A wave of neediness
The other night I felt something I having felt in a while. Needy. Very needy. Almost as needy as an infant. Granted, I was especially tired that day. It was one of those days when I crawled home after work and planted my body on the sofa, feet propped up on a folded body pillow. I found myself wanting R. to get me things — some water, juice, a cracker. Rub my feet. Get me this. Get me that. I was less willing to put myself out, succumbing to my new limitations. I finally stopped pushing myself — I wasn’t going to bend over to get something. I’m certainly less mobile than I have been, but not incapable. But I wanted a hand. Lots of hands. Right away.
Later I went to bed early (couldn’t bear to watch the debates). I kept yelling to R. to come in and tuck me in, hug me, hold me. I’m sure there is a psydchological explanation for this — some new phase I’m entering in the third trimester. In The Expectant Father, which R. happily bought but has not read, the male author warns that as the pregnancy progresses, the mother becomes more dependent on the father. I haven’t felt too dependent to this point. In fact, I’ve been feeling rather empowered as my body continues to do this incredible thing seemingly on its own.
Happily, my neediness subsided the next day. Maybe it was a fleeting phase. Maybe it will come back. Maybe it was meant to give me a window into what bambino will be feeling in a couple short months.
The shoe situation
As soon as I figure out my maternity wardrobe for the summer, fall presents a new challenge. The other week I finally hauled myself into a shoe store to buy a pair of shoes that actually fit. I’d been wearing a pair of stinky flipflops for most of the summer (telling myself I’d change them as soon as I got to work), but when I got to work I could barely wedge my foot into my more presentable leather flats.
At Harry’s shoes (Upper West Side), the sales lady nixed the shoes I wanted to try one. “You’re pregnant?” she asked. “Let me bring you something that will fit and be comfortable. Your feet are only going to get bigger.” Great, thanks. Can’t wait. She did set me up with a very nice pair of MaryJane’s with a tiny soft heel (Privo brand). This bummed me out because last year I bought an almost identical pair and although I can still put my feet in them it hurts to walk. So I happily wore my new shoes for about two weeks before the morning temperature started reading 48 degrees. A perfect day to wear those brown leather zip up boots I bought last year, right? I pulled out my new sweater and skirt, dug out some knee highs (maternity tights are another story) and was sure the boots would fit because, after all, they were a little big last year.
I started with my left foot — the bigger one, and squeezed my foot in. Tight, but doable. Then I wrestled with the zipper until I compressed my calf enough to allow it to close. The left one was a success, although I was sure it would cut off my circulation my noon. On to the right side. Foot in, zipper up. Wait a minute. This is my smaller side. Nope. Wouldn’t go. I stopped when I felt that I might strain the zipper and ruin my chances for next year.
It was a sad morning. I put my cute boots aside and put on my less cut new shoes, the only ones that fit and that I would surely catch a chill in today. But I know this is only temporary. I know that I will resize myself after the birth. But I had no idea that my calves had taken such a hit. I thought about buying a new pair for my chunky legs but I don’t think they make them that big. But I’m okay with it, really. I’m pregnant after all, and am beginning to like this new excuse for everything.
The long haul
At some point during the past few weeks, the random reaction to my pregnancy has shifted. Maybe this always happen when a woman approaches the end of her second trimester. Gone are comments like “Wow, you are already 15/18/20/25 weeks?” and “You don’t look that big!” Now that there is no doubt that I’m expecting (the questionable fat and bloated look has turned into a distinct bulging belly and stiff waddle), people say, “Wow, you still have a long way to go.” Yeah, I’m feeling that way too. Now people look at me with sympathy, as if they know that the last three months are the hardest. What do they all know? I think I can guess.
My first girdle
If I haven’t said it before, pregnancy has not been what I expected. I can only imagine what motherhood will be like. But back to the pregnancy. Before my last doctor’s visit I started to feel some lumpy swelling in my lower right abdomen. Dr. L. said it was probably a build-up of blood and pressure from my expanding uterus. Put your feet up, apply heat. Not the dramatic solution I wanted by one I tried to follow. But in the next few weeks it became increasingly uncomfortable causing me to walk with a slight limp (to take the pressure off) and switch from heat to ice as recommended by a yoga teacher. Most nights I come home from work and lie on the couch with an ice pack on my crotch. Not what I expected. At all.
