I am a week away from my third trimester, and the only thing I have successfully maintained is my weight. I might as well start this with saying that I STILL can wear my skinny jeans from before I was pregnant. I may look like I have gained about 35lbs, but in real life, its about 13lbs in 27 weeks. I am very proud of this, and on the occasion that I am wearing my skinny jeans, I usually lift up my shirt to show that my belly, not my ass or thighs have expanded.
My tantrums have subsided to once or twice a week, but a lot of them are just in my brain, where I can use all the profanity that I want. I started listening to Eminem and Three Six Mafia in the morning so I can yell out F bombs in the comfort of my car, and it feels good. Not something a mother should do, but if he comes out talking about hitting girls and selling drugs, I’ll write a blog about how I’m the worst mother in America.
I still find a reason to cry every day, whether the situation is good or bad. Because most people around me are aware of my deteriorating mental state, they try really hard to keep me happy, and for that I am thankful.
I felt Blake for the first time in my 15th week. At first, it felt like swirls. Now, I can accurately say that it feels like when you push that bubble dice thing in the game Trouble, and the dice bounces back on the top. Since the first swirl, I tried and make Randy feel my belly, and get angry whenever he loses interest because he can’t feel anything. It consumes me for weeks, until a close friend of mine who is a new father tells me that they can’t actually ‘feel’ anything until about 8 months, and even then since they can’t actually see the baby it’s not as big of a deal to them as it is to us, and to just get over it. Because he is superdad, and a great husband, I decide to let it go, and find something new to be upset with Randy about, but he suddenly starts helping clean the house and other things so I have to get more creative. I still try and make him feel the baby move, but I don’t cry when he says he can’t feel him, or goes back to his cartoons when Blake doesn’t start kicking or whatever it is he does in there again. I start to relish the fact that everything he does in there is just with me, and this will be the only time that I can keep him all to myself without other people’s hands all over him.
People asked me a lot, what I thought I was carrying. I HAD NO IDEA. Seriously. I couldn’t feel his boy parts grow, and I can’t feel it flappin around in there. I was just as suprised as I would have been if they said it was a girl. Sometimes I called him a him, other times it was a girl. We wanted a girl, so when the big day came to catch his privates in the ultrasound, we had a girl’s name picked out the night before. No boy’s name.. We go in there for the ultrasound, and our little girl proudly brandished a dong that she seemed pretty proud of. Despite the fact that I cry over everything else, I didn’t cry. I actually didn’t feel any real emotion over the sex. I just stared at it. I stared at my son’s weiner and wondered what he was going to wear, and who was I going to have tea parties with. Randy says in front of the tech, ‘now we only have to worry about one, instead of a hundred…’ I can’t believe he said that, because we usually save inapropriate comments for me. In the end, we decided on Blake Nicholas, mainly becauase we spent most of the time calling him Blake (after Blake Griffin) when we referred to him as a boy. It just seemed like a natural transition. Plus Randy thought Blake Hensley would sound good on a loudspeaker, and look good on a baseball card.
Watching TV made me happy to have a boy. We were in the middle of a Friday Night Lights marathon on Netflix, so watching the boys play football made having him more exciting for me. We now muse over the entire SEC and Big 12 harassing us when he is in high school, and retiring early once he goes pro in whatever sport he plays. We also watch 16 and Pregnant, and realize that if we had a girl, she could get pregnant as a teenager, and maybe to some piece of crap boy who doesn’t seem to have parents to hold him accountable for what he has done.. We come up with a plan for if he knocks up a girl, and pray for boy birth control to be legal by then. I still get slightly butthurt when I see lacy ruffled rompers.
In my quest to control most things in my pregnancy one thing that I have trouble controlling is my blood sugar. My OB wants it under a hundred, sometimes I can get it that low before I go to sleep, but when I wake up its floating between 135-160. Inspired by my best friend Natalie, whose Naziesque approach to Gestational Diabeetus kept her not only at an attractive weight, but kept her from having a really fat baby to get stuck in her canal, I follow her advice. Some days I take a mental break and eat something bad, but for the most part I behave myself. But my whoremones are keeping me from really controlling my blood sugar. My real doctor says I’m doing a fabulous job, so I don’t really let my blood sugar get me down until I decide to watch videos online of fat babies getting stuck on the way out. Then I cross my legs, flinch, and cry.
