You think I'm kidding, don't you? I'm not, but more about that in a minute.
So here we are at week 35, and holy nuts...what a clash of emotions! On the one hand, I'm DYING to see her. I want to know what she looks like. I want to feel her little fingers clenched around mine. I want to smell her hair. I want to feel her little head snuggled up in the crook of my neck. I want to see The Boy with her...gazing at her, gently stroking her back, examining her tiny toes.
On the other hand, I feel like I need every minute of these last 5 weeks to finish getting ready for her arrival. And I'm not talking about putting her room together or washing her clothes or stacking up piles of diapers. That's done. I'm talking about getting ready mentally and emotionally for her arrival.
All the questions and the unknowns that come with being a first-time parent have been swirling around in my head, so I signed us up for every parenting class offered at our hospital. I was so eager to go the classes and have all my questions answered and my apprehensions put at ease. And then, finally, the first class: Little Fingers, Little Toes. It was an overview of what happens between delivery and taking your newborn home. Easy stuff, right? I mean, I have 13 nieces and nephews. It's not like I don't know how a baby is born or how to change a diaper. Yet, 20 minutes into the class, I was completely overwhelmed by all the "ifs" and "buts," and I turned to The Boy in tears. I really wanted to leave. I didn't want to hear any more about jaundice or newborn temperature regulation or comforting an inconsolable baby. Two hours later, the class was over, and The Boy was reassuring me that everything would be OK--I just needed to relax. So I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and did relax...eventually...after 12 straight hours of crying.
And then, class two: Great Expectations. Sounds light, fun...great. And maybe it would have been if the nurse who taught the class was less...frank. In between horror stories of 9-pound babies and misplaced epidurals and emergency c-sections, she kept repeating, "I'm not walking on eggshells here, people! This is the real world!" Hey, that's great. I didn't want her to blow rainbows and sunshine up my ass, but did she have to keep saying, "And if that happens, you will die, and your baby will die"? Again, I was overwhelmed. The Boy found her entertaining. I found her less so. I started making mental notes to research options to just be put in a medically-induced coma and only be brought out of it when the baby was born. (Just so you know, that's apparently not an option.)
The third class was the Art of Breastfeeding. Surely, it would be the easiest class. I mean, women have been breastfeeding babies since the beginning of time. It's the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies, right? You have a baby, you hold that baby, that baby just automatically latches on and starts chowing down...right? Of course, neither my mom nor any of my sisters breastfed their babies, so I didn't really have any frame of reference for breastfeeding. That's why I was taking the class. I just needed to know when my milk would come in, how often I would feed the baby, how often I would have to burp her...you know, all those little details that differ between formula feeding and breastfeeding. What I learned instead is that breastfeeding isn't necessarily the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies. A lot of times, you have to work at it. The baby has to learn how to latch on correctly. The mom has to learn how to help the baby latch on. And some babies are stubborn about feeding. And some boobies are stubborn about feeding. And that brings up the issue of the breast pump. Have you ever heard the sound that a breast pump makes? Have you ever seen what a breast pump does when placed near a balloon? Suddenly, even breastfeeding seemed stressful. Once again, I left class in tears, scared and unsure of myself.
All those questions and apprehensions? Still there, if not worse. The only thing that I had learned in those first three classes was that I am not emotionally or mentally ready to have this baby. Yet, here she comes, ready or not.
So imagine how upset I was when, at a football tailgate, a friend (who is pregnant with her second child and who sees another doctor in the practice that I go to) said, "I hear your doctor is moving to Alaska." Noooo. Not possible. I hadn't heard that. I mean, surely someone would have mentioned that in one of my 14 million monthly appointments. We decided that it was probably just a rumor. Why on earth would she move to Alaska?
It just so happened that I had an appointment the following Monday morning. So after all the belly measuring and the blood pressure reviews and the "everything looks good," my doctor said, "So, do you have any questions?" I hesitated, and then said, "Just one, I think. Are you moving to Alaska?" She sighed, sat back down, and said, "Yes." Six weeks before my due date, my doctor was telling me that she was leaving...and she was leaving in just two weeks.
