Last week I had wicked AT&T problems — the phone, and thus the DSL, were out because of bad lines in the neighborhood — and then Fug Madness started, and well, it was murder on my updating habits. Not to mention that one fun side effect of being knocked up is that I can't sit at my desk, or on my couch at a table, and work without getting a horrible pain in the middle-left part of my back. Usually I make it about half the day before it drives me to complete distraction. It's been GREAT for my productivity.
I'm definitely popping out. My belly button has gotten all shallow, my pants are tighter and harder to keep zipped despite my efforts to rig the button closed with various things made of elastic, and The Belly has gotten to the point where no sweater or shirt can conceal its presence. Good thing I'm not hiding this pregnancy from anyone. It's such a relief not being on a soap opera sometimes. SOMETIMES.
And I am LOVING The Belly. I pat it all the time, sometimes just gently, sometimes with a circular rubbing motion. It's so much fun to let it all hang out, you know? And the more I touch it, the more I imagine it's like cuddling my little beans. It's the best I can do while they're still gestating. Kevin likes to schedule belly time in the evenings, too, where he can pat it and give it stern lectures if the boys are giving me problems like bad heartburn. Of course, someday, I will reminisce wistfully about the heartburn problems when they have taken to giving us REAL headaches, like coming home sick because they ate sand on a dare or fed potato chips to the class goldfish. I assume boys do those things. I assume this because I did not do those things.
The heartburn has been a treat, though — feeling like my rib cage just caught fire and is shooting flames out my boobs. I've had it before, of course, as has anyone, but not with this kind of random regularity, without any particular trigger other than my body's ennui with feeling normal. It would be tolerable if I actually DID shoot boob fire. Other than very itchy skin, it's the pregnancy symptom I have experienced the most heartily (we're not at the part yet where my ankles swell to the size of melons); the other night I was doing great until Kevin made me laugh just as we were going to bed, and BOOM, my chest exploded and I spent an hour pacing and gnawing alternately on Tums and almonds while he slept peacefully. Pregnancy is so hard on the men, poor dears. Their wives rend garments in agony and freak out every time there's a twinge for longer than five seconds, and it can be really distracting when a dude needs a nap.
I'm kidding. Well, I'm not, but Kevin has been amazing. He is not one of the douchey husbands you read about in, like, The Girlfriends' Guide To Pregnancy, which I would say is the pregnancy-book equivalent to any commercial where the wife is a stereotypical nag and the husband is a stereotypical schlub who just wants to watch The Big Game. Seriously, that book is all about how pregnancy is icky and you will feel huge and gross and you will throw sharp and heavy objects at your thoughtless husband's head, while he tries to avoid contact with the lunatic whale that now shares his bed and terrifies him with its hormonal hugeness. It is enough to give any girl a complex. There apparently is no humor in NICE husbands, so the whole book takes the easy path of making them sound, as a species, like idiot asshats while also reminding you helpfully that you will hate yourself for the entire nine-month period and possibly a few months more, so SADDLE UP for some MISERY, ladies! Ugh.
ANYWAY: Kevin takes really good care of me. He runs to the store when I can't, even if that means doing it on his way home at 9 p.m. He shoulders a lot of the cooking load. He rubs my aching back and puts lotion on it because it's dry. He came home early from work when I needed him the other day and went with me to the doctor the next morning (more on that in a second) because he didn't want me to be there alone. He is not averse to attending a breastfeeding how-to class with me, so that he can help out when I'm learning because he knows it's going to be really hard (although I might not make him do that, the offer was rather lovely). And he takes pains every day to make sure I know that he thinks I look totally beautiful pregnant and that any extra lump and bump on my body is his new favorite thing about me. I lucked out. Clearly he hasn't read The Girlfriends' Guide To Pregnancy or else he'd know that he's supposed to be a) cowering in fear, or b) asking me for really freaky sex.
I did have a minor scare the other day that turned out to be nothing,
but I spent about 15 hours really upset until I went into my doctor the
next morning and he confirmed that, yes, everything is sealed up
tightly and the babies are moving merrily. Turns out I have a low-lying
placenta, which can lead to what I will term "unfortunate leakages"
that scare the crap out of pregnant ladies but are in fact not always
signs of doom. And I was freaked. At one point while I was shaking and holding the phone, waiting for a return call from the doctor (bless him, he got back to me in two minutes), my eye fell on a pile of ultrasound photos on a table spanning our entire pregnancy, and I just thought to myself how far we've come and how I just could not imagine going back to square one because we are way too in love with the idea of our matched pair of boys. Needless to say, I'm so happy it turned out to be nothing immediately terrible. It's just something to monitor to make sure it doesn't
stay low or get lower, and in the meantime, I have to "take it easier." It's
tough to say where else on the "easy" scale I can go without slipping into an actual coma.
I guess it rules out our light weekend walks. And that two-hour trip to
Babies R Us probably didn't help, but how ELSE am I supposed to pick
out bedding that doesn't feel horrible?
It's all worth it, though — every freakout and back twinge and scorched chest — and especially when I think I can feel them moving. Every
night when I lie down, or if I'm curled up on the couch, my insides
practically shift with me — like I imagine it would feel if you took
out my internal organs and turned the empty cavity into a lava lamp (a procedure I may have done once I'm finished bearing womb-fruit).
Pangs and twinges now might be little baby hands and feet knocking on my belly, although it's way too early to tell that for sure. It's exciting to think we're inching closer to the part where Kevin can feel them, too. I do mean "inching" — I suspect we're at least a month away — but hey, that's a month closer than I've ever been in my life. Good times.