Last weekend it felt even worse and decided to stay off of my feet as much as possible, putting an end to my second trimester activity. Then I felt that the lump had progressed further south. Yup. As far south as it could go. A phone call to Dr. L. confirmed that I had varicose veins, but not in my legs as most pregnant women anticipate. After looking it up online, I self-diagnosed myself with vulvar varicosities. From what I gather, this seems to happen around the mid-twenty weeks and beyond. After my initial horror, I figured I had to deal with it. Here’s what I found helps:
1) Lying down with my legs propped up. Everyone recommends it and it does help. Impossible to do at work, or on the subway, or anyplace but your own home. Meaning, I spend more time at home.
2) Ice. Not sure it it reduces swelling, but I’m surprised by how much it eases the discomfort. I cringed at the thought of putting ice on my thang. But everyone should try it!
3) A maternity girdle. I’m not sure if many people really call them that, but I like calling back an earlier time. I have never worn a girdle and I hope this is the closest I come. These devices are more like support belts — stretchy bands that wrap around your waist and secure with velcro or hooks. I’m in the process of researching and experimenting. Today I bought one at Buy Buy Baby (the medela Maternity Support) — it’s clunkier than ones I found online but I didn’t want to wait a week for it to come in the mail. I’m not sure if I’ll wear it in public, under clothes, but I wore it to the gym today and am wearing it now as I waddle around the apartment in stretched out cotton pants and one of Rob’s old undershirts. The girdle is worn outside, for maximum apartment fashion. I feel like an old man trying to hold his hernia in. But I don’t care. It helps relieve the pressure on my groin by holding up this big belly of mine.
These days it’s about getting through the day. Seems like my second tri honeymoon is over.
Maternity clothes = happiness
The other night I went on a maternity clothes shopping spree. I’ve been avoiding it for a good month now. At 25 weeks (I think, I’ve lost count if you can believe it), I’ve tested the boundaries of all my stretchy, loose fitting clothes. Even those are getting tight. I’ve cycled the same four or five works outfits for the past two months. Sometime in August, I stopped changing out of my flip flops (which I wore on my way to work) into my “nice” shoes and kept the flip flops on all day. My office is casual enough, but really, it wasn’t too pretty. But last week it dawned on me that it was time. I was not going to be one of those women who can wear their low-rise jeans to the end, who can get away with buying certain styles (stretchy skirts pulled low, empire waist dresses and tops). Not working for me. And I was further dejected a couple of weeks ago when R. and I stumbled upon a Mimi Maternity, Pea in the Pod and Modern Maternity in a strip mall in New Jersey. The clothes were somewhat tasteful, but they didn’t look any bigger than what I’d find in any other store. Some shirts had ruched sides but otherwise looked slimmer than what I already owned. I insisted on combing the racks for something not too expensive and something that looked halfway decent. R. grudgingly waited in the TV circle (smart business move: they set up a flat screen TV with leather chairs for the men to numb themselves while the women shopped).
What I didn’t buy: pants. The large didn’t fit — the final blow to my ego. What I found: one overpriced brown stretchy skirt with wide-mouthed waistband, one sweatshirt with bulbous belly (score), one grey schmata dress from the low-end brand (Modern Maternity) that I bought because 1) it fit, and 2) it was $20. Shopping has become a desperate act of hope for me. These weren’t bad buys, but they left me wanting. I still didn’t have any t-shirts that fit. I’ve been wearing an embarrassment triad of Gap t-shirts that have stretched with me but the v-necks allow my expanding boobs to hang out.
Enough! A friend told me that the Gap and Old Navy on 34th Street have maternity clothes. One night I searched online and the clothes were reasonably priced and looked like any other Gap outfit. The next day I dragged myself to the stores and grabbed a few items to try on. They fit much better than the Mimi Maternity family of products did, were better priced and more like something I would wear anyway. And the sizing was more forgiving — I could actually fit in a small which is my normal top size (although I figure they size down , but I don’t mind). At Old Navy, the selection was more grim but I found a cute casual dress for $25. Now that I know how these stores fit, I’m happy to order online and spare myself the frenzy of 34th street.
The next day I wore one of my new shirts to work. I was nearly gleeful. It was one of those ruched styles that look like they’d fit horribly but they actually are kind of flattering to the jutting belly. All day I felt like a human being. I even took off my flip-flops and found that by mid-morning my swollen feet could squeeze into my leather shoes.