I know that the chances of her actually being the one to deliver my baby girl were pretty slim. And I know that even if she was the one to deliver my baby, she wouldn't come in until the last minute. But, oh my gosh...I need her in the coming weeks! She's so relaxed and laid back and calming. And I need calming. Oh, do I need calming.
So now it's all on The Boy...and he's not doing a bad job at it. Whenever he sees the slightest hint of doubt come across my face he says, "I'm sooooo excited to see Molly," or "I'm so happy with my life." And even though that makes me wonder why I can't be that optimistic, it makes me feel a lot better to know that at least one of us isn't a complete basket case. And then I'm back to wanting to see my baby girl...and wanting to smell her hair...and wanting to watch her melt into The Boy's arms...
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
Nine Weeks to Go, Or Why I'm on the Verge of Pooping My Pants
It was February when I discovered that I was pregnant. It would be getting cold again before I had the baby. That seemed like an awfully long time to have to wait. And the first 12 weeks did drag on. As I am wont to do, I worried every day about all the things that could go wrong in those first three months. After all, if you're going to miscarry, it's likely to happen in that first trimester. So every day, every week dragged by.
And then, apparently, I blinked...for, like, 18 weeks...and now I'm down to the last 9 weeks. Single digits. It's just so...wow. And then, at the same time, it's...wow. And then I think about how quickly those 9 weeks will go, and I think...WOW.
And then I wonder if we should have put this whole baby thing off a little longer.
No, I know. I mean, it's a little late now to be thinking about if the timing is right to have a baby. We're having a baby. In 9 weeks. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to freak out a little.
We just celebrated our first anniversary 4 days ago. We just sunk nearly every penny we have into a new house. I just applied for and was offered an interview for a new job. On top of that, we haven't taken that trip to Ireland yet. We're still trying to figure out our own sleeping schedules. And we still eat dinner out 3 nights a week. Are we really ready to add a baby to this equation? Because I'm suddenly thinking that we aren't...but she's coming regardless. IN 9 WEEKS.
Now, I know I'm not the first new mother to ever think, Holy crap! What are we doing here? I'm relatively certain that every expectant mother--be she a first-time mom or a fourth-time mom--has these thoughts at some point in her pregnancy. But that doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, The Boy and I are still on our own here. We still have to figure out how to juggle the mortgage and the sleepless nights and the addition of a very demanding, very vocal, but wholly inarticulate drill sergeant to our lives. We still have to put our lives on hold for the better part of 18 years. And that's pretty scary.
And then I think, Yeah...but we're going to have a baby. How incredible is that? And it is incredible. All those memories of seeing my nieces and nephews wrapping their chubby little arms around a sister's leg? I'm going to have my own memories of a loving toddler hugging my leg. That baby crying for someone to get her out of the crib after her nap? She'll be crying for me. All those first day of school pictures that you see this time of the year? One of them will be of my baby girl. And, God, that's all going to be amazing!
But in the meantime, I'm freaking out a little here...
And then, apparently, I blinked...for, like, 18 weeks...and now I'm down to the last 9 weeks. Single digits. It's just so...wow. And then, at the same time, it's...wow. And then I think about how quickly those 9 weeks will go, and I think...WOW.
And then I wonder if we should have put this whole baby thing off a little longer.
No, I know. I mean, it's a little late now to be thinking about if the timing is right to have a baby. We're having a baby. In 9 weeks. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to freak out a little.
We just celebrated our first anniversary 4 days ago. We just sunk nearly every penny we have into a new house. I just applied for and was offered an interview for a new job. On top of that, we haven't taken that trip to Ireland yet. We're still trying to figure out our own sleeping schedules. And we still eat dinner out 3 nights a week. Are we really ready to add a baby to this equation? Because I'm suddenly thinking that we aren't...but she's coming regardless. IN 9 WEEKS.
Now, I know I'm not the first new mother to ever think, Holy crap! What are we doing here? I'm relatively certain that every expectant mother--be she a first-time mom or a fourth-time mom--has these thoughts at some point in her pregnancy. But that doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, The Boy and I are still on our own here. We still have to figure out how to juggle the mortgage and the sleepless nights and the addition of a very demanding, very vocal, but wholly inarticulate drill sergeant to our lives. We still have to put our lives on hold for the better part of 18 years. And that's pretty scary.
