A big fear (no pun intended) come true

My husband is a tall man. He’s no NBA player, but he is tall enough that when he is walking down the street and sees another tall man, they do the secret Tall Man Nod. You may not have known that the Tall Man Nod existed, as I did not until I spent a lot of time walking down streets with my own Tall Man. It’s hard for us more average people to know about it, since it happens above our heads. But when really tall men see each other, they do a funny little half nod, in a gesture that that always reminds me of the little wave that motorcyclists exchange on the road. The first time I caught my husband doing it, I asked about it and was summarily informed that it’s a sign of recognition and respect. Like, “Hey, Tall Man, how you doing? Doesn’t jeans shopping suck?” Or something like that. I don’t know what the cut-off height is to get the secret Tall Man Nod, but if I were to guess I’d look somewhere around 6′4″.

So, yes, he is very tall.

My mother-in-law, an otherwise kind and lovely woman, has spent significant time telling and retelling the story of his birth to me. Which I probably would do to if I gave birth to this monstrosity. She was so large when pregnant with him that the doctors were convinced that he was twins. Back in the 70s, they didn’t induce labor if you went more than two weeks past your due date like they do now, which means that she actually went 10 full months before he was born. Add the two things together, and you have a baby that would terrify any expectant mother: a 24 inch baby that weighed nearly 14 pounds at birth.

14 POUNDS. 24 INCHES.

My mother-in-law says it was like giving birth to a three-month old. I believe her.

Given this history, I have been afraid from the beginning that I was carrying a similarly-sized mutant child in me.

If you read the ultrasound post, you may have picked up the comment the over-caffeinated radiologist made that the baby seemed tall. To be more specific: the femur measurement was that of a 21 week baby, although I was only at just under 20 weeks (something that was confirmed by the other measurements). Tall baby.

He also told us that the baby weighed an estimated 382 grams, which is just under a pound. I didn’t pay attention to that really, but I had no comparison.

Today it occurred to me that I should make a comparison. So I looked up an average fetal weight chart. I kind of wished I hadn’t.

The average 20 week baby weight is 300 grams. The average 21 week weight is 360 grams. Once again, our little (HA!) girl (I should say “alleged girl,” but I won’t) weighed 382 grams at 20 weeks. Please, draw your own conclusions.

I am afraid. I am very afraid. Although this might explain why I am so hungry all the time. The mutant child must be fed.

At least we can hope for a basketball scholarship.

You’re looking for what? Or: The Ultrasound

I keep waiting for things to slow down around here before I spin off into some long dramatic ultrasound tale.  But things aren’t slowing down around here.  So you get the short dramatic ultrasound tale.  Which is actually made easier by the fact that our radiologist was heavily overcaffeinated and therefore talkedreallyreallyfast.  So let’s just channel him, okay?

Tech: Okay oh nice full bladder you must really have to pee.  Let’s take some shots of the cervix looks good everything looks good excellent okay go ahead and go to the bathroom and come back.  You better now okay good.  Let’s add some more gel and take a look oh yeah there’s the kid looks great.  Let’s zoom in on the heart there whoa too close let’s zip back a little there we go looks like a little beating clover leaf, doesn’t it?  Everything good here let’s check out the other organs.  Stomach check bladder check looks great looks great.  How about the head let’s do some measurements there’s the face let’s zoom in on that oh look the baby is swallowing some amniotic fluid see the mouth move that’s super.  Yep all the measurements look great let’s zip on down to the legs there’s the toes how cute.  Measure the femur yep it all looks good everything’s right on track kid might be a little tall.  You want to know the sex you do you sure okie-dokie let’s give it a try.  There’s the crotch there and what we’re looking for is the turtle.

Us: The what?

Tech: The turtle.  Or the hamburger.  Turtle or hamburger that’s what we always say and I’m not seeing anything let’s zoom a little closer nope nothing and closer nope still no turtle.  I think you’re having a girl good to see you take care.

Husband, outside the hospital: I think our child has just been violated.

It looked like vacation, it smelled like vacation…

And yet it was not vacation.

It was, instead, a week straight with my mother and a slightly frightening family reunion with 150 of my closest aunts, uncles, cousins, and assorted other family members.  They all poked and prodded and said things like, “I see a belly there!”  And then they all talked about how it’s a boy. They can tell because I had so little morning sickness, you know.  And with the large number of girls recently in the family, it is totally a boy.  I was starting to get nervous with all this boy talk, especially when my mother kept insisting on referring to The Kid (as we are calling the fetus these days) as “him.”  Anyone up for tempting fate? Anyone?

It was a lot of family time.  But I survived the family, The Kid survived the large amount of Jello I ingested, and my mother survived me.

Phew.

I got home last night.  And had my first ultrasound first thing this morning.  More on that later, but the important thing is this:

It’s probably not a boy.

I can’t wait to tell mom.

It’s going to be a steep learning curve

Conversation after watching the first segment of Creature Comforts  (which you should watch next week if you missed it for lo, it was funny):

Me: So what would you say is your favorite feature of mine?

Him: Ummmm…your stomach.

Me: Too late for that, my friend.

