I'll Never Want For Reasons to Bitch

Please know that while I'll endeavor to refrain from undue graphic descriptions of my various and sundry bodily happenings in the entries that follow, there is a certain amount of goo and gore that must be discussed, or at the very least implied, when a pregnant woman talks or writes about anything related to pregnancy. If the stuff that makes up and at time flows from our bodies grosses you out, don't read what I have to say. If you do anyway, do NOT complain to me about it! Just put on your big girl(or boy) panties and deal, ok?
There. Disclaimers are handled. On to the meat of this.

I suppose the first thing I should record here is the physical status of our pregnancy. It's fine, and we've identified at least one fetal heartbeat. Based on ultrasound findings and a careful analysis of the impeccable records I've kept of my bizarre cyclical goings on, the babe(s) is(are) due on or about the middle of May.

I was instructed on Thursday afternoon to go straight to the assessment center at Woman's hospital, due to a bit of bleeding and cramping. For once, I actually did exactly as I was told, and arrived at the hospital terrified and accompanied by my dear sister-in-law, as Master Cakes was out of town until later that evening. There are few things I can think of that are less suitable for a text message than this, but since he doesn't check voice mail with any regularity, and because he can't exactly use his phone while he's flying the damned plane, I had no choice.

It had a weird kind of going-back-in-time quality, like somehow I'd slipped on a banana peel and landed during WWII. "En route to Woman's Hospital for an ultrasound STOP Bleeding STOP Doc is concerned about our baby STOP Please come as soon as you land STOP"
The Mr. landed about an hour into my wait, and so joined me for the remaining three hours, and we did our best to be calm and keep the nervous chatter to a minimum while I lay in a quiet room on the most awfully-named piece of medical bedding that exists in the Free World. Yes, folks, I spent my time lying on a "Gyney." ANd if that's not enought to make a person think she's REALLY nuts and living in a whacky parallel dimension, I don't know what is.

The entire time, we were both certain that we'd soon have to break the news to our two boys that their tiny sibling(s) had just... stopped growing. But, because the Universe is generally a pretty forgiving place, we got a wonderful surprise in the form of a single flickering pixel on the black and white screen in the ultrasound room. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. No question. Cardiac Activity. The tech was reticent to identify it as such, but after I assured her that we would NOT be taking that flicker as a guarantee of any sort, and that we were both well aware of the million or so things that could still go wrong, she relaxed and said that yes, it did indeed appear to be the baby's heartbeat, but that she really wanted to get the Radiologist in to look at it, just to be sure.

He came in a few minutes later, and said to us some of the sweetest words we've ever heard: "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Cakes? I'm Dr. Ruiz. I have some good news. You have a VERY cute baby." Gawd, it was so warm and fuzzy, I had to pinch myself to be sure I hadn't inadvertenly found my way onto the set of a Lifetime movie! Of course, both of us instantly teared up. Ok, I sobbed like the hormonal madwoman that I am. He teared up.

Being discharged (such an UGLY word in the context of female healthcare!) from the hospital involved admonitions that we should observe strict "pelvic rest" and that I should be on bed rest until my follow-up appointment on Monday. HAH! The whole "pelvic rest" is such a pathetic euphamism, but totally unecessary anyway. After all, I'm so sensitive to smells of ALL sorts, that I can no longer go grocery shopping, because I swear there is a CLOUD of RAW DEAD ANIMAL STENCH permeating the atmosphere of every single grocery store in town!

Surely, no one in my "condition" could bear to get close enough to another human being, regardless of how loved and cherished he might be to her, to let him BREATHE on her!?!?
And since we're talking about smells, here's a new one: Despite the fact that cooking is and always has been one of my all time favorite things to do, I CAN'T COOK! The very thought of cooking makes me queasy, because with cooking comes, you guessed it, cooking odors! Ralph!

For the twenty or so years that I've been preparing meals, I have prided myself in the genius frugality of preparing damned near EVERYTHING from scratch, from chocloate syrup (think Hershey's) to chicken stock to, well, EVERYTHING. And now? My choices were: A. Become a regular at the Golden Starches drive through, thereby supersizing my unsuspecting-but-content-because-Happy-Meal-Toys-are-cool children, or B. Spend ridiculous amounts of money on enough frozen/microwaveable/non-foul-smelling(to me) food to keep my crew fed for about the next eight weeks. Of course, I opted for option B. At least this way my kids will get a few veggies.

My sweet husband has assured me that most people in this country always eat frozen food, and that my children will not spend years on a therapist's couch because Mommy didn't make scratch meals for the first trimester of their baby sister's pregnancy. Or brother. We don't know yet. As overactive as my hurl reflex is right now, I am for once proud to have shoved a ball gag in the mouth of that Little Voice Inside My Head, so she's not berating me nonstop the way I've always thought she would if I so much as considered serving my kids something that I didn't make from basic ingredients in my own kitchen. So far, no one has complained. I am afraid I might actually be able to get used to this!

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I have a new trick I'm going to try out for the smell thing. It's so simple I can't believe I've never thought of it before, and it is most perplexing that I've never read about it in ANY pregnancy book. I call it "The Autopsy Trick." Coroners and other folks who make their livings in and around Death often apply a liberal coating of Mentholatum or VapoRub just under their noses before proceeding with any particularly, um, fragrant work. Apparently, the menthol overwhelms and confuses the olfactory receptors, thereby blocking the nose from detecting any other smells. I now have a jar of Mentholatum in my purse, and will be using it religiously any time I think I might need an odor shield. Hell, maybe when they decide I no longer have to rest my pelvis, I can use Mentholatum to get around the whole issue of being breathed upon. It could acutaly work!

