not that you asked...

Heavy

At 30 weeks and change and as well as by some astonishing kind of miracle, I am still able to wear my wedding and engagement rings as well as every single pair of shoes I own. Not that I actually DO, because not only does wearing heels makes me have contractions (WHY?), it also makes me have to bend that much further over to hand a miniature somebody a snack bag of pretzels. But if I WANTED to, I SO TOTALLY COULD. I was browsing through my archives a few days ago out of curiosity—wondering whether I’d bothered to record when the swelling I experienced last time (which later blossomed into high blood pressure and protein in my urine and eventually, full-blown preeclampsia teetering on the very edge of HELLP Syndrome) began.

Apparently, I had. It turns out, at 31 weeks and three days, I left work barefoot. BAREFOOT. Because I’d taken my shoes off under my desk and COULDN’T GET THEM BACK ON. I returned in rubber flip flops and then, when no one noticed or appeared to care in the mildest of ways, I gave up on real shoes altogether.

I don’t know if the reason I’m not swollen this time is because I’m doing better than I did last time or if it’s just because I’m not sitting at a desk all day while fluid pools in my legs. It makes me a little bit hopeful that the child I bring home from the hospital will not have to wear preemie diapers and clothing for the first—ahem—MONTH of her life. You know, like her weenie brother did.

I always wondered if the reason Asher and I had such a frustratingly terrible nursing relationship was because he was born so small and weak (one of the effects of preeclampsia is compromised blood flow to the placenta, which results in retardation of fetal growth and nutrition). He was born at 38 and a half weeks, and was still less than six pounds, despite the fact that my family has a well-proven history of having ginormous nine- and ten-pound babies. No one ever speculated on why we were so crappy at it, but in the 12-ish weeks that I breastfed, we never once had a nursing session that lasted less than 50 minutes, unless it was because I ended it myself. I heard from eighteen million different people—friends, doctors, the Internet, CERTIFIED LACTATION CONSULTANTS—that when he was full, he would pop himself right off. As GOD AS MY WITNESS, PEOPLE, this never happened to us. Never. As in, not even once.

It was incredibly stressful. Fifty minutes to an hour of nursing every two to three hours for THREE SOLID MONTHS is a lot of work. I felt chained to my couch, chained to my house, chained to my baby—and the last thing I wanted was to resent my own CHILD for needing me. And I constantly worried that he wasn’t eating enough, since he never seemed to get full enough to quit on his own. And then there was that whole thing about how I was really really depressed about the entire situation, and also, just so tired.

I want to avoid that the next time. It’s easy enough to say that I will absolutely and without question give myself permission to stop breastfeeding if I feel the same soul-crushing sense of helplessness and hatred for it that I ended up feeling last time, especially since my emotional health this time around will impact both Dave AND Asher. And that I will do it WITHOUT GUILT. (Which we all know is a lie, because Motherhood Is Guilt, The End.)

But I’m also terrified that it will go well, especially if this baby is born a little bigger and stronger than Asher was. I’m terrified that it will go well and I’ll still hate it. I’m terrified that it will go well and I’ll still feel resentful. I’m terrified that I won’t know how to do it right, especially since one of the things I’m looking forward to MOST about having a second baby is knowing exactly what to do with it. I know how to formula feed; been there, done that, and did it SUCCESSFULLY. Breastfeeding? Still kind of a big, fat mystery, since my entire experience with it is clouded by feelings of sadness and confusion and anger and also a lot of hysterical crying.

And sometimes, I wonder if this is only an issue because I’ve chosen to put it out there as one. Would I feel the same pressure if I had no one but myself and my family to answer to? Do I allow the comments of others—regardless of whether or not they’re supportive—to creep into my subconscious and cloud my judgment? Would I be breastfeeding because breastfeeding is right for us or because breastfeeding is right for Everyone Else?

On my more vulnerable days, I’ve decided I can’t risk letting others make that decision for me, even if it isn't their intention. It is my decision to make, and I'm going to be responsible with that decision.

Um, hi?

Yesterday was Dave’s birthday, and we celebrated it in our typical, half-assed, married-for-five-years-already-so-cut-the-crap kind of way. Gift: Presented five days before his actual birthday, because it was “chilly out,” and in the Banana Republic bag I carried it home in with the tags still attached. Cards: Purchased, but never signed, even though the one Asher chose had a fetching hologram of a Chihuahua on the front. Celebratory dinner: Thrown together at the last minute for six couples, all of whom showed up right on time at the restaurant of my choice only to find that it was closed.

CLOSED.

