And this is what they call going out on a limb

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, as wide awake as I would be after an adrenaline shot.  This happens to me occasionally, usually when I am carrying around residual stress from work–which I am at the moment.  I’m used to it by now and have a system worked out.  I roll around for a while, think about how I should really just get up and go read in the other room or go to work really early, and then eventually fall back asleep for a few minutes just before the alarm goes off.  That was my ambitious plan this morning as well.

What I did instead was lay quietly for almost an hour-and-a-half, staring out the window at the newly green trees and thinking about the little alien in my gut.  “Thinking” isn’t quite the right word.  I’d say that I was “connecting” with the wee bugger, but that sounds very New Age-y and not at all like me.  We were having a moment, okay?  Just the two of us.

And while we were in the middle of that hour-and-half moment, I realized I was certain that I had a little boy growing in there.

That is a big statement to make.  I’ve admitted to my husband that I’ve been getting “boy vibe” for the last several weeks but I’ve been hedging that all over the place with statements like, “But I’m probably wrong” or “I’m not guaranteeing anything.”  This isn’t something that I would mention to anyone else but him.  Why set myself up to be wrong?

Several times woman who have had children have asked if I have a guess about the sex.  I always say no.  And they look at me skeptically, because they knew what I now know, which is this: a woman has some idea.  It might be the wrong idea, but chances are if you can get right down to the nitty gritty, she’ll have an instinct.

I don’t listen to my instincts much.  I’m a rationalist and believe that we, or at least I, should make decisions based on facts, not willy-nilly emotions.  This doesn’t always work, of course, and if I had a dime for every time I’ve overruled my gut and second-guessed wrong than I’d be a rich woman. 

So I’ve been dismissing the boy vibe out of rationalist habit.  “You can’t know,” I told myself.  “You’re just reacting to an external situation, such as the fact that most of the mothers you know have had girls and somebody, someday has to have a boy.  So you think it must be you.”

But this morning I did know.  I really and truly did, and I also knew what his name should be.  (No, I’m not sharing that.)  We laid there, my son and me, and we had a nice time with me knowing and him knowing I knew.  Or perhaps he was just spitting out amniotic fluid.  That’s also a possibility.

I may change my mind later about the knowing.  I will probably have to come up with some kind of wild backtracking story about how when I said I knew it was a boy I actually meant that it was a tough, manly, girl, no really I did, trust me.  I am, in fact, doubting myself now. 

But at 5:52 this morning, had you asked, I would have told you that I was absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was having a son.  And it was really cool.

The fetus that wouldn’t stop eating

It is not possible for a human being who has eaten as much as I have to be this hungry.  It is just not possible.

This has been my eating experience so far today:

7:00 AM: Gigantic bowl of cereal.  Probably twice the recommended serving size on the box.  The healthy kind of cereal, with dried fruit and nuts and whole grain flakes.  With an extra handful of raisins thrown in because they never add enough raisins.

10:00 AM: Banana.

12:00 noon: After willing myself to wait until noon to eat again, I tackle my sandwich: two big slices of bakery bread, cheddar cheese, a roasted portabello mushroom, and a handful of spinach.  On the side: half a bag of baby carrots.

2:00 PM: Big bowl of yogurt with a cut-up peach.  Mourn the fact that I didn’t bring any cereal to go in it.

3:30 PM: Forget the lesson learned yesterday and forage in the kitchen for free food.  Find absolutely disgusting mini-pecan tarts that are 99.9% corn syrup.  Eat them gleefully.  Do not gag and die from rancid corn syrup.

3:32 PM: Start staring at the clock and planning the fastest way to cook dinner when I get home.

4:40 PM Write the lamest blog entry ever in a fit of delusional hunger.

I just don’t know what to think anymore

For the past three days I have felt a squiggly, bubbly movement in my abdomen, rather like someone just opened up a fizzy soda in my intestines.

Look out word, it’s alive!

Or, wait, maybe it’s not.  The movement always seems to happen about an hour after I eat.

Everything I read says that early baby movements feel like gas.  But do they feel like digestion?

And if they do, I only have one question for you:

How exactly am I supposed to know the difference?

Maternal instinct, my ass.

Consider this a warning

Earlier today, so hungry I was ready to gnaw off my own arm for sustenance, I went and foraged in the work kitchen for some snacks.  Lo and behold: an individual-sized bag of potato chips free for the taking!  My savior!

I sallied back to my desk, feeling like I might be able to make it to lunch after all. I ripped open the bag, popped one in my mouth and thought: what is that smell?

Then I thought: forget the smell, what is that taste?  After spitting everything out into my trash can, I did a quick check.