And then I think, Yeah...but we're going to have a baby. How incredible is that? And it is incredible. All those memories of seeing my nieces and nephews wrapping their chubby little arms around a sister's leg? I'm going to have my own memories of a loving toddler hugging my leg. That baby crying for someone to get her out of the crib after her nap? She'll be crying for me. All those first day of school pictures that you see this time of the year? One of them will be of my baby girl. And, God, that's all going to be amazing!
But in the meantime, I'm freaking out a little here...
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
And Then I Started to Obsess About Having a Baby...
I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I started this blog as a sort of pity-party. It was all, Oh, look at me and my pathetic, single self! Why can't I find somebody? (Because that's attractive.) I wrote about having no dates, about having bad dates, about how having no date is worse than a bad date, about how having a bad date is worse than having no date... Occasionally, I broke it up with vignettes about family or my personal take on this or that or the other; but let's be honest here: The undercurrent was always, These are just sidebars in this single girl's life. The important thing here is that I'm single, and I have nothing else in my life except for photos of purloined children and overblown opinions that I've formed in all my dateless free time. (Again, real attractive...)
And then I met He Who Saved Me From My Self-Absorbed Single Self. And, oh, but it has been wonderful! Not perfect, but perfectly imperfect, so much so that I don't feel that need to run to the computer for purging and validation anymore. Except...well...now I have this new nagging empty pit in my stomach...the one that says, OK, sister, I'll grant you that you just got married, like, 10 minutes ago...but you're 36...and the "sell by" date on your little carton of eggs passed, like, an hour ago. Oh, and did I mention that my 25-year-old fresh-egged niece is pregnant with a baby of her own? Let me tell you, there is nothing that makes me want to run to my computer searching for a little purging and validation like being a 36-year-old soon-to-be-great-aunt!
Now, before I dive into another pity party, let me just say that I know well that I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, the first "late bloomer" in the World of Mommy Wannabes. And I totally appreciate that there are women who are a lot farther down this road than me -- women in their 40s or even their 50s, women who have battled through miscarriages and stillbirths, women who have emptied their life savings on in vitro...
* * * * *
That was the post I started writing on February 3rd. That's where I was in my head at the moment. But then HWSMFMS came home from work, and I put the post aside to go out and greet him. Two weeks later, I returned to the post to finish it. Except...I had this feeling that maybe I shouldn't. Maybe...it might be...premature to finish the post. So I didn't finish it.
A week later, I was waiting fro HWSMFMS to get home from work. I really wanted to go across the street to our neighborhood Irish pub and have a drink (or 5) that night. But...I had another feeling. So I pulled out the pack of pregnancy tests that I had squirreled away in the back of my bathroom vanity. I looked at it, started to put it away again, then opened it. My period should have started that day, and it hadn't, so it wasn't totally crazy and desperate...right? About 90 seconds later, I was looking at 2 lines on the stick. The full 3 minutes later, the 2 lines were still there. I was beyond excited! And then I thought, Wait...what does that mean? The stick very clearly showed that 2 lines meant pregnant, but maybe I was misreading the "answer key" on the stick. So I looked at the instruction sheet...and it said the same thing: 2 lines = pregnant.
Cautious excitement. That's how I would describe my feelings.
* * * * *
That was the post-script that I started to write on February 27th. But then I had those Wait, this may be premature feelings again.
I had some light spotting from Sunday through Wednesday. It wasn't red. It was intermittent. But it was a little disconcerting for this first-time pregnant girl. I googled and then googled some more (something no newly pregnant person should do). It was fine...it happens all the time. It was not good...I should go immediately to the ER! It was hard to tell...I should check with my OB. Except, I didn't have an OB yet.
So I finally broke down and called my sister on Tuesday. I told her I was pregnant...but barely. I told her that I was spotting...but barely. I told her that my only symptom (besides the positive pregnancy test) was occasional breast tenderness...but barely. And she said, "That sounds like both of my pregnancies." She told me about how she had that same spotting. She told me about how she never had any symptoms until her belly started showing, and then that was pretty much her only symptom. I felt better.
