Square Cas

Trimester Three: Part One, Primarily Griping.

I’m cheating a bit.  “Part Two: The Bitter End” will be written closer to the Big Day.  I just had to get some things off my chest.

My body is a traitorous, stubborn, welsher.  I want to clean the house, move buckets of soil, mow the lawn, do dump runs, and wash the cars without any cares in the world.  And I try—oh, how I try!—-to achieve all of these normal activities, but suddenly I am met with impediments.  It’s getting harder to spring from a crouched position to standing, as there’s something weighing me down.  I can’t carry the heavy load I want to, or my back screams in protest. Normal bends-twists-lifts-pushes-pulls-sittings-standings now require concentration, as sudden movements now trigger my greatest foe: a bum SI joint.  Even changing position in bend requires patient consideration. 

 

This is not how I imagined my body would ever be.  It’s hard to not be extremely disappointed in its mounting limitations, or dismay in the fact in the remaining 3 months, those limitations will increase exponentially.  I’m not the person who asks for help: I’m the person you ask to help out.

 

Meanwhile, a rampantly active animal wreaks havoc on my jungle-gym cervix, twisting and somersaulting about with no regard whatsoever for regular sleeping hours.  If this kid’s vivacious in-utero activities are any indication of its future disposition, I’m in serious trouble.  It’s okay: you can go ahead and preach about how I should give up my singular cup of morning coffee.  Go on and tell me about the certain ADHD and low-birth weight I’m carelessly inflicting on my unborn child with my selfish negligence.  I’ll even widen my eyes and nod emphatically while you do it.

 

Oh!  Of course, it’s important to also tell me about how you, your sister, your ex-wife, your friend, or your mom suffered from miscarriages and spontaneous fetal deaths.  Be sure to specify how far along they were—like 6 months, say—and look directly at my stomach when you tell me how many times it happened to them, and how easily it could happen to me.  This is so reassuring to hear!  It really puts my mind at ease!  I love hearing about inducing labour to expel the dead child! 

 

Please, please, please.  Please!  This is not an appropriate conversation topic for a pregnant woman.  This is not an appropriate conversation topic for a pregnant woman.    And once more, to really get it into your mind, this is not an appropriate conversation topic for a pregnant woman.

 

 

Trimester Two, featuring the Elite Enema Eel Team

 Enough time has passed for me to reflect on some interesting developments in what is considered to be Trimester Two.  I still loathe calculating in weeks, and tend only to tell the exact amount that has passed to other women who have had children.  I don’t think it’s fair to force people to do math, even if it is as simple as dividing by 4.  Upon expressing this sentiment to a very pregnant Babies’R’Us staff member, she solemnly responded that “Every week counts.  Every week is a gift.  Every week matters.”  I could barely disguise the urge to burst into uncontrollable cackles at her cult-like monotone declaration.  I still needed her to show me how to collapse the stroller I was screwing around with, after all.

 

Wry jokes made at baby stores or to other pregnant women seem to be met with mixed reviews.  I’ve recently begun The Great Stroller Hunt, and started with the closest store to me, Crocodile Baby on West 4^th.  While examining the proffered strollers, a staff member asked, “Are you shopping for strollers?”  My response, “well, I’m not looking to add to my go-kart collection,” went right over her head, and was met with a blank stare. 

 

I’ve been having fun considering the layout of the baby room, as well as what a baby needs, exactly, to live.  Do I need a baby bath tub?  Do I need  a diaper bag?  The booming industry of child products seems to want me to buy 80,000 absolutely essential pieces of small plastic, all of which are highly overpriced, when in reality I need only 18 of those small pieces of plastic (9 of which can be found used, for practically free).  Mothers that are sympathetic to my desire to keep things minimal are themselves few and far between.  I find myself considering the merits of a “real” bassinet over a laundry hamper with a towel in the bottom, or just using a back-pack instead of a glorified purse for my “diaper bag.”  I’m sure that I’ll be proven wrong in many instances, and the faces of these warning mothers with their previously unsolicited advice will come back to haunt me.

 

Pleasing developments include no more morning sickness, aka All The Damn Time Sickness, as well as extreme nail strength, and an ability to drink copious litres of milk.  I’m also pleased to report that my belly feels like…like…Well, remember that time that you accidently-on-purpose continued to watch that video on stileproject.com about a Japanese girl being forced to endure an enema full of writhing eels?  Oh?  You’ve never seen a video like that?  Right.  Sure you haven’t.  Anyways, this eel business has been going on for about 3 weeks, and it’s highly entertaining, though Husband is not yet able to feel it externally.  Movement is influenced by own movements, as well as high volumes (the crowd at an amateur wrestling match, for example). 

 

The screening ultrasound was had last week, and I am happy to report that my belly does contain an infant-like creature, and not the aforementioned Elite Enema Eel Team.  The creature has such popular features as a heart, a spinal column, a skull, and even properly formed limbs.  The heart itself actually beats, an astonishing 145bpm, and upon hearing it I immediately burst into tears of joy.  Hormones are interesting development, as well.  As if I wasn’t sensitive enough before, I now tear up at the worst things, most recently over a Chevy commercial, and over a slight altercation with Husband about having to wake up early on a Saturday.  Bottom line: hormones are the worst.

 

I plan on spending the last month of Trimester Two inventing further creative ways to modify my wardrobe into comfortable articles of clothing.  While no issue has been encountered with pull-over tops, button-ups barely stay closed with significant safety pinning, and pants are worn shamelessly unzipped.  While I have managed to get one pair of jeans converted into the dreaded elasticized maternity pants, I lack office-appropriate attire, and every day my outfits are best described as “borderline.”  As with the above baby products, I am constantly asking myself, do I need  to buy this?  My cheapness isn’t solely motivated by a lack of funds, it’s more of a desire to make do with what I’ve got, as opposed to replacing the old with the new.  And, as with every aspect of my life, I often succeed in making myself for less what could be purchased for more.  I hope this trait is passed on. 

 

Until Trimester Three…. I remain…..Large, loud, and emotional.  xo