What made it a little less embarrassing was that it wasn’t like I didn’t check to see if they didn’t happen to serve dinner on Sundays or were booked for a private party or anything like that. No, no, it was closed because it WENT OUT OF BUSINESS. Thankfully, everyone was nice enough to get back in their cars and drive across town to Location Number Two, where we proceeded to have a perfectly wonderful meal served by the most awkward waiter in the history of waiters, and may I just say that even though I have never PERSONALLY waited tables, I am pretty confident that clearing your throat and asking loudly if everyone is ready to order and then immediately WANDERING AWAY FOR TWENTY MINUTES is something you’re not supposed to do.

Dave’s birthday was the last Big Event I had listed on the calendar before we hit November and subsequently, December, which is when I am scheduled to have this baby forcibly removed from my womb. October has been a busy month—we’ve celebrated three birthdays and a big anniversary, taken trips to the zoo and the aquarium, and I’ve had a couple of weeks’ worth of heavy-ish freelance work, which explains my lack of posting here, although I did manage to post three times a week at Parents.com and, in my free time (the hours between 7 and 8, when Dave is putting Asher to bed) I mostly finished decorating the nursery. (Because I’m PSYCHOTIC, that’s why.) Now it’s almost November, and I’ve finished everything I wanted to get finished in the baby’s room and Dave is going to totally hate me because I am taking my Nesting Instinct elsewhere, and that Elsewhere is the stairwell, which is dirty and dingy and two stories high and therefore a bit of a painting challenge except I am NESTING, DAMMIT, and therefore, IT WILL BE PAINTED. I am NOT bringing my new baby home to a cobwebby, scuffed-up stairwell. (Because I’m PSYCHOTIC, that’s why.)

Further proof of THE PSYCHOTIC: Dave and I went to the Apple store a couple of weeks ago, where he attempted to purchase me my very own, brand-new, shiny shiny MacBook AND I TURNED HIM DOWN. Not because I don’t want it, because let’s be honest, that would be a whole new CATEGORY of crazy. But because I am currently high on Fiscal Responsibility, and I just don’t feel right about making such a large purchase without first making sure that we can take care of all of the other minor debts we have lingering right now. It starts small, with things like the grocery budget (awesome awesome comments on that last post, by the way, I mean, no offense—some of you sound like crazy lunatics but I certainly can’t fault you if what you’re doing WORKS) and trimming what we can here and there (knocked $15 extra bucks off my mobile plan, for example). And then, when I’ve been successful, I will not feel guilty rewarding myself. I don’t want to be the kind of person who believes she should be entitled to everything she wants Just Because, and I have to actually BE that person that if I want my kids to emulate a similar lifestyle.

That said, OH THE MACBOOK IS SO SHINY, and my not-so-secret plan is to have Dave run out and get me one the day after I give birth, you know, as half Push Present Even Though I Won’t Be Pushing (Just Gutted Like a Fish), and half so that we can write some of it off on our taxes for this calendar year. Just like we’re writing off the baby. WHO IS STILL NAMELESS, I thought I’d just throw that out there because I’m 30 weeks tomorrow and I just feel MILDLY UNSETTLED about this name thing. Even with nine weeks to go. (See above, re: PSYCHOTIC.)

You think this is funny, right?

 
I'm just not sure that this is the best possible choice of photographs to include with the frame, you know? (You can buy it here.)

Wait, did you ask for a 1500-word essay on my personal budget issues?

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that it’s been almost two years since I set foot in an office and earned a regular, reliable paycheck. Oh, sure, I still earn regular paychecks (I have a blogging job and a contract editing job and a contract copywriting job and a Big Secretive Project Thingy) but only during the BEST of months do they end up amounting anywhere close to what I earned back then, and I ASSURE YOU, I did not earn very much. (Also, it should be known that the BEST of months happened, like, once or something.)

When I first quit working, Dave and I decided that we would be responsible adults and begin watching where our money went and start sticking to a budget. We created a spreadsheet and made categories and set spending limits, but six months into the venture, our limits felt more like “guidelines” than hard and fast rules. Currently, we overspend in every single category, every single month. Part of the reason we overspend is because we never went back and readjusted our budget after the first few months, even though those first approximations were just total guesses, since we’d never tracked our spending, like, EVER in the history of our marriage. The good news is that we usually have the extra cash to do it. The bad news is that one unexpected, say… air-conditioning-related cost can throw us into the trenches for months. (I’m looking at YOU, HONDA.)