That same day, I went to my GP to get a referral to an OB. He did his own pregnancy test, which was positive, and I left his office feeling better. I was bordering on optimistic, in fact.
But then the very next day, out of nowhere, I discovered some bright red spotting. I called the OB to whom I was being referred, but since I wasn't technically a "patient" yet and since it was already 2pm, they couldn't get me in that afternoon. They sent me on to the ER. So I called HWSMFMS and made plans to meet him at his office.
I was anxious...but otherwise numb. I had absolutely no feelings one way or the other. Was it bad? Was it OK? I just didn't know.
And 5 hours later, I still didn't know. I peed in a cup. I had blood drawn from a very painful IV. I submitted to a very invasive and uncomfortable ultrasound (and I should mention that it was performed by two kind ladies who were "learning a new machine"). I did all of that to find out that I had gone to the wrong St. Joseph Hospital ER. You see, there are two -- St. Joseph and St. Joseph East. St. Joseph East is where they do obstetrical work. "We don't do babies at all here at St. Joseph," I was told. Little did I know. So the best the ER doctor could tell me was that the radiologist did see a gestational sac...but he couldn't see anything in it. He also saw "something" on my left ovary...but he wasn't sure what is was. It could be a cyst filled with blood. It could be an ectopic pregnancy. It could be something else altogether.
But I wasn't having any pain or cramping, so the best they could do was refer me to an OB for a follow-up in 48 hours. The OB would draw blood and compare the hCG levels to those in my blood at the ER. In the meantime, said the OB they called, it sounded like the unidentified object on my ovary was probably a corpus something-or-other that wasn't supporting the pregnancy.
I spent the next day on pins and needles. I waited for spotting to turn to bleeding. I waited for cramps that would double me over in pain. I waited for the doctor's office to call and set up an appointment. But there was no bleeding, or even spotting; no cramps; and no call from the doctor's office, despite the two messages I had left.
I'm not going to lie, I spent the better part of the day laying in bed, alternating between sleep and sobs. I just wanted to know. If I was pregnant, and this was just the sort of thing I could expect in my pregnancy, that was fine. If I was going to miscarry, and this pregnancy wasn't meant to be, that was fine(ish). I just wanted an answer of some sort.
I finally left a third message, but this one was pitched with anxiety and frustration. About half-way through, I began to cry. In the middle of leaving my name and number, I had to stop and try to collect myself because I couldn't speak. I broke down completely when I ended the call. But just 30 seconds later, the doctor's office returned my call and immediately set an appointment for the next morning.
HWSMFMS went with me to the appointment. We waited for over an hour to see the doctor, sitting in a room full of round bellies and toddlers. It was tortuous. When we were finally called back, I was relieved to hear that they were not just going to draw blood (as I had been told when the appointment was made), but that I would actually get to see the doctor. The doctor was incredible, especially considering that I had been "squeezed" into her schedule for the day. She listened and asked questions and explained things and asked if we had questions. It didn't hurt that she looked like an old college roommate of my sister, which put me at ease. She sent me down the hall for another ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was equally incredible. She pointed things out and explained what she was seeing. Afterward, we saw the doctor again.
And the answers we were waiting for? Well, they didn't come.
The doctor was blunt, but kind: Yes, as the ER ultrasound had indicated, there was a small gestational sac that appeared to be the appropriate size. Yes, as the ER ultrasound had indicated, there was a fairly sizable cyst on my left ovary, which looked to be filled with blood. (She explained that it was most likely harmless and would probably go away on its own.) But I'm too early in my pregnancy to really know much more than that, so the doctor had nothing more to offer. That is to say, at the beginning of the day, there had been 3 possibilities: Pregnancy, ectopic pregnancy, or miscarriage. At the end of the day, there were still 3 possibilities. That was somewhat deflating. She did say that it was unlikely that there was an ectopic pregnancy because she believed the mass on my ovary to be a cyst, but that was the best she could do. She apologized for not being able to tell me more, and suggested that I go the blood lab for some blood work, followed by another ultrasound in a week or so to see if the gestational sac had grown.
