The picture

There's, like, a baby in there.

Tweets

All the tweets I wish I could be sending during the first trimester...

3/7/11: After barely choking down dry cherios this am, I ate an entire panini for lunch without rushing to the bathroom. Go ahead and try to ruin my day now because IT'S NOT POSSIBLE after this victory.

3/8/11: I think I have to name this baby Giovani, because all I want to eat is pizza, chicken parma, and pasta with marinara sauce.

3/12/11: After not running a 4 mile race, eating two bagels and doing the exhausting errand of driving through the ATM, I took a nap. Then ate nachos. Very productive day.

3/13/11: Items not on grocery list that ended up in cart: mint choco chip ice cream, frozen pizza, cheetos & marshmallow fluff.

3/17/11: Is it too early for an empanada? (It's 9:45 a.m. On St. Patrick's Day.)

3/18/11: Had to unfollow @eatthisnotthat because preggo me eats EVERYTHING they say not to.

3/20/11: Baby's name officially changed from Giovani to Julio. Puked on tomato sauce last week, but have eaten tacos/ nachos/ quesadilla or just corn chips every day since.




3/31/11: 11 weeks today. They say the nauseousness only lasts the first trimester. So only 7 more days, right? RIGHT!?!?!?!

4/4/11 Had to unbutton my jeans at the dinner table. Dang.

4/5/11: Dear Body: It would really, really mean a lot to me if I wear my own clothes just 3 more days, so I could say I didn't need maternity wear the entire first trimester. It's vain, I know. But please.

4/6/11: Wishful thinking, and really bad math. There's still weeks left of this trimester. Dang it. Pass the nachos.

My first weekend "out"

(April 18)

This was kinda my first weekend "out" about the pregnancy. Well, I guess not totally -- I told my siblings and aunts when I saw them a few weeks ago, and a few friends have known when I've hung out with them.

But this was my first weekend telling a bunch of people I wasn't close with, talking about it openly, and, well, frankly, taking advantage of every bit of sympathy and help I could get.

I was helping a friend on a cool project and it took me out of town. I spent the weekend with people I'd likely never see again, or who under no conceivable way could spread the word of my pregnancy back to work before I could (tomorrow, I hope, I can get some time to break the news. At this point, it's ridiculous.). So I felt no reservations coming clean when at lunch the first day, the three I was with ordered salads -- two of them vegan -- and I ordered stuffed grilled cheese (complete with thick Texas toast, two kinds of cheese, fried onions and avocado) and french fries. Or when, in a hot room, I moved the chair I was sitting in next to an open doorway for more air and someone joked (but not really) that we were going to get busted for breaking firecode and I said flatly, "let me deal with the firemen if they get here. I'm pregnant, I'm hot, and I'm hungry. And I'm not moving" (but I smiled afterwards). Or when I unabashedly just skipped out on planned group activities because I felt like napping instead.

I liked it. It was kind of nice. It was all, "I'm not really going to do something I don't want to do, and I don't care if I'm using this baby as an excuse. I'm using it."

I think I could get used to that part.

Welcome to the Club

(April 5, 2011)

We had a tragedy in the family this weekend. When I heard about it on Saturday night, I was sad. I was disappointed. I felt awful for David and Lauren.

But I went on with my evening plans.

I woke Sunday morning and laid in bed for a while, thinking. Still the peripheral, "that's such a shame," but with an added element of "what can I do?" So when Mike groggily rolled over and asked what I had planned for the day, I had a lot: I was going to grocery shop not just for dinner tonight but for several days worth for Lauren (and Barb, who was coming down to stay for the week with her). I was going to make a big meal that could be dropped off at their house tonight, and prep Monday night's dinner for them. Maybe I'd make a pie if I had time.

And that's exactly how I spent my day, sitting when I could, but letting the exhaustion of doing something distract me. I focused on the check list.

We packed up the groceries, pulled the sausage and meatballs off the stove, and headed over. I was naively unprepared.