That was the smell and taste of potato chips that were dated (are you ready?): June 2005.  Rancid potato chips, if you’ve neither smelled nor tasted them, smell worse than burning hair and taste worse than Maxwell House coffee.  That was disgusting.

On the plus side, it totally took away my desire to eat.  At least until lunchtime.  My hunger, like my sense of humor, is resilient and can bounce back.

But I am now highly suspicious of free food.

This may be a reaction to stress

I am craving a Boston creme donut.

I am also craving a martini.

I am eating an orange.

I don’t think it’s working.

Again, perhaps this is a sign I should cut back on the olives

I’ve been working on a long post for two days now about pregnancy and marriage and the evils of sleeping on one’s side, but I haven’t been able to finish it because there’s this new rule in my office that I’m supposed to “work” while at my “job.” 

I am being kept down by The Man.  And you are the ones who are suffering.

So this is just a quickie to let you in on another exciting development: my bellybutton is losing its shape.  What was a nice, tidy, little slit is now approaching Gaping Hole status. 

Once again, this kid better be damn cute.

On olives and weight gain

I’m almost done with this doctor’s visit.  I really, truly am.  And this isn’t so much about the visit as it is about what I discovered at the visit.

My friends, I now weigh more than I have ever weighed before in my life.  I haven’t gained a shocking amount of weight, only 8 pounds since this whole adventure began, which by my calculations is on the high side of average.  (See that, you laggard fetus? We are a family that hangs out on the high side of average.  Get with the program.)  But, still.  More poundage than ever before.

More than my sophomore year in college, when I was drinking an average of 750 beers a day and eating pizza four times a week.

More than I weighed during that slight bout of early 20s angst when I thought that happy hour drinks and nachos were a good enough dinner.

More than I weighed that winter after I got married when the husband and I spent four months sitting on the couch eating takeout and I used to match his portion sizes, despite the fact that he is a foot taller and 70 pounds heavier than myself.

I’m not depressed about this new weight record, it’s just…odd.  I find myself fighting the urge to go on my usual ”more salads, less ice cream” restrained eating mode until my pants fit again.  Because my pants aren’t going to fit again.  And that strikes my normally health-conscious self as odd and surprising.

What’s not odd or surprising is that I’ve gained eight pounds considering that I have eaten four jars of olives in the last two weeks.  I cannot stop eating olives.  For anything.  Every night I go home, put on comfy pants, and crack open the olives.   Great, now I want olives again.

At least it’s not pickles.  I hate being a cliche.

Does this mean I’m going to be a stage mother?

Yes, we heard the heartbeat.  It was very strong and a good pace.  And my first reaction was: haHA!  Take that, doctor who tried to make me feel bad because we couldn’t hear the heartbeat “early”!

Then she said: Have you felt the baby move yet?

Me: Um, no?

Her: That’s okay.  It’s still early.  Most people don’t feel it this early.

And this time I left the doctor’s office and thought: What have I got in there, some kind of below-average, slow poke!  Come on, kid!  Get with the program!

We’re starting a therapy fund, if anyone would like to contribute.

Houston, We Have a Heartbeat

Back at the 10 week visit, you may remember, I had a minor freak-out because there was no heartbeat.  Apparently, this kid was just holding out on us because today, at 15 weeks, there it was.  Clear as can be and right there as soon as the doctor touched me with the Doppler.

Once more, for the record, let it be known: I have not, as of yet, killed the baby.

I am probably the only woman in America that feels this way

Dear big-boobed women of the world:

I am not one of your kind.  I am a small-chester, a skimpy B-cup, a woman who has been known to go to work wearing only a camisole under my sweater with none around me the wiser.  I have never been jealous of you, as I am generally pretty pleased with my small boobage.  In fact, when questioned why I didn’t want a bigger bust I always said, “I think big boobs look like they hurt when you take the stairs.”

I knew not of what I spoke.

Because now I am closer to joining your ranks than ever before.  I am not fielding phone calls from girlie magazines yet, but I am getting bigger.  And last night, after I realized that I’d left my planned before-bed reading downstairs, I did my usual jog down the stairs to retrieve it. 

Oh.  Oh my.  I was right.  That DOES hurt.  Quite a bit actually.  It felt rather like parts of my body were trying to detach themselves with each bounce.  I had to spend several minutes hunched over at the bottom of the stairs, clutching my breasts against me, to recover.

So, larger ladies, I salute you.  You apparently have suffered with this pain for years, and suffered silently.  Congratulations for being made of stronger woman-stuff than I.

Now give me my small boobs back.

Admiringly,

Alias Mother

PS- Underwire: necessity or invention of the devil?