So I had blood drawn on Friday and then again on Sunday. If the pregnancy was progressing, my hCG levels should have increased by two-thirds. On Tuesday, I finally got word that the hCG levels had gone up an "appropriate" amount. It was a relief.
I followed up with the doctor on Friday, but first, I had another ultrasound...and the most amazing thing happened. There was a heartbeat. The ultrasound tech cranked up the volume, and little zig-zaggy line popped up on the screen. Then she closed in on the blurry little spot of lightness in the black splotch of the gestational sac...and I could actually see the fluttering of the what will be the baby's heart. It was an exciting feeling, but like no other feeling of excitement I had ever known before. It was 120 beats per minute of excitement. The doctor was happy with the ultrasound report and released me for 4 more weeks.
* * * * *
And then I sat on this egg for 4 long weeks, desperate to share the news, but reluctant to take that chance...just in case. But yesterday, we went back to the doctor. The nurse had no luck picking up the heartbeat with the little hand-held doppler, so she sent me back to ultrasound. There was a heartbeat -- 177 beats per minute -- and then, there was movement. The baby flip-flopped and jumped all over the place. HWSMFMS, who is usually so quick with a witty comment, was speechless. Awestruck. Freaked out. If there was any question as to what was going on in my belly to that point, it was officially answered. We finally felt safe in sharing the news.
So here we are. 11 weeks down, 29 to go. And to think that I thought it wasn't going to happen...
And then I met He Who Saved Me From My Self-Absorbed Single Self. And, oh, but it has been wonderful! Not perfect, but perfectly imperfect, so much so that I don't feel that need to run to the computer for purging and validation anymore. Except...well...now I have this new nagging empty pit in my stomach...the one that says, OK, sister, I'll grant you that you just got married, like, 10 minutes ago...but you're 36...and the "sell by" date on your little carton of eggs passed, like, an hour ago. Oh, and did I mention that my 25-year-old fresh-egged niece is pregnant with a baby of her own? Let me tell you, there is nothing that makes me want to run to my computer searching for a little purging and validation like being a 36-year-old soon-to-be-great-aunt!
Now, before I dive into another pity party, let me just say that I know well that I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, the first "late bloomer" in the World of Mommy Wannabes. And I totally appreciate that there are women who are a lot farther down this road than me -- women in their 40s or even their 50s, women who have battled through miscarriages and stillbirths, women who have emptied their life savings on in vitro...
* * * * *
That was the post I started writing on February 3rd. That's where I was in my head at the moment. But then HWSMFMS came home from work, and I put the post aside to go out and greet him. Two weeks later, I returned to the post to finish it. Except...I had this feeling that maybe I shouldn't. Maybe...it might be...premature to finish the post. So I didn't finish it.
A week later, I was waiting fro HWSMFMS to get home from work. I really wanted to go across the street to our neighborhood Irish pub and have a drink (or 5) that night. But...I had another feeling. So I pulled out the pack of pregnancy tests that I had squirreled away in the back of my bathroom vanity. I looked at it, started to put it away again, then opened it. My period should have started that day, and it hadn't, so it wasn't totally crazy and desperate...right? About 90 seconds later, I was looking at 2 lines on the stick. The full 3 minutes later, the 2 lines were still there. I was beyond excited! And then I thought, Wait...what does that mean? The stick very clearly showed that 2 lines meant pregnant, but maybe I was misreading the "answer key" on the stick. So I looked at the instruction sheet...and it said the same thing: 2 lines = pregnant.
Cautious excitement. That's how I would describe my feelings.
* * * * *
That was the post-script that I started to write on February 27th. But then I had those Wait, this may be premature feelings again.
I had some light spotting from Sunday through Wednesday. It wasn't red. It was intermittent. But it was a little disconcerting for this first-time pregnant girl. I googled and then googled some more (something no newly pregnant person should do). It was fine...it happens all the time. It was not good...I should go immediately to the ER! It was hard to tell...I should check with my OB. Except, I didn't have an OB yet.