But I have two new reasons to try to get things a little more under control. Obviously, the economy could tank at any moment. And then there’s that whole thing about the New Person that we’ll be welcoming into our household in approximately eleven more weeks. The New Person isn’t too worrisome as of yet—I remember Asher’s newborn days and how difficult it was just to leave the house. I would put off a Target run until I only had one ply of one square of toilet paper left before I ventured out, and then I only bought the necessities, lest I find myself saddled with a screaming baby while I was browsing the clearance racks, and I don’t know if you remember what I was like when I had a newborn baby the last time, but the phrase CONTINUALLY PANICKED comes to mind. As far as our budget is concerned, it’s just that I think we could do better. We could save more, we could donate more, we could live more responsibly and probably cut some stress and worry out of our lives as a result.

We’re starting small this month, by readdressing our food situation. When we set up our budget in January of 2007, we decided to allow $450 a month for groceries, and $120 a month for eating out. It is now apparent that these numbers have been nothing but BIG FAT JOKES. In the month of September, we spent more than $1100 on food. ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS. On food. (HOLY YOU KNOW WHAT.) This is especially disturbing because somewhere in August, Asher stopped eating altogether. He exists on macaroni and cheese ($1.14 a box at Target), pretzels ($2 for a one-pound bag at Safeway) and the occasional handful of fruit/peas/cookies/corn. (NOT MIXED ALL TOGETHER, FYI. Although it sounds like it could be the new Trail Mix, does it not?) So all that food is going directly into TWO people’s gaping maws. (In related rhetorical questions: How is it possible that we do not weigh 600 pounds each?)

The thing is, I also have to be reasonable about the budget. I want us to cut back, but without making us feel deprived. We seem to have already set a pretty solid pattern for eating out. I’m fine with the amount of times we eat out each week, which is usually around three: Dave and I eat out together each Tuesday night, we go out for bagels on Saturday morning with Asher, and we usually also eat out (usually fast food, but sometimes at a restaurant) for one other meal over the weekend. So instead of cutting out any of those meals, we’re simply going to reduce the amount we spend at them. For Dave and I, going out on Tuesday nights is more about spending time together than it is what we eat (and the part about how I am not the one cooking it). So instead of spending $35+ at our favorite Mexican restaurant each week, we’ll only eat there once a month as a treat, and the rest of our nights out, we’ll eat somewhere for $15 or less. Bagel outings usually run around $10, and we decided to limit our one other weekly outing to $15 or less, with an allowance once a month for a bigger, $30 spend. (If we don’t use it, we don’t use it.) This brings our new monthly eat-out budget to exactly $200, and we’re still able to eat out just as frequently. Anything we spend outside of those situations (lunches out at work, Starbucks, MILKSHAKES, YUM) will come out of our personal monthly allowances. (Which also need to be lowered, but that’s an issue for another month. SLOW AND STEADY, PEOPLE.)

The other big hit to our monthly food budget was our lack of leftover eating. Truth be told, I don’t much like eating leftovers. I always THINK I’ll eat them when I’m cooking food, but then the next day, I open the fridge, and I simply can’t stomach the idea of eating Tex-Mex turkey burgers again, how is it that they smelled GOOD yesterday and like VOMIT the next? So in other words, I was shopping and cooking for meals that would serve four adult people (average size of most recipes), four or five nights a week. We were throwing away COPIOUS amounts of food, simply because it was kind of… unappetizing the second time around.

New solution? I made us take a Leftover Pact a week or so ago (“I, Dave, vow to eat leftovers when they are presented to me without making my wife feel lazy or sub-par for doing it even if those feelings are entirely related to her current pregnant state of being”), and I decided to shop and cook way more wisely than I have been. Tuesday nights I don’t cook (as mentioned above, we go out) and Friday nights we always have a frozen pizza ($4.50 at Safeway when on sale). That leaves Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and one weekend night that I need to have food that we will consume for dinner at home. My new goal is to cook on Mondays and Wednesdays, with enough left over that we have our choice of leftovers on Thursday nights. I am trying to plan more wisely this way, as well: I know that if I make a big batch of a pasta dish, I am way more willing to eat the leftovers than if I’m presented with the option of reheated chicken (I FEAR RUBBERY CHICKEN). So I’m trying to be pickier about what I make in big batches. For instance, if I want turkey burgers? Then I make TWO turkey burgers, and freeze the other two. That way, it’s easy to pull them out and cook them another week without much prep, and no one is forced to eat leftovers that they don’t really want to eat. I don’t always shop for the weekend meal until the weekend, simply because weekends sometimes allow me more time to get dinner on the table—I can be more adventurous with meals and try something new, which is one of the best things about this whole plan because it makes me actually ENJOY COOKING.

