illos,  preg-nuts


This entry has been rated R for language, content and despicably long length .

I think I have officially entered the big, fat and uncomfortable stage. I hate to say that because I know it’s only going to get ten times worse. In fact, soon I’ll be looking back at these days, wishing I could be as comfortable as I am now. But today I am hot, sticky and grumpy because we are having some kind of horrible heat wave. It’s weather that makes me hate my big ugly body! I think my belly is cute but everything else is killing me.

It took me two hours to find something cool to wear after work today. I haven’t done laundry in a while and I have nothing that fits or looks at all presentable. I am presently wearing Toby’s boxers and a pajama top. Before Toby got home I had two pig tails in my mushroom head hair. I was a picture of cutting edge maternity fashion. Of course as soon as I heard Toby’s van pull up outside, I quickly took my knobby pigtails down. I do still have a few grains of vanity left. But I’m grasping at them in desperation.

I went to the doctor today and she gave me the dreaded diagnosis. Yes, I am in fact gaining too much weight. Not a lot too much, but enough. I knew this would happen to me. I’ve known all my life that I would struggle with weight during pregnancy. It’s hereditary. My mom struggled, my grandmother struggled and I have a great great great grandmother who was three hundred pounds. I’ve been hoping I take after my Dad but I think the genes on my mom’s side are just too strong. If I’ve managed to stay somewhat thin up until now it is only because I have been denying myself of apple fritters.

Up until now I’ve had pretty good will power. But last week I stopped at the doughnut shop. It was a special treat. I bought an apple fritter and ate it. A whole one, all by myself. It just makes me sad that I am one of those people who should probably never ever eat an apple fritter doughnut again. What is the purpose of living if you can’t eat an apple fritter now and then? And why is it that when I eat something like an apple fritter, it is like crack to me but if Toby eats it, he could really care less? He doesn’t care whether he eats a dry carrot stick or a glazed doughnut. That’s why he is twenty freaking pounds lighter than me. I hate that! I hate it that I am the fat wife.

My Aunt used to always say, “A fat wife and a full barn never did a man any harm.” But obviously the fat wife and the man with the full barn didn’t live in Newport Beach. Because if they did, the fat wife would be hopped up on diet pills and the full barn would be torn down to build three condos.

Anyway, it all doesn’t matter because the apple fritter made me sick. The encrusted sugar went straight to my gut and gave me constipation so bad I had to call my doctor because I thought I was going into pre term labor. It was either the combination of crap food and not enough leafy greens or my baby was firmly planting herself on my intestines and stopping the flow of traffic. Or maybe it was both. Either way, it was painful. Painful and embarrassing.

I finally broke down and told Toby about it and he took me on a mission to find all the foods “that will make you shit” (Sorry Mom, Toby’s words not mine). So that meant a trip to Trader Joe’s for Fart-a-lot cereal, disgusto musto prunes, oranges, plums and strawberries. I immediately ate a serving of everything as soon as we got home. I ate so much roughage, I thought sure I was going to “shit for a week”. But no, the pain and anticipation of pooping lasted for another two days and then I “shit for a week”. Well, not really but it was embarrassing because by the time traffic got moving again, I was at work which is the worst place to be because the bathroom is locked and you have to ask the receptionist for the key EVERYTIME. It’s awful. I don’t even look at her any more. I just hold out my hand and she swivels over to her side drawer to retrieve the key for me. Of course she’s not a mother who could reminisce with me over her own pregnancy woes. She’s hot, young, blonde and an aspiring actress. I have such luck.

Thankfully those kinks have worked themselves out and I’ve moved on to worry about bigger and better things. And since we’re already on the topic of “too much information” I might as well confide in you (world wide internet) that I also have a fibroid tumor. It’s 4 centimeters big and very close to my cervix which could cause problems during delivery if it gets bigger. Apparently these things are common and nothing to worry about. But you know me, all I hear is the word “tumor” and I’m off and imaging all kinds of horrible cancerous things.

I shouldn’t be surprised at all that I have this. My mom had so many fibroid tumors that she had a hysterectomy at age 40. When these things happen to me I really start to freak out. I am my mom through and through. We are both 5’6″. We both wear size six shoes. We both have brown hair, brown eyes and a round face. We both struggle with hormones and pms and depression. Of course I inherited a lot of good things from my mom too, like creativity and the ability to pack a suitcase better than anyone else and hmmm… well there are a bunch of things I just can’t remember them right now. But my mom is a very like-able person and I shouldn’t get down just because I seem to be an exact duplicate of her physically.

But I worry. I worry and I worry and I worry. Which is bad for the baby. I think worrying also causes you to retain fat or something like that. So I worry that worrying will make my baby sick and me fat. It is a losing battle.

I am especially worried because I don’t feel like my doctor is there for me. She seems breezy and unconcerned. Our visits are very quick and I feel stupid when I pull out my list of questions. I am a low maintenance patient for her and she has other more pressing matters to be busy with. I can’t really say that she’s done anything wrong with me because when she asks me how I’m doing, I give the canned answer that “I’m fine.” I’m too afraid to admit that there are a million and one things freaking me out.

You know how when you are the bride and your wedding is a few months off and you contact the wedding coordinator and she doesn’t seem to be around (or organized or there for you) because she is too busy moving mountains for the bride who’s wedding is this weekend? Well, I kind of feel like that with my doctor. I feel like all my concerns and worries are insignificant and I really shouldn’t waste her time. I think I should consult a midwife or a nutritionist (if I just had the time and $$ to find one) because when I asked her about the fact that I cry every day, her immediate answer was to put me on anti-depressants. Not really the answer I was hoping for…

I’ve been fighting anti-depressants my whole life. I know that after delivery my hormones are going to take a nose dive but I really really really don’t want to take anti-depressants if I don’t have to. (I realize I’m opening up my blog for another all-out-war over the pro’s and cons of anti-depressants but I’m counting on only a few loyal readers making it all the way down this far.) I wish there was some other way to battle this. Could I just make sure I’m eating the right thing (like, no apple fritters)? When I told Toby about what my doctor said, he surprisingly (because he’s very against anti-depressants) said I may just have to go on them AFTER I give birth. But not before because he doesn’t want his baby to be taking any kind of drugs while she’s still inside me. I’m confused because I thought you weren’t allowed to take anti-depressants during pregnancy anyway. But my doctor said that it is important that I start before delivery so that they go into effect BEFORE I hit the full blown crazy postpartum blues. I just don’t know. I don’t want to be stupid about it and end up feeling worthless and suicidal but I don’t want to be too quick to jump on the medication band wagon either. If I can tough it out, I’d rather just be tough.

The thing about me is that I do hit pretty low lows but I also bounce back with surprising regularity. If I’ve made it this far in my life, can I make it that far? Can I just decide when I get there? I think I’m more prepared than most mothers. Most depressed mothers feel a lot of shame for their down feelings because they think they should be feeling full of love and happiness. I am ready and prepared for those feelings and I’m not going to beat myself up when it hits me. I’m going to try and stay close to my friends and family who support me. I think I will survive it.

Plah! What I’m not surviving is this incredibly long blog post. See what happens when I store it up for a week? It’s like I ate blog-a-lot cereal or something. As Gimmy quotes, “I made this… longer than usual because I lack the time to make it short.”