I walked in, not yet "showing," but definitely bigger than my pre-pregnancy self. I hugged Lauren. Then I embraced her. Then I clung to her, like I've never done before.

What washed over me was an unexpected flood of sorrow, grief, relief, guilt, fear and so much more. It was like hitting a wall, or a wall hitting me. It was an electric shock. I couldn't breath.

It was my first true realization: I am a member of this club now.

I couldn't sleep Sunday night. I blamed it on the exhaustion. On the fact that every muscle in my body ached (hey, trips to two different malls, grocery shopping for two families, a formal-attire party with lots of small talk, and a day in the kitchen is a lot in a weekend for a woman in her first trimester). I went to work on Monday and went through the motions. I felt numb. I left "early" at 5:30 p.m., and sat through an hour and a half of Cherry Blossom traffic.

At 15th and E, in front of the Hotel Washington, and about 35 minutes into the drive, I began to cry. By 15th and Pennsylvania, it was a good thing the traffic was barely crawling, because I couldn't see anything through the streaming tears. By the time I finally got home, they were body-shaking, out-loud, hide-my-head-in-a-pillow, sobs.

I am a member of this club, now. And I am scared to death.

Will it ever be about more than complaining?

(March 24)

So, there's going to be a time when I'm writing about -- thinking about -- onesies and nursery decor and maternity clothe shopping and snuggly soft things.

Right?

I mean, I wrote that as a declarative sentence, but I think I really mean it as a question. Because right now I am still solely and singly obsessed with food.

No, no, that's not true. I'm also obsessed with sleeping. I can't wait to get to bed every night. And I abhor waking up. I've started planning weekends around napping. I dream of falling asleep right here at my desk.

At least, I hope I'm dreaming, because it's possible this drool is real.

After bragging to Terry last night that I was eating really well (as in, copious amounts of food, although none of them particularly healthy, but HEY! I took and kept down a pre-natal vitamin the past two days, so that's something, right?) and only felt mildly hung over, I go and barf again this morning. No warning, no saliva down the back of the throat, just holy shit I hope I can get to the toilet before this come out of my mouth.

In other words, I'm not glowing.

Oh, and as an added bonus, the weekly email I get from a pregnancy site that tells you what's going on with the baby and that I usually look forward to brought the lovely news that not only is my uterus the size of a grapefruit right now (sexy and svelte, no?), but it compared the baby to a kumquat.

Those are downright fighting words. Who are you calling a kumquat? Do you know what a kumquat is? I didn't, I had to look it up on wikipedia (they could have just said it was the size of an olive, sheesh), but "kumquat" immediately congers to mind thoughts of hairy Lockness monster type monsters. 

Where are the cute onesies and soft and cuddly things in a kumquat?

Like there's something else to blog about

(March 15)

Mike called me out for not-posting last night, and I'm sure Joe is about to post up here any day doing the same (that's mighty presumptuous of me.). But what else can I even pretend is going on right now to blog about?

I work, and then I come home and impersonate a zombie.

I don't like the idea of blogging about work, even less so here at this job than at my old one. I tried to figure that reasoning last night, and I think it might come down to this being an agency job -- I have several different clients, and the work we do for them is never promoted as OUR work. We're just the ghost behind the client. So even when I do something really cool or really funny, it's like it's not my story to tell. At least at my old job, there was only one company, I was publicly a part of that company, and anything that I did in the communications realm we wanted to get out there.

Now it just seems like a violation of sorts.

So I work, work, work, then I come home and scrape up the energy to fix myself dinner (to clarify so that doesn't sound like a dig on Mike -- he, unfortunately for him, is left to fend for himself for dinner. What actually sounds appetizing on any given night to eat varies, so I generally end up going to the grocery store on my way home. The settled upon food -- I won't go so far as to say meal -- is always very carb-heavy, so he doesn't join in. He actually asked me this morning on my way out the door what I wanted to eat for dinner and I looked at him like he had three heads. That's 10 hours away! How am I supposed to know!?!).