And—dare I say it?—I’m getting SO MUCH BETTER AT IT. I might not always know by sight what recipes will turn out good, but I’m getting good at technique. My chicken is juicy, not rubbery. My spinach lasagna is not watery. My waffles were EXCELLENT over the weekend, and I’d never even TOUCHED the waffle maker until last Sunday. I got SKEEELS, is what I’m saying. (Also, DUDE, I worked HARD for those SKEEELS.)

Something tells me this is the easiest part of the budget makeover, since I have grown out of a lot of my earlier fears, which mostly involved burning/scorching/ruining dinner on a regular basis. Next up: the Household category, which is where every single Target receipt gets tallied up. IT MIGHT GET UGLY IN HERE, IS WHAT I’M SAYING.

(If you have something to add in the comments about what you’re doing to combat rising grocery prices/economic slump/general laziness, I’d love to hear it.)

Happy Birthday, Big Boy

(First year here.)


Thirteen months


Fourteen months


Fifteen months


Sixteen months


Seventeen months


Eighteen months


Nineteen months


Twenty months


Twenty-one months


Twenty-two months


Twenty-three months


TWO YEARS OLD.

We both can and can't believe it. Happy birthday, buddy. You are loved so very, very much.
Love,
Mama and Dada

The Circus. If I had to do it again, I'd keep my purse in my lap.

I took Asher to the circus this morning. Don’t get me wrong, it was the perfect kind of circus for a kid his age—the performances were never scary or loud, every seat was close to the action, THEY SOLD ORGANIC JUICE BOXES AT THE CONCESSION STAND, FOR THE LOVE—but between you and me? Once you cut the more exotic animals and extreme daredevil acts out of a circus and replace them with a miniature horse, seven mangy dogs and a dude who balances a giant piece of pottery on his head, it takes on a more—shall we say—low-rent, rinkydink vibe.

I don’t want to start some sort of argument about circuses and cruelty to animals and all that; I’m just saying that WITHOUT those kinds of acts, circuses are… well, honestly, they’re just there. They’re nothing special, nothing particularly exciting. The tightrope lady’s tightrope was strung between two ladders that were maybe six feet off the ground. (How DARING!) The clowns orchestrated a mildly amusing dance contest involving one of the middle-aged dads. (How AWKWARD!) The jugglers didn’t even light anything on fire. (How COMPLETELY DISAPPOINTING! And a missed opportunity to improve the show at very little cost, too, as last I heard, fire is FREE.)

Asher seemed to stay entertained for about an hour and a half, which was probably the most extraordinary part of the entire experience. We left shortly after the dog performance—not only was he tired and cranky, but sitting for an hour and a half makes my legs turn into sausages. Also, I was kind of getting nauseous what with the lingering smell of vomit in the air. Oh, right, didn’t I mention that part? The part where the kid sitting in front of us RALPHED EVERYWHERE, including ALL OVER MY PURSE?

AND PEOPLE, I am SO GRACIOUS. I practically bent over backwards to make his parents not feel bad about it. I honestly and sincerely understood that it was an accident, and that it could happen to anyone, and I must have said that a thousand times while trying my best to nonchalantly wipe someone else’s kid’s vomit off of my stuff with baby wipes and my SOFT, VULNERABLE, BARE HANDS. Because I didn’t want them to feel bad about it, I really really didn’t. (See? GRACIOUS. Realizing it was an accident and not wanting to add any anger or frustration to the mix, since they were clearly pretty embarrassed about the situation.)

But the one thing that DID bother me was the SMELL. It wasn’t like I expected them to mop the floor under their seats or anything, but YOU GUYS. There were still PUDDLES of puke, and there was so much that it was actually dripping off the seat supports onto the floor, and yet, the parents really only seemed concerned with their own clothing/appendages, while everyone sitting behind them could smell it and see it and no one was making any effort to even throw a NAPKIN over it to lessen the stench. It was really, really gross, frankly. And it was Kid Barf, not Baby Barf, so you know the disgust of which I speak. And then? Even though we left, I still had to smell it because the barf had SATURATED MY TOTE BAG.