So I finally broke down and called my sister on Tuesday. I told her I was pregnant...but barely. I told her that I was spotting...but barely. I told her that my only symptom (besides the positive pregnancy test) was occasional breast tenderness...but barely. And she said, "That sounds like both of my pregnancies." She told me about how she had that same spotting. She told me about how she never had any symptoms until her belly started showing, and then that was pretty much her only symptom. I felt better.
That same day, I went to my GP to get a referral to an OB. He did his own pregnancy test, which was positive, and I left his office feeling better. I was bordering on optimistic, in fact.
But then the very next day, out of nowhere, I discovered some bright red spotting. I called the OB to whom I was being referred, but since I wasn't technically a "patient" yet and since it was already 2pm, they couldn't get me in that afternoon. They sent me on to the ER. So I called HWSMFMS and made plans to meet him at his office.
I was anxious...but otherwise numb. I had absolutely no feelings one way or the other. Was it bad? Was it OK? I just didn't know.
And 5 hours later, I still didn't know. I peed in a cup. I had blood drawn from a very painful IV. I submitted to a very invasive and uncomfortable ultrasound (and I should mention that it was performed by two kind ladies who were "learning a new machine"). I did all of that to find out that I had gone to the wrong St. Joseph Hospital ER. You see, there are two -- St. Joseph and St. Joseph East. St. Joseph East is where they do obstetrical work. "We don't do babies at all here at St. Joseph," I was told. Little did I know. So the best the ER doctor could tell me was that the radiologist did see a gestational sac...but he couldn't see anything in it. He also saw "something" on my left ovary...but he wasn't sure what is was. It could be a cyst filled with blood. It could be an ectopic pregnancy. It could be something else altogether.
But I wasn't having any pain or cramping, so the best they could do was refer me to an OB for a follow-up in 48 hours. The OB would draw blood and compare the hCG levels to those in my blood at the ER. In the meantime, said the OB they called, it sounded like the unidentified object on my ovary was probably a corpus something-or-other that wasn't supporting the pregnancy.
I spent the next day on pins and needles. I waited for spotting to turn to bleeding. I waited for cramps that would double me over in pain. I waited for the doctor's office to call and set up an appointment. But there was no bleeding, or even spotting; no cramps; and no call from the doctor's office, despite the two messages I had left.
I'm not going to lie, I spent the better part of the day laying in bed, alternating between sleep and sobs. I just wanted to know. If I was pregnant, and this was just the sort of thing I could expect in my pregnancy, that was fine. If I was going to miscarry, and this pregnancy wasn't meant to be, that was fine(ish). I just wanted an answer of some sort.
I finally left a third message, but this one was pitched with anxiety and frustration. About half-way through, I began to cry. In the middle of leaving my name and number, I had to stop and try to collect myself because I couldn't speak. I broke down completely when I ended the call. But just 30 seconds later, the doctor's office returned my call and immediately set an appointment for the next morning.
HWSMFMS went with me to the appointment. We waited for over an hour to see the doctor, sitting in a room full of round bellies and toddlers. It was tortuous. When we were finally called back, I was relieved to hear that they were not just going to draw blood (as I had been told when the appointment was made), but that I would actually get to see the doctor. The doctor was incredible, especially considering that I had been "squeezed" into her schedule for the day. She listened and asked questions and explained things and asked if we had questions. It didn't hurt that she looked like an old college roommate of my sister, which put me at ease. She sent me down the hall for another ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was equally incredible. She pointed things out and explained what she was seeing. Afterward, we saw the doctor again.
And the answers we were waiting for? Well, they didn't come.
The doctor was blunt, but kind: Yes, as the ER ultrasound had indicated, there was a small gestational sac that appeared to be the appropriate size. Yes, as the ER ultrasound had indicated, there was a fairly sizable cyst on my left ovary, which looked to be filled with blood. (She explained that it was most likely harmless and would probably go away on its own.) But I'm too early in my pregnancy to really know much more than that, so the doctor had nothing more to offer. That is to say, at the beginning of the day, there had been 3 possibilities: Pregnancy, ectopic pregnancy, or miscarriage. At the end of the day, there were still 3 possibilities. That was somewhat deflating. She did say that it was unlikely that there was an ectopic pregnancy because she believed the mass on my ovary to be a cyst, but that was the best she could do. She apologized for not being able to tell me more, and suggested that I go the blood lab for some blood work, followed by another ultrasound in a week or so to see if the gestational sac had grown.