After eating and washing up from dinner, I sit on the couch like a pro. Occasionally I can put a load of laundry in. But it's generally too much energy to do the laundry and fold the laundry on the same day.

Well, then, hot damn, it's 9:15 p.m. and I'm about to start drooling right there on the couch, so I crawl into bed. The great news there is that I fall asleep like a champ. The bad news is, I also wake up 8 times in the middle of the night like one, too.

Sunday was a particularly great example of my zombie-like behavior. I woke, took a walk (yay, Spring!!! And, quiet frankly, I'm sorry David and Lauren, but I ADORE daylight saving time. You two keep tweeting like it's the devil out to get us, and I have to disagree.), and drove down to Old Town to get myself a Cosi bagel because a Cosi bagel was all I wanted. Not the Dunkin' Donuts I passed, or the two grocery stores, or the Whole Foods, or the Breugers... Just the Cosi.

You can imagine how exhausting all that was, so I needed an hour on the couch. I scraped up the resolve to hit the grocery store, and then, well, that deserved the next 7 hours on the couch. During which time the rest of my nutrition for the day consisted of a half a bag of Cheetos and an ice cream sundae. Yup, that was my dinner.

And since watching two of my all time favorite movies (Legally Blonde AND Ocean's 11!!) took so much attention... it was off to bed at 9 p.m.

This, people, is why I'm not blogging. 

Beige

(Really, March 6)

I hope you all aren't getting mad at me now. I'm not posting because, really, people, what could I possibly post about except the fact that I'm pregnant?

Not only because it's HUGE, but because every fiber of my being is focused on it. The things I'm doing -- laying on the couch, puking -- aren't exactly things I can talk to you all about yet. I had a bit of minor major freakout yesterday morning after the doctor's appointment. Not because of what happened at the appointment per say, but because I started to think about all this stuff that I hadn't been thinking about or planning before... was this the right doctor for me? What about the hospital? Should I change my doctor if I don't like the hospital? How do I know about the hospital before I have a doctor? Should the doctor be downtown or close to home? But if the doctor is downtown, the hospital will be downtown and will that be difficult to get to when it's time?!?! WHAT THE HELL HAVE I BEEN DOING FOR THE PAST TWO WEEK'S THAT I'VE KNOWN I WAS PREGNANT?!?!?!?!

The answer to that, of course, was that the first week I knew I was pregnant I mourned my dog. We took this new piece of mind-blowing information, put it in a box, and buried it in the corner.

Then, the second week I knew I was pregnant, I spent the entire week thinking about -- or trying not to think about -- food. What could I eat, what couldn't I eat, what should I eat, why couldn't I keep what I was eating down, and holy hell, all I want are complex carbohydrates and SALT.

(Oh, one more thought this week: I really wish I could have been tweeting. Yes, they would have all been snarky and sarcastic, but for example, right now -- "So far on today's menu? 3/4 of a box of Cheese Its. That's how I roll.")

Yes, you read that correctly. Cheese Its. Almost an entire box. And it's 2:32 p.m. I'm quite positive I will be done the box before the night is over.

I have also eaten this week: french fries every day, three sleeves of a box of Saltines, Tostitos, Honey Nut Cherios, and a grilled cheese sandwich. Notice anything there? BEIGE. My entire week has been brought to you by the color beige and the number 7 weeks.

It's disgusting to think about. I'm already planning my post-baby-pop-out workouts.

Oh! Good news though, is that I found this:

Ginger Beer. I've been on the look out for it since realizing that Ginger Ale, doesn't really have any ginger. But foreign ginger "beer" (non alcoholic, no worries) does. I had ginger beer for the first time at Vi's wedding, where someone brought Australian ginger beer. This one was at Harris Teeter and is from Jamaica. 26 grams of real ginger root per bottle. And it's fizzy and carbonated, and I can't tell you why fizzy and carbonated are soooo much desired. It just, is.

Thank heavens.

The power of the mind

Another update written and saved before posting... writing on March 4...