Next mission: sizing up my shoes.
Here’s a quick review of the maternity stores I visited, for anyone who might be ready for them:
Modern Maternity, Mimi Maternity, Pea in the Pod:
These three stores belong to the same franchise and progressively increase in price and fashion forwardness. I wasn’t impressed with their selection — too trendy for maternity clothes, and the fit wasn’t gracious for someone whose expansion includes not only the belly but butt and legs. I did like their workout clothes (Modern Maternity) — reasonably priced and non-offensive. But the rest of the Modern Maternity section was fairly depressing (ugly and poorly made). A plus: the TV and lounge section; the free water and juice! A negative: the sixteen “special offer” pitches the cashier gives you while checking out (ie, sign up for People magazine, a credit card, diaper service…)
Gap:
The online store offers more than the store (small section) I found in Manhattan. But go to the store first to figure out the fit. I found that even with my weight gain I was still a small/medium whereas at Mimi and co. I was a large. Good for tops. In general, I wasn’t impressed with any of the stores “maternity” sweaters — they didn’t look any different than regular sweaters. A negative: not a huge selection in store. A plus: you get to shop among the masses and the cashier says a cheerful “congratulations” after you’ve paid.
Old Navy:
Again, the store didn’t offer as much as online. I recommend a reconnaissance of the store to figure out fit and quality. Old Navy is much poorer quality than the Gap but hey, you’ll only need it to hold together for a few months. A plus: cheap as heck. A negative: may fall apart before you get home.
6th month check-up
Each time I go for my monthly check-up, I expect something eventful to happen. Nothing bad, of course. But maybe some recognition, some little reward, for getting through the past month. Maybe even acknowledgment that my aches and pains, my expanding belly – something – is special or noteworthy.
Not so. The nurse weighs me, takes my blood pressure, and asks me how I’m feeling while I sit there swinging my legs waiting for my gold star. Another month down! But even the monitoring of the fetal heartbeat is perfunctory at best. The nurses properly sympathize with the state of my body – swollen, chubby, itchy. After all the busy work is done, Dr. L. comes in and reads my stats on her laptop. As we chat, she passes her hand over my belly and exclaims “good growth!” I would hope so, I think, looking down at the bubble that contains a two pound fetus at most. I cling to her enthusiasm for this one thing because it’s all I get. The exam is over by the time I’m warming up to it. Grasping for a more substantial interchange, I ask her about the pain in my lower right abdomen – “I swear I have a hernia or groin injury.” I have swelling to prove it! I think “The swelling is normal and you couldn’t possibly have a hernia,” she lobs back. “Your intestines are above the uterus.” No way, she insists. I want her to at least examine it but she doesn’t offer and I already feel foolish for my incorrect self-diagnosis. I refer to my list of questions I’ve prepared to her but we’ve already talked about them all: it’s okay to fly in a small plane (no air pressure issues, just make sure you have a good pilot); the movement I’m feeling is normal (even the squirmy repositioning of head or butt when I’m lying on my back – this means the baby has room to move and he/she is happy); and lying on my back is fine (despite every book, magazine and web site saying not to after four months).
Believe me, I’m happy to not have any problems. Thrilled. Elated. I guess this is a normal pregnancy, with no fanfare or applause. But there is a small part of me that wants a pat on the back for getting through the month.
Tiny Flutters
About a week ago, just when I started worrying that I hadn’t felt the baby move yet, something happened in my lower abdomen that I otherwise would have written off as gas. Sitting on the couch, watching yet another insufferable reality show, I waited for it to happen again. My doctor said I might feel it early in my fifth month, or at the end of the month (which it was), and that I might not feel it again for a few weeks. But having felt it once, I wanted to feel it again.
The next day, it was back. This time it felt more amphibious, like a goldfish swimming around down there. A flutter against the uterus, sometimes low, sometimes high by the belly button. Each time I’d stop what I was doing to try to analyze it a little more. Each day the flutter returned. I keep hoping that it won’t go away for a while, as Dr. L. said it might. On Sunday I started month 6 and I’m pretty sure one should feel movement consistently by now.
