walker.

I chug Metamucil every night before bed. Fiber supplements aren’t just for the elderly, my friends. But truthfully? This is one habit I will continue postpartum. This shit is awesome…pun partially intended.

My driving skills have become less than aggressive. While I have been trying to keep my foot from being its usual leaden self, because at some point I am going to have to drive a little more conservatively with a tiny being in the backseat, I have also caught myself zoning out and doing a leisurely Sunday driver 30 MPH down the 50 MPH road. Which is the exact thing that gives me road rage on an almost-daily basis. Whoops.

I have a new love for Preparation H. I’ll leave that at just that.

I am ridiculously grumpy. Now, some people may say that is a standard feature of me, but I am seriously curmudgeonly. Everything is irritating, I want to punch everything in the face and everything is young and vibrant and douchey. I yelled at some birds to get the f%^@ out of my tree, for ^&#!s sake. This is possibly working out to my advantage, though, as my mean mugging stops the stranger danger interactions so many pregnant ladies complain about. Random stranger advice? Random stranger belly touching? Random stranger questions? None of the above.

At least I don’t have a beard. Or ear hair. Yet.

The Third Trimester. The Final Frontier.

Dear @%^! Baby,

Well. Our darling little shithead. Yesterday, we entered the closing stage of your leeching. The third trimester. The final three months. The last 12-ish weeks. The culminating 84-ish days.

Don’t try to do the math. Pregnancy dating is dumber than a box of rocks and makes zero sense. If you ask Arizona, now women are pregnant for two weeks prior to conception. FEMALE BODIES ARE MAGICAL! Anyway, some say the 3rd tri starts at week 27, others says it’s 27 and a few days, others think it’s week 28. I chose to go along with the 28 weekers because, frankly, the longer I could stay in the 2nd trimester, the better I felt.


Let’s do a little round-up, eh?

Fruit Salad: The National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board tells me you are roughly the size of a rutabaga. That is extremely unhelpful. I don’t really even know what that IS, much less how big it should be. I definitely don’t want to eat it.

Flavor Enhancers: Still can’t get enough fresh pineapple (so much so that I sent an angry tweet at Baja Fresh begging them to bring back their pineapple salsa. And then threatened to burn it down via my Facebook status), Mexican food or Jimmy Johns. I even reclaimed my Foursquare mayoral seat at  JJ’s which I am pretty damn proud of. I know that ham is supposed to be verboten, but dang nabbit, it’s all I want. ALL HAM ALL THE TIME.

Growing Pains: Holy man, the back pain after a weekend of house cleaning. I waddled for the first time after getting out  of bed with the stiffest back I’ve ever experienced. I waddled. I was not happy.

The Weight is On: I feel huge, but apparently my 11 pound gain has not been enough to appease my doctor. Lord knows I’ve been stuffing my $#^! face whenever the mood strikes. I was given instructions to “indulge more” once again. If she saw what I actually ate in the course of a day, she may change her tune. But, Doctor’s Orders! Pass the cupcakes. And milkshakes. And chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.

(Sweet) Relief: The bathroom trips are getting annoying, especially when it’s four times during the night. WHEN THERE IS NOTHING IN THE BLADDER. Maybe if you would cease being a little shithead and stop kicking me in said bladder I wouldn’t have to roll out of bed to tinkle. And I mean literally. It’s just a %^#1&@! tinkle. NOT WORTH THE WADDLE.

I’ve also come to the point in the journey which requires doctor appointments every two weeks. I can tell you how they go. Check-in. Wait. Pee in cup. Get weighed. Check blood pressure. Wait. Doctor enters.

“Any pain?” Nope.

“Any problems?” Nope.

“Any questions?” Nope.

Get belly measured. Listen to heartbeat. Get information on what the next appointment will entail, if it is going to require a special test of some sort. Get the peace out, see ya later.

So mundane. Not that I want them to be anything different, but it kills my productivity if I have to go back to work afterwards. #justjokes #iamalwaysunproductive

I meant to take a picture yesterday to include here because apparently people are angry at the lack of bump, but I looked like hell and then just plain forgot. So suck it up for a few days, I’ll take some pictures this weekend. In the meantime, here’s how I played the system in the worst parking lot ever because my mom had just gotten off her flight and we were both starving. Even though I look visibly pregnant, I felt pretty %$@&~ shady walking away from the car in 4 inch heels. BUT I AM, IN FACT, PREGNANT SO NEENER NEENER. I didn’t see any further stipulations for space usage.

So, little rutabaga, hang tight a few more months. Or longer, it’s totally up to you. You are much safer in there than out here where I can drop you, scald you, bang your head against doorjambs, under nourish you, nick your fingers with fingernail clippers, forget to bathe you, over nourish you, yell at you, stare at you, poke you, scratch you, drop you again, break you, forget you in the car, leave you outside in the rain, forget to change your litterbox, etc. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. 

