Muddlng Through

I hate being pregnant.

There are the biological and physical changes. Weight gain. Tiredness.(1) The increase in my (already substantial) bra size coupled with a serious lack in supportive lingerie to offset the increases, topped off with the sickly sour, rotten cherry of far too many lectures on why pregnant-women-should-not-wear-underwire-because-it-is-bad-for-you.(2) The complete absence of anything resembling sexual desire.(3) The occasional episodes of public dry heaving in restaurants and on the bus. The constant aching.

There are the emotional changes, which can be summed up as me having the most spectacular episodes of depression I have ever experienced. Too many days spent having to call up every ounce of will power I posses to get out of bed, get on the bus, carry on with my day. Flashes of anger so intense that I don't recognize myself. Random fits of crying. My first ever episodes of hysterics, which lasted well over 15 minutes and was spent on the bed, J sitting next to me not saying anything, just stroking my hair, telling me to breathe and cracking highly inappropriate (but truly funny) jokes.

At the end of the hysterics, J confessed that washed the kitchen floor earlier in the week because he had smashed an orange in a fit of anger. He suggested that I try it and volunteered to wash the floor again.

I said no thanks, a smashed chair was enough for my lifetime.(4)

There are all the tests, the sodding tests that I have to go through. As of this date, two ultrasounds, a first trimester blood draw (nine vials), an urinalysis, a repeat blood draw because the lab screwed up and lost my blood type/antibody results(5) and the doppler at every checkup. Upcoming I have a third trimester blood draw, including the infamous 1 hour glucose tolerance test. Followed, most likely, by the even more infamous 3 hour, multiple draw, blood glucose test, since 15-23% of the women who take the 1 hour test fail it, since it is only a screening, not a diagnostic. Out of the 15-23% that take the 3 hour test, only 2-5% actually have gestational diabetes.

A digression – why am I taking a screening test which such a high false failure rate?

I hate the clichés. At a recent family gathering, I managed to score BINGO on my mental “pregnancy cliché BINGO card” in under three minutes just by listening ONE person, the mother of one of my in-laws.

All of this is intensified by the awful feeling that all those well intentioned offers to help are nothing more than hot air.

In spite of my repeated requests, J has yet to visit any of the daycares that I asked him to check out several months ago, leaving me the inevitable feeling that I will be forced to take yet more time off, in between doctor appointments and lab tests, to tour centers. The longer J puts it off, the more difficult it will be to find a decent placement. The current budget impasse in PA state legislature has lead to cuts in funding, causing over 100 centers statewide to close. Those that have managed to stay open have limited availability and it is very difficult to find an infant care placement. Which means that staying at home may go from an option to a necessity.

I resent the hell out of the fact that J has yet to do the one thing I specifically asked him to do. I resent having to ask him over and over again. I resent listening to him say that he'll take care of it, but then doing nothing. I resent being angry at him about it. I don't want to feel this way. I'm tired of hearing that if it is that important, I should do it myself. He is the father. He is equally responsible. Not “should be”. Not “could be”. IS.(6)

I still have no idea how much maternity leave I will have. The feelers I have put out to see which of our friends and family would be interested in helping us out after the alien is born have been met with a lukewarm reception. So lukewarm that I almost feel compelled to send out a mass email apologizing for the inconvenience I am causing by delivering the alien at Christmas, thus keeping people from their orgy of shopping, cooking, gift wrapping, gift unwrapping and eating.

But mostly, right now, I hate the fact that I will have to wait at least 17 weeks, 6 days for a shot of tequila.

(1)I have not seen the inside of a gym in months and probably will not see the inside of one for at least six more. Common sense would dictate that I cancel my gym membership. J insists that I maintain it, even if I'm too tired to go right now, and is helping me to figure out a way to get there 2-3 days a week once I'm cleared for exercise.
(2)There is absolutely no such thing as a wire-free supportive size [enter my ridiculously large size here] bra. It does not exist. Stop telling me that it does. ESPECIALLY if your breasts could be described as “lemon sized” on a good day, as almost every sales clerk I spoken with possesses. You have no idea what you are talking about.
(3)All those websites and books that claim that I would get happy hormones at some point? They lied.
(4)A long ago incident provoked by a run in with a misogynistic attorney while negotiating the sale of our first house.
(5)This turned out to be a surprise. For years I was under the impression that I was B+. As it turns out, I'm not. I'm A+.
(6)As I was writing this, J asked for time off to go tour the centers.