Another change of late is that I am working out again — sluggish stints on the elliptical machine, cheesy pre-natal exercise DVDs that I attempt in our cramped, over-furnished living room. After a few days of flutters I was at the gym lifting some light weights — most books advise against lying on the back or stomach but Dr. L. said if I was comfortable doing it to go ahead. So I was on my back doing some chest presses and felt a sudden rash of advanced flutters verging on somersaults. I stopped doing what I was doing — it almost felt like spasms. I put my hand on my belly to calm the little guy or girl, thinking, sorry, Mom is torturing you with this workout plus we haven’t eaten in a while. I felt something push against my skin — it was not a pleasant feeling. I lifted my shirt and saw a bulge to the left of my belly button, and I swear it traveled to the right side. I told myself this must be normal, this is what people talk about when they say they can see body parts poking out. But isn’t it too soon for this? I went from flutters to bulges in a few days. I couldn’t help but feel that the baby was trying to tell me something — “stop working out” or “feed me.” I told this to my sister who said she never felt that her babies were trying to tell her something when they moved around. Oh well.
It must have been yesterday morning that I woke up (on my back) with the same hard lump in my belly. I told R. to put his hand on it — he was moved by what is the closest we have come to feeling our baby. But he took it away before it started traveling again and I felt that I’d lost a witness to my new bodily trick. It seems that lying on my back isn’t a good idea — I think it compresses the uterus and makes it hard for the baby to move around.
I’m sure this is all normal, despite being freaked out at least once a day by fetal back flips and guppy laps in amniotic fluid. And I’ve come to love the aquatic butterflies in my tummy, so different from what I imagined it would feel like.
All is well
(I thought I posted this last week but just noticed that it wasn’t on the site…)
In case anyone was wondering, we are all doing well. R. and I finally took a real vacation (hence the blog silence) and it’s taking me longer to get back into the groove than usual. That’s a lie — it always takes me a long time to get back on track after being away but as with most things these days I blame it on the pregnancy. A handy excuse. But there is some truth to it. I’m finding that pregnancy isn’t agreeing with me so much. The morning sickness passed towards the end of my fourth month which was around the time I was allowed to start exercising again. More on all of this to come.
Thanks to everyone for reading my blog. If you read, I will write.
Boy or Girl?
R. and I have been debating over whether or not to find out the sex of the baby. “If you don’t want to know, don’t look in your file,” my doctor said. “It’s in there.” Tomorrow we have the anatomy sonogram, where surely the proof will be clear. At the last sonogram, the technician told us to look away while she examined the posterior view if we didn’t want to know. It all feels a little silly — we have to make an effort to avoid the information.
Whenever I tell anyone I’m pregnant (a relief to explain my expanding frame), the first question is “Is it a boy or a girl?” We don’t know, I say, further explaining that this is by choice. The reaction varies. Parents usually say, why not? and I feel as if I have to explain my unpopular decision which is — I just don’t want to know. At first I thought I didn’t want to know because the entire pregnancy (plus six months) has been one of too much information, and not knowing is sort of a relief. Let’s keep something traditional, R. and I told each other.
A couple women have told me that they felt the pregnancy was so much work that they wanted a reward, and finding out the sex was that reward. Right now I feel that being pregnant is enough. I don’t want to rush into any realities. Perhaps finding out the sex would make this more real. Maybe I want the fantasy of it a little bit longer. R. said a lot of people don’t understand what we’ve gone through to get here. For most people, finding out the sex is just another step in a natural, spontaneous process. We are still catching our breath from months of treatments followed by months of nausea.
But lately we are tempted by the information in the file and on the screen. R. says he is 60/40, leaning towards finding out. I’m still holding out. I think my desire to not know also has something to do with possibilities. Is it a boy or a girl? Will it rain tomorrow or will it be sunny? Will we find a larger apartment by December or will we buck up and squeeze one more (little) person (with lots of accessories) in our small one bedroom? For some reason, I like not knowing any of it.
Final Amnio Results
The lab didn’t screw up! Yesterday morning I checked my voice mail at work and received an unceremonious message from my doctor’s office that “your lab results came back okay.” The woman on the machine sounded tired and the news lost some of its punch but still, we are relieved that the waiting period over.
Now R. and I are in the “this is real” mode and acting uncharacteristically giggly and sweet, imagining what it will be like to hold our new baby, to see it’s little mouth make sucking motions, or cuddle up on R.’s chest to sleep. I know it won’t be all sweet and heartbreaking. I know it will be hard and stressful, too. But for now we need to have this happy period that we’ve denied ourselves for so long.
Still, I am only at the end of my fourth month and the remaining five feel endless.