Him: What? It will spring back into shape afterwards.

Me: . . . .

Him: . . . .

Me: Better pick another favorite thing, buddy.

A little navel-gazing

Let’s talk about my bellybutton, shall we?

I used to possess what was possibly the most awesome bellybutton of all time.  Not only was it an innie (with all due respect to the outies of the world: thank heavens it’s you and not me), but it was a neat and tidy innie.  Just the barest little slit of a belly button.  Too small to collect lint, too tightly stuck together to be able to see in for even a millimeter, it was a sexy little beast. 

During my college days I used to to ponder a tattoo or piercing to highlight its cuteness, but I never did get either.  (Good thing, too, or I’d look like everyone else who went to college in the late 90s.)

I clearly won the bellybutton lottery.

Need I tell you that things have been going downhill in the bellybutton department?

First a little space appeared.  Then it was a gap.  Now it is a big void in the middle of my stomach and, for pete’s sake, you can see the inside of it.  

And last night?  Do you know what happened last night?

I got out of the shower and actually had to dry out my bellybutton, because it is so big that it now collects water.  I have a bellybutton cistern!

I’d cry, except then what would I do when it pops into an outie?

Even I am too proud to cry over my bellybutton twice.

Moving on

Yeah, okay, I’m over that.

Here’s my thought for the day: I didn’t know it would be so hard.  My uterus that is, not pregnancy.  Sometimes it feels like a boulder sitting in my gut.  I also didn’t know it would move around.  It shifts up and down or right to left depending on how I am sitting/laying/standing.

I suppose all our organs probably shift around quite a bit, but I just never noticed before, what with none of them being like boulders.

Wow.  I just shoved myself back into the shallow end of the pool with this entry, huh?

Where I admit that all those years of learning not to care WERE IN VAIN

I thought I was over this.

Here’s the thing.  I have this mother.  And she’s a peach.  Really, a peach.  I didn’t used to think she was a peach, but then I met some truly insane mothers and I learned that the grass on my side was green enough.  My mom is fine.

Well, there’s this one issue.  She’s a stickler for the weight thing. You know the weight thing that I’m talking about.

You see, my mother is naturally a pretty thin woman.  But in those years when I was little, right after having kids and during the time that she was staying home with us, she gained some weight.  I think this is very common and no one would judge her for it.  But she judged herself for it.

She used to talk about how much she hated her body.  She used to talk about how much she hated fat kids.  She would put herself on spartan diets of steamed vegetables and juice.  She would go through bouts of exercise mania.  She’d question whatever we ate, especially once we were teenagers.

In short, we learned that it was a bad thing indeed to be chunky.  I have two sisters.  That means that three girls were absorbing this little mania.  One has the natural body type of an anorexic string bean (I love her, but she does).  She was my mother’s hero and was held up repeatedly as the perfect body.

Two of us are your normal, average, generally slim women.  We were (and are) constantly harassed about not gaining weight.  My mother has actually taken food away from me–I was 25! And she took away my bag of potato chips!–because she was concerned about my weight.

Even if I were overweight this would not be okay.  But here’s the thing: I’M NOT.  I am 5′7″ and my average adult weight has been 140-145 pounds.  That’s pretty damn normal.

It didn’t take me long into adulthood to figure out that I have some food and weight gain issues.  But I’ve worked so hard to get over them, because I truly believe that there are no “bad” foods and that constantly worrying about “bad” foods will do nothing but drive me crazy.  The chip-taking-away incident was a turning point, because it was just so damn absurd.  I realized the fact that my mother was a nutball about food didn’t mean that I was doomed to be.

I put myself into a kind of food therapy.  I try to eat my vegetables, I walk a lot, and if my clothes get tight, I eat less ice cream.  I never weigh myself.  It was all working pretty well.  I haven’t changed clothing size since college.  I thought I was over these inherited fears about my weight.

Can you see where this is going?

I had a doctor’s appointment today.  I have now gained 14 pounds since my first appointment back in March.  And all I want to do is cry.

I’M PREGNANT.  I’m supposed to gain weight and I know that.  But the amount that I’m gaining is about 5 pounds above average.  And I’m panicking.  I’m anxious.  I’m thinking about skipping lunch.  I’m trying to talk myself down from the edge.

I’m not okay about gaining weight.  I thought I was, but I am not. 

But I am going to win this little mental battle once again.  I am going to talk myself down from the edge.  Wanna watch?

1) I’m pregnant.  Pregnant women gain weight.

2) The kid needs calories or I wouldn’t be this hungry. 

3) I’m planning to breastfeed.  My body is going to need the reserves.

4) My gain, while above average, is not absurd.  My doctor thinks I am fine.

5) Those chocolate chip cookies and milk were fan-freakin’-tastic and I don’t regret them.

Do I feel better? Not yet.  But I will.  I guess the weight thing is still a work in progress.

Damn you, neurotic mother.  Damn you.

Problem solved

Okay, that? That right there? That is movement.  Absolutely, unquestionable movement.

Unless the lunch that I ate five hours ago has just now decided to come alive in my stomach like a Salad Frankenstein.

Nope.  Definitely movement.