So I had blood drawn on Friday and then again on Sunday. If the pregnancy was progressing, my hCG levels should have increased by two-thirds. On Tuesday, I finally got word that the hCG levels had gone up an "appropriate" amount. It was a relief.
I followed up with the doctor on Friday, but first, I had another ultrasound...and the most amazing thing happened. There was a heartbeat. The ultrasound tech cranked up the volume, and little zig-zaggy line popped up on the screen. Then she closed in on the blurry little spot of lightness in the black splotch of the gestational sac...and I could actually see the fluttering of the what will be the baby's heart. It was an exciting feeling, but like no other feeling of excitement I had ever known before. It was 120 beats per minute of excitement. The doctor was happy with the ultrasound report and released me for 4 more weeks.
* * * * *
And then I sat on this egg for 4 long weeks, desperate to share the news, but reluctant to take that chance...just in case. But yesterday, we went back to the doctor. The nurse had no luck picking up the heartbeat with the little hand-held doppler, so she sent me back to ultrasound. There was a heartbeat -- 177 beats per minute -- and then, there was movement. The baby flip-flopped and jumped all over the place. HWSMFMS, who is usually so quick with a witty comment, was speechless. Awestruck. Freaked out. If there was any question as to what was going on in my belly to that point, it was officially answered. We finally felt safe in sharing the news.
So here we are. 11 weeks down, 29 to go. And to think that I thought it wasn't going to happen...
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Who Knew Khakis Could Be Romantic?
Today is my birthday. I am 36. Yes, that's right, I am finally sucking it up and forgoing my normal practice of insisting that I'm 29, so let me say that again: I am 36. (If this were a therapy session, they would call that a "break through.") Anyway, for my birthday, He Who Spoils Me took me to the Greenbrier. Alright, so HWSM didn't initially book the trip as a birthday gift. He booked the trip because it was a special reduced-price weekend, but it just so happened that the weekend he booked fell on the weekend before my birthday, so we decided to call it a birthday trip and make it my gift. Who am I to argue?
We left Friday morning, driving 5 hours from here to there, criss-crossing south-central West Virginia. When we pulled up to the resort, everything was still decorated for the holidays. On top of that, it turned out that the Greenbrier was hosting a Winterfest for my birthday! Can you believe that? A Winterfest in honor of me! OK, OK...much as the whole "birthday trip" was a happy accident, Winterfest was a happy accident, too. Still, it was exciting. I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat with my hand on the door handle as we pulled up under the portico. I jumped out of the car before the valet even had a chance to round the front bumper. I did manage to contain my excitement enough to let the doorman at the hotel's entrance open the door for me, though. Inside, all the bright colors and the piped music, and the employees greeting you by name at every turn (yes, they are that keen for details!) make you feel special...and fancy...even if you are staying at "sale" prices. I'm telling you, I felt like Princess Grace (who was a visitor to the Greenbrier and whose portrait hangs in the North Parlor).
So we checked in and found our way to our room. When we were at the Greenbrier last year (another "sale" weekend), we were in an updated, more contemporary room. It was beautiful, but it wasn't what I think of when I think of the Greenbrier. There were no large flowers pasted on the walls, no rhododendrons painted on the bathroom tiles, nothing at all that reminded me of Dorothy Draper. This year, though, we were in an updated, but Draper-faithful room: Huge pink bundles of roses papered on the walls and continuing onto the curtains, rhododendrons clustered on the walls and ceiling of the bathroom, a white poster bed, and, of course, green carpet. And as I surveyed the room, my eyes landed on a bouquet of red roses that HWSM had arranged to have delivered to the room before we arrived. Oh. My. Gosh. I died. No, really, I started crying like a baby. He later bought me a new pair of Ugg boots (mine were starting to look a little like I pulled them out of a dumpster) and humored me with a (brief) walk in the freezing cold to look at some of the ice sculptures displayed outside the entrance. He is so sweet to me!