That reminds me that two of Dave’s best friends used to work in a movie theater in high school, and not until recently did I find out that on numerous occasions—as in, ALMOST EVERY SINGLE NIGHT—they had to pitch in and clean up barf in the movie theaters because kids would come in and go cuh-RAZY with the candy and actually get sick from eating too much of it. I suppose there were also incidents that involved inebriation, of course, but they were quick to assure me that most of the time, this kind of thing happened earlier in the evening and nine times out of ten, could be attributed to some adolescent who overspent on Milk Duds and Twix bars and one of those giant movie theater Cokes which cost you $4.50 and costs the movie theater ELEVEN CENTS. (Incidentally! WHY DON’T I OWN A MOVIE THEATER.)

Anyway, even now I think, REALLY? Is public puking a rampant problem in our society and I just had no idea? The last time I threw up anywhere in plain view was in first grade, when I got the stomach flu right in the middle of art class, while we were making paper snowflakes. (Totally embarrassing, too, as it set off a chain reaction and two other people threw up as a result of seeing MY puke hit the floor.) (So embarrassing that I can still remember what I was WEARING that day. A day that occurred almost TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AGO.)

Asher’s now napping and I am de-swelling and I’ll tell you what: This is the kind of day that makes me thankful that I bought Halloween candy early, even if it also means I am going to have to replace that Halloween candy before Halloween because I’ve eaten it all. I DESERVE IT TODAY.

It is wrong of me to say these things about my husband but not tell you what a great backrub he gave me last night

So listen to this: Sunday morning we go for a walk as a family.

Wait, wait, before I get to the important part, let me first just say that my husband is embarrassed to go on a walk with me if I’m the one pushing the stroller and he’s the one holding the dog’s leash. Which I kind of get, you know, I mean, to all the people we pass on the trail it looks like some asinine man is making his very pregnant wife push the 30-pound stroller with the 30-pound kid strapped in it up a 60-degree incline while he holds the six ounce DOG LEASH, but I WANT IT THAT WAY. I LIKE pushing the stroller, I don’t MIND pushing it up huge hills, because it feels GOOD to exercise and isn’t the entire thing just about my husband saving face anyway? It was a little bit insulting that he always wants to take over and push up the hills to “help me out.” After all, he has never called me from work and begged me to forego my daily walk with the baby and the dog because of the risk to my sensitive condition. No no no, he isn’t actually concerned about my well-being when it comes to this kind of thing, he just doesn’t want the NEIGHBORS talking about him behind his back when they see me doing the heavy lifting.

Anyway, like I said, I KIND OF get his point. However, I would appreciate more consistency in his very strong feelings. If you don’t want me pushing a stroller up a hill while I’m in your presence, then have the decency to not want me pushing a stroller up a hill AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT.

Back to the walk. So we were out walking, the four of us, and we did all the usual things I do when I’m alone with Asher on the weekdays: stopped on the bridge to look for ducks/snakes/turtles, talked about squirrels and how they run fast up trees and eat nuts, talked about how the pool was closed for the winter, and eventually, turned off the path to the playground. AND GUESS WHO WAS THERE. Weird stay-at-home dad guy. But he had his wife there with him too! And a few moments after we arrived, Asher went up the stairs to the slide while I was getting the dog’s ball from the stroller and their kid had a screaming tantrum like I have never heard outdoors before (in Target, however, yes). The very same kid who says nary a WORD whenever we’re there on the weekdays. So that was odd enough (but you know how kids act differently with different parent combinations, so it wasn’t totally out of left field) but then? As they were leaving because of the tantrumy screaming about the slide being HERS HERS HERS NOT HIS WAHHH? The dude SPOKE to Dave. Outright. I could hear them JOKING about things, about the screaming and the tantrum, and I heard Dave say, “You know, ours isn’t particularly good at sharing, either,” and they LAUGHED and said GOODBYE to each other.

Do you think he won’t speak to me because I’m a WOMAN? I’m so confused. And IRRITATED. Perhaps unreasonably so, but still. ANNOYING.

Friday is Asher’s second birthday. Dave is taking the whole day off of work and we are headed downtown to the National “Funded By Your Taxpayer Money” Zoo to celebrate. We’ve been talking it up for weeks now, about how we’re going to the BIIIIIG zoo (as opposed to the little petting zoo down the street—uh, yes, really, DOWN THE STREET) and how we’re going to see tigers and leopards and snakes and lizards and all of that is well and good but I also suspect that the panda exhibit is going to disappoint him terribly. He’s going to expect sneezing and hilarity and dude, I just don’t think it’s going to happen. Similarly, I have gone on and on and ON about how they give the elephant a bath every day (WHICH IS TRUE, and happens at 10:30am) and now when I ask Asher about elephants he gives me the sign for “bath” but GOD FORBID we miss it and end up at the elephant house AFTER the daily bathing ritual because I am pretty certain we will just have to stay