It's amazing what the power of the mind can do. Specifically, what just thinking about something, particularly somethings that I usually eat in HUGE quantities, can turn your stomach. A physical reaction to the thought of eggs... or hummus... or nuts... it's unreal.

Also, so that you all know, the past two days have been brought to you by the color beige, as in Saltines, baked lays, Ginger Ale, and bread.

Please don't kick me out of the primal club, just stick with me another 8 months.

Morning Sickness

By now, I have posted about being pregnant. I'm sure I posted about how thrilled I am, what a surprise, oh what a blessing, blah, blah, blah crap.

It is 8:20 a.m. on Wednesday, March 3rd, you see, and I haven't actually written that post yet. Nor am I going to publish this post for at least another month. But in order to be true to you, my dear friends, I feel I need to write this post now. Surely (oh, God, PLEASE, please for all your goodness, PLEASE) I won't feel the same way in a month, and therefore won't do this post justice, just thinking back on how I feel today.

Because I feel like shit.

It is by far the most over-used statement in these early weeks of pregnancy, but I'll say it again anyway: morning sickness is in no way confined to the morning. It is all day, feeling like you're going to barf, being nauseated by the mere mention of your previously favorite foods. Feeling hung-over, that's what it's like. Only you didn't have fun last night -- you crawled into bed at 9:00 p.m. and were drooling a waterfall before 9:01. When I can get up the nerve to eat, all I want are fried, salty foods. Like french fries or potato chips. Really, really crispy french fries.

This, coming from someone who has been primal for a year. I haven't had as many complex carbohydrates in the past year combined as I have eaten in the past three days. Monday and Tuesday for lunch,  I ate two snack bags of Baked Lays. Then french fries for dinner.

This morning, on the way to work, I stopped at the grocery store and bought a box of Saltines. I am almost through one entire sleeve -- of course, with the crackers on my desk, with a napkin on top to hide the evidence. I also bought a BIG bag of Baked Lays, and I expect that to be my lunch.

And talk about work. You try to concentrate on meetings when all you can think about is how awful you feel. How that person next to you really doesn't need to wear that much cologne. How you'd arm wrestle for that cup of coffee across the table from you, but, no, you can't have it.

Caffeine and alcohol have been interesting in these short few weeks. So far the alcohol thing hasn't bothered me -- makes sense, really. When you wake up hung over, do you want to reach for a glass of wine?

But, goodness, what I wouldn't do for a Diet Coke. A tall, cold, Diet Coke.

Instead, I'll stick to my decaffeinated, non-herbal, non-sweetened tea, thank you very much. Can't you just see me glowing?

Forget working out, at least right now. I've walked a few mornings, and I'm trying to keep up doing my squat routine once a week, and work my biceps and back muscles at least once a week. But a walk on the treadmill at 3.2 speed for 2 miles isn't going to burn off all these damn french fries. Bye-bye, too, my days of chin ups and pull ups.

So, yes, I am complaining. This nausea will go away, and the happiness will return, and I won't even remember these days when I feel the baby kick for the first time. Which is why I'm archiving this post today, because I do want you, my dear friends, to know that this sucks.

I Have a Really, Really Good Excuse This Time

Did you wait for me? I know I didn’t ask you to, but I’m wondering if you did anyway. My “second incarnation as a blogger,” as Mr. J.B. put it, was fairly short lived. But I have a really, really good excuse as to why.

I’m pregnant.

Close your mouth, sit down, take a deep breath. I know. It’s pretty hard for me to fathom myself.

This was not expected to say the least. Not “tried” for, because that stopped years ago when it became apparent we were not to be, well, parents. This wasn’t even a possibility on the radar screen.

I started a new job, I was (am) incredibly stressed, and yet, there ya go.

I myself am still in the “shock and awe” phase, although slowly evolving into the actual believing phase (more on that in a minute), and knowing that I’ll rapidly be in the “holy shit, I have so much to do!” phase very, very soon.