But do you know what really got me? The next day, when we were getting dressed to head downstairs to watch a little basketball (WVU) and football (UK), he agreed to put on khakis and a collared shirt with his UK sweater vest. The man who usually wears a tee shirt and jeans with his sweater vests (sweater vests are de rigueur in his wardrobe)...the man who wears white socks with his sport sandals...the man who loves hooded sweatshirts...indulged my need to kick it up a notch for the weekend and -- without complaint or sigh or eye-roll -- put on khakis. I wanted to marry him all over again right there. To me, it was a gesture as sweet as the roses or the Uggs or the trip itself. And I'm telling you, he looked hot in those khakis.
We left Friday morning, driving 5 hours from here to there, criss-crossing south-central West Virginia. When we pulled up to the resort, everything was still decorated for the holidays. On top of that, it turned out that the Greenbrier was hosting a Winterfest for my birthday! Can you believe that? A Winterfest in honor of me! OK, OK...much as the whole "birthday trip" was a happy accident, Winterfest was a happy accident, too. Still, it was exciting. I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat with my hand on the door handle as we pulled up under the portico. I jumped out of the car before the valet even had a chance to round the front bumper. I did manage to contain my excitement enough to let the doorman at the hotel's entrance open the door for me, though. Inside, all the bright colors and the piped music, and the employees greeting you by name at every turn (yes, they are that keen for details!) make you feel special...and fancy...even if you are staying at "sale" prices. I'm telling you, I felt like Princess Grace (who was a visitor to the Greenbrier and whose portrait hangs in the North Parlor).
So we checked in and found our way to our room. When we were at the Greenbrier last year (another "sale" weekend), we were in an updated, more contemporary room. It was beautiful, but it wasn't what I think of when I think of the Greenbrier. There were no large flowers pasted on the walls, no rhododendrons painted on the bathroom tiles, nothing at all that reminded me of Dorothy Draper. This year, though, we were in an updated, but Draper-faithful room: Huge pink bundles of roses papered on the walls and continuing onto the curtains, rhododendrons clustered on the walls and ceiling of the bathroom, a white poster bed, and, of course, green carpet. And as I surveyed the room, my eyes landed on a bouquet of red roses that HWSM had arranged to have delivered to the room before we arrived. Oh. My. Gosh. I died. No, really, I started crying like a baby. He later bought me a new pair of Ugg boots (mine were starting to look a little like I pulled them out of a dumpster) and humored me with a (brief) walk in the freezing cold to look at some of the ice sculptures displayed outside the entrance. He is so sweet to me!
But do you know what really got me? The next day, when we were getting dressed to head downstairs to watch a little basketball (WVU) and football (UK), he agreed to put on khakis and a collared shirt with his UK sweater vest. The man who usually wears a tee shirt and jeans with his sweater vests (sweater vests are de rigueur in his wardrobe)...the man who wears white socks with his sport sandals...the man who loves hooded sweatshirts...indulged my need to kick it up a notch for the weekend and -- without complaint or sigh or eye-roll -- put on khakis. I wanted to marry him all over again right there. To me, it was a gesture as sweet as the roses or the Uggs or the trip itself. And I'm telling you, he looked hot in those khakis.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Haywood Is Out, and Rodriguez Is Hanging By a Thread/UPDATE: I AM SO GLAD TO HAVE BEEN WRONG!
I'm just posting for posterity here, folks, so if you have no idea what I'm talking about, that's OK.
Pitt has fired Haywood. Rodriguez delivered Michigan its worst drubbing in its bowl history. Rodriguez will be fired by Michigan by the mid-week, and Pitt will pick him up by the end of the week. Puck Fitt. And puck Rodriguez, too.
Pitt has fired Haywood. Rodriguez delivered Michigan its worst drubbing in its bowl history. Rodriguez will be fired by Michigan by the mid-week, and Pitt will pick him up by the end of the week. Puck Fitt. And puck Rodriguez, too.
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