Yeah, so SURPRISE! I'm tired as hell. Oh, and that's another issue, but I'll get to it later. Right now, I'm going to try to sleep, and hope the Bladder Fairy stays away for at least a couple of hours. Stay tuned for these exciting chapters:

Boycotting Blockbuster
and
Why Smoothie King Chaps My Ass

Adjusting to The Car Accident

I can't decide what's scariest about this process:

1. Being "high-risk" because I've reached the arbitrary number of 35 years of age
2. Knowing what I'm in for in this whole pregnancy thing
3. Knowing what I'm in for with the whole mothering thing
4. Having received news Friday that my hcg and progesterone levels are HIGH and could equal MULTIPLES or molar pregnancy.

It bears mentioning too that numbers 2 and 3 above are also the things I can't decide between for which is most amazing.

I'm impatient ordinarily, but since Thursday, when we got confirmation of the pregnancy we'd been rather suspecting for the previous couple of weeks, I'm insanely so. With our elder son, all we knew was pregnancy, so there was nothing to do but focus on each momentous miracle in our journey to parenthood. The second time around, we knew full well what was coming AND were some po' ass broke folks. It was a terrifying time in many ways, but not because of the pregnancy or impending arrival... those were what we looked forward to. Now, here we are 35 and 36, with me going back to school, thinking we're done with diapers and midnight nursing sessions and leaky boobs and drooling babies, when WHAMO! We're getting to do it ALL OVER AGAIN!

Certainly, I'm cautious and intent on doing as much of this right as possible. I'm not afraid of labor or birth, not only because I've already got a total of 8 days worth of it under my belt (no, that's NOT a typo), but also because I don't feel the need to set limits now on what's going to happen then. When the time is here, I'll figure out what I need in the way of support and/or pain relief--- no pressure, no anticipation, because I'll use whatever I feel like I need, and that's perfectly fine.

The fear comes in the mothering part. I'm practiced, of course, but THREE is an AWFULLY big number all of the sudden! And of course, FOUR is infinitessimally larger still... gawd, what WILL we do?? Mr. Cakes swears it's no hill, we're gonna end up with a Suburban anyway, so two carseats instead of one is just more of the same. I suppose there's a lot of sanity and wisdom in that approach.. but, DAMN!

I go tomorrow for more bloodwork. The numbers should give us an indication as to the health of this pregnancy, the likelihood of multiples, and/or the possibility of molar pregnancy, which is actually a benign tumor and not anything that has the potential to end with a baby. Thankfully, it tends to mostly affect women with East Asian ancestry, something I absolutely and completely lack. At least as far as I know, but I could have a relative that was written out of the family after intermarrying, right? So it could be a real risk??? Man, if ever they come up with an anti-catastrophizing drug, I'm THERE!

Craaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzyyyyyyyyy...

Until then, rest well, and please oh please wish me likewise.

Ms. Cakes

Congratulations on Your Car Accident...

After about two weeks of daily migraines, hypersensitivity to smells (hell, to EVERYTHING, let's be honest!), and the unshakable sense that I'm "not alone" in that very special way... I finally broke down and bought a pack of First Response tests. Having done this about a thousand times in my eight years of marriage, with less than ten positive results total, and having absolutely NO CLUE where I am as cycles go (Luteal Phase Defect), I seriously did NOT expect what I got.

Two lines, with the control being the lighter of the two, and the test line developing INSTANTLY, while the control took about a third of the three minute test time outlined in the instructions. Uh, yeah, there's a baby in there. Or two? Can that even happen??? It hurts my head to think about that... so let's stick with one.

Ok, in case there's any question, we've not been "trying." Furthermore, we'd given up pretty much entirely on birth control, because of the aforementioned LPD, which supposedly renders me essentially impregnable without progesterone supplementation and probably Clomid. No sweat, we have two lovely boys, and mostly I've been at a point when that's ENOUGH, and I'm content with my life and feel very blessed. But, apparently, the Big Kahuna in the Sky felt the need to bless us again.

It's not a bad thing, not at all... just, well, a bit of a shock. Or perhaps not just a bit. Maybe a LOT of a shock. There's nothing in the world for me quite so shocking as that MACK-TRUCK-TO-THE-FACE sensation of the line turning its unmistakable POSITIVE color. They LIE on the packaging, by the way. They refer to a "pink" line. Ours was plum. Pink! HAH!

Yes, of course I know how it happened. And also of course, my husband and I wouldn't have gambled even this much, had we been in any way opposed to the thought of additional family members. We just really never thought it would happen. I'm OLD, after all, and, well, we just figured that chapter of our lives was closed. So much for our figures.

Thus, we're very much knocked up. I can't get in to see the OB until next Thursday (he's a Jew too, see, and this is serious High Holiday time), so I have no idea until at least then how soon this final pregnancy will be completed. March? April? I suppose anyone's guess is as good as mine.

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Went to dinner with my brother and sister-in-law tonight, after telling them our news. They're ecstatic for us, but it seems so odd to be accepting congratulations on something that happened while we weren't even paying attention... our Accidental Blessing. Ah well, so it goes. Looks like I'll be shopping for a freakin' MomWagon next, because the Tribute simply will NOT house THREE monkeys! Gawd, is it impossible to imagine someone might invent a reliable teleporter between now and next spring??? Maybe Volvo or Subaru make something that will look good wrapped around my crew. Sheesh!