I have, despite the lack of evidence so far on this blog, actually been blogging. I just haven’t been hitting the “publish” button. Over the next several days I’ll publish posts from the past month, although I’m fairly certain those of you with weak stomachs might not want to read them. Because my stomach has been weakest of all, and I can summarize the posts thus: “I got sick. A lot. Yet was obsessed with food. A lot. And then I got sick some more.”




Even if you have a strong stomach, you may want to take a pass. I told a friend earlier this week and his reaction was, "Oh, great. Now every status update on Facebook is going to be about gross bodily things. Please. Don't." 


I'll try to refrain. But, this is my blog after all. So, you gotta deal with it here.

The pregnancy discovery happened, of all places, in Las Vegas. It was when I was there with Mike and my brother, and although we went out on Thursday night and had a blast, Friday my late period was nagging on me. You people all know I’m punctual. Well, all of me is punctual.

“What the heck,” I thought. “I’ll take a test, it’ll come back negative, and I can enjoy the rest of the weekend without another thought. Surely it’s just the stress and long hours and lack of sleep that’s disrupting my schedule.”

I walked to the Walgreens at the Venetian, purchased a two-pack (thinking the entire time, “what a waste. I have to pay for two when all I want is one.”), and went into the Grand Canal shops to find a restroom. I didn’t want the evidence in the hotel room, after all, when I knew it’d be negative.

So I took the test. I played Words with Friends, checked Twitter, wasn’t overly stressed. Until I looked at the stick.

Pregnant

“No. Fucking. Way.”

I grabbed the bottled of water in my bag, gulped it down entirely, and peed again, praising the smart packaging companies for putting two in a box because surely, surely, this one was faulty.

It wasn’t.

I contemplated going back to Walgreens for another two-pack, but, shit, Mike was going to start making me cut back on my spending, like, immediately when he hears this news.

Speaking of Mike, he was in the Venetian also, in a poker tournament, and doing quite well. By the time I composed myself enough to leave the restroom, he had actually left the tournament on a break, to run over to the room at the Mirage to change. He thought he’d play up until he ran out of chips, and that might mean he met my brother and I late for dinner.

When I arrived at the room, Mike was rushing about to make it back to the Venetian tourney, and I stopped him. Told him there was some news that might change the way the evening went, and I presented, The Stick. Both of them.

His actions the rest of the night are a blur, and he’ll have to describe them in more detail, but they involved him going back to the Venetian to lose his chips, instead winning a boatload in 10 minutes, coming back to the room to meet me and my brother, dinner (yes, we told Terry. Kinda obvious when I’m not drinking, ya think?), then all of us went back to the tournament where he just couldn’t pay attention, or, apparently, lose. He actually ended up staying in until they paused the tournament for the night and restarted it again the next day.

I pretty much spent the rest of the evening sick to my stomach, and not because of pregnancy symptoms. Of course there was joy and relief and praising and happiness. But there was also that shock and awe that I mentioned, the fear, the worry, and the utter I’m-completely-out-of-my-league-ness.

I wish I could say the rest of the weekend was spent in joy and baby clothes shopping, but our good news was quickly overshadowed by bad – Goldie was dying. To say I knew it would happen is much, much too strong. But my belief in the universe needing to make room for the new, my utter conviction that the ending of a life and the beginning of a life are connected, meant that I wasn’t surprised when Kristy called on Saturday morning. He gives, and He takes away.

Goldie’s death meant the pregnancy was almost the elephant in the room for the next week. Neither Mike nor I could process both events happening together.

But nature continued it’s course, and soon we were forced to put aside our grief and focus on this new life. Yes, for beautiful, moving, faith-filled and loving reasons. That, and, because the puking started.

So, you see, what could I blog about? I work 10-12 hours a day, plus commuting time. I arrive home and I am a mound of uselessness, just overcome with exhaustion. I don’t like the idea of posting about work, and then, I’m pregnant. What else, really, could I post about?

Keep reading to see – there aren’t many, and they aren’t Pulitzer-deserving. But the posts over the next few days are how the first 14 weeks of my pregnancy progressed.

Welcome to my third incarnation as a blogger. A freakin' mommy blogger.