The Pregnancy Halftime Show

Dear @%^! Baby,

Well. Little Guy. As of today, you and I have made it to the halfway mark without significant damage to each other. We deserve ice cream! And presents! And accolades!

I really cannot believe this crazy thing is at the 20 week mark. I still forget I’m pregnant most of the time, I’m not the size of a U-Haul yet and I can still rock my non-maternity clothes 71% of the time (with a little assistance, at least). I did, though, discover the joys of maternity pants this week and their kick-ass elastic waists, so my normal clothes, while they fit, are going to be taking a back seat to that awesome.

Let’s fill everyone else in on your progress and how you’re messing with my body, shall we?

Fruit Salad: According to the National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board, you are roughly the size of a cantaloupe. That’s actually pretty sizable, considering you’re still in semi-hiding. Keep growing into bigger fruits, champ.

Flavor Enhancers: You have taste buds now. Hope you like cheese, spicy stuff, Jimmy Johns, chocolate protein shakes, Cherry Coke and strawberry smoothies.

Growing Pains: I have been having a little back pain, enough that I have to ask myself if I’ve had any Hot Pockets recently. The headaches only come on if I leave out the morning coffee. So I just don’t leave out my morning coffee. The heartburn, well, I can see why people would complain about this, but I’ve had old man heartburn since college. Keep the Tums on the nightstand and we’re good to go.

Sleep is for the Awesome: Sleep is not (yet) an issue. I’ve been sleeping better than ever, which is sort of awesome because I am usually a terrible sleeper. It used to take me forever to fall asleep (once asleep I am out like Rip van Winkle. Not to be confused with Robert van Winkle) but now I fall asleep before the episode of American Dad is over.

The Weight is On: Well, maybe not “on”. Total poundage for this whole thing so far is only about 5 lbs. Which is low, but nothing alarmingly low. I also don’t know HOW it’s only that much. I just got further orders to “indulge”. I can handle that.

The Graze Method: Since you’re all nestled up and snuggling with my internal organs, I was informed that you’re basically giving me a gastric bypass and squashing my stomach. So I can only eat a little bit at a time. And eat often. So somehow, now all I do is eat.

5, 6, 7, 8: Ever since Superbowl Sunday, I can feel your wicked dance moves more frequently. Mostly at night when I’m not focused on much else. But you’re definitely pop lockin’ up a storm and you let me know when I’m not in a position you like. Bossy little fetus.

You're like a Bump-It. For my belly.

Alright, I take shitty pictures of myself and there is no good spot in the house to do it. I either need to figure out the timer setting on my other camera or someone needs to come hang out with me once a week. THIS IS IMPORTANT, PEOPLE. These are memories. MEMORIES, DAMMIT.

Anyway. Halfway done, halfway to go! Keep up the good work, little fella, I guess? Good game?

My Foray into Blemishes

Dear !@#%$# Baby.

Enough with the zit-causing hormones. Honestly. It’s been three weeks of breakouts and I’ve had more crap explode on my face than the entirety of 1996. When I was 15. I have always been lucky (and thankful) to have fairly nice and relatively blemish-free skin and now you’re wrecking everything. So knock it the @#$%! off. The mood swings and the food indulgences and the weight gain are enough. Leave my face alone.

And the precious blemish that will. not. go. away? On the very tip of my nose? Is that seriously necessary? I don’t know if you’re trying to get into the holiday spirit or what, but I could live without the Rudolph Zit.

Apparently the Rudolph Zit also makes me a man. Damn. I look like Lars Ulrich or some shit.


What Morning Sickness?

Dear @#%! Baby.

Thank you for being nice to me thus far. But could you at least make your presence known a wee little bit? So far, aside from the tests, you have been too cooperative. I am starting to think the world is playing a trick on me. Vomit? Nope. Nausea? Only when I eat too much so that’s normal. Headaches? Not any worse than usual. Heartburn? Well, I’ve always had heartburn so I’m not sure. Tired? I can never get enough sleep. I heart sleep. Cranky? I’m always a moody bitch, so that’s not a good symptom.

Wait a minute. Maybe I’ve been pregnant for years. My daily routine usually consists of headaches, heartburn, complaining about being tired and general snarkiness so how the $%^# am I supposed to know what’s really going on in there?

I know you’re like the size of a lentil or something like that, but c’mon dude. Give me something to go on here! I can’t wait the two weeks until our next appointment without growing uber paranoid. Because, not going to lie to you man, momma has still been indulging with a daily coffee and more ham than may be recommended. We all have weaknesses. NOW MAKE ME THROW UP.