Speaking of food, I don’t have this appetite that people are boasting of. I have something like cravings, I suppose, where I refuse to eat unless Blake ‘requests’ it. For breakfast he used to require some sort of egg dish, now I can’t start my day unless I have a bowl of cottage cheese and blackberries sprinkled in cinnamon. I’m not worried, I’ll be damned if I have a kid who only wants to eat chicken nuggets. I’m considering not even serving them once he’s old enough so he doesn’t get any crazy ideas… I read this book called Bringing Up Bebe’.. It’s pretty controversial for an American mother, because all of the overbearing insanity of motherhood is frowned upon. I loved it. It made me not feel selfish when I cringed at the thought of giving up softball, traveling, friends, my body, my dignity in restauratnts, and sleep for a baby. It also made me obsessed with cheese. I eat blocks of different cheese every week, because I am convinced that he can taste it, and I want him to enjoy real people food when the time is right.
I am enamored with my belly. At first, there was a small layer of fat that lived under my bump, and now it has been completely consumed, and my belly is hard and the skin is tight (painful and itchy), and sports stretch marks that I don’t mind looking at. My tight shirts that are long enough to still wear, and my maternity shirts make me feel beautiful. . I am convinced that I haven’t looked this good since I was a teenager. When I get dressed every morning, I spend about 20 minutes admiring my bump from different angles, and let it stick out as far as possible when I’m out in public. I also make sure to flash my wedding ring when I know people are looking at it.
Speaking of maternity clothing, I went shopping at resale shops for maternity shirts. I have trouble wanting to buy them since I know my time is limited, but I buy them anyways. I had a lady tell me that maternity clothing is ‘obsolete’ and to check plus size… I almost bitch slapped her, but decided that since I’m about to be someone’s mother I’ll limit my behavior to yelling f bombs really loud in my car, instead of hitting a woman who probably wore sweatpants through her pregnancy. I make a mental note never to walk into that store again.
My body continues to betray me in subtle ways. I no longer bend over. If somethings falls, I glance at it and move on. Despite the fact that my hair has grown considerably and is really really thick, my nails break themselves after they reach a certain length. I have horrendous heartburn, and my eyes water uncontrollably. Other than that, everything is cool. I started to get energy back, and was working out until I hurt myself, so now Randy walks me and Achilles through our neighborhood to keep me mobile.
I hate walking and getting into cars because it makes me want to pee. I thought that my bathroom trips would subside, but they havent. Maybe because I drink a lot of water, or maybe because I can feel him going all Rick James on my bladder. I go the bathroom every 15-20 minutes easily, but my nighttime trips aren’t as bad as they used to be because I stopped drinking a lot of water at night. My favorite/ least favorite thing is getting in bed. I have to roll around like a turtle to get into a good position, and if I have to get out it takes me at least 57 seconds of rolling, groaning, and wimpering. Randy blows me kisses in his sleep on the way to the bathroom, and when I get back in bed. Sometimes I talk to him for about 30 minutes until I fall back asleep, but he all he does is agree with me. I don’t mind, because most of the questions I ask need a ‘yes’ answer anyways.
I baby gaze. I look at every mixed baby that I come across, and I shamelessly stare. I consider asking the parent of ginger haired mixed babies (there are alot of them here) if I can hold their baby and secretly pretend its mine. I don’t because I don’t want to scare anyone off.
I am looking forward to my 30th week, it will feel almost over to me then. This has been the fastest, but longest time of my life. 90% of my activities are me being active, or drinking, so I am very limited as a person, and I can’t wait to enter the sleep-deprived life that awaits me, as long as I can go back to playing ball, drinking at dinner, and hopping out of bed instead of rolling.
I have a feeling that this will go by pretty fast, because our entire weekend calendar of June is FULL. I refused to make plans to do anything in July, because I don’t want to be in a car unless I’m going to work, or the doctor or getting cheese. I’m not going anywhere. I want to sleep in my final four weekends, in my own bed. I also want to enjoy those weeks alone, with my husband and my dog, because once he comes, our lives will no longer belong to us again. Its depressing and exciting at the same time. Depressing, because we will be arguing holidays and sleep schedules, and driving everywhere to show off the baby, exciting because I want my body back, and I want to see my baby. Hurry up, hot sweaty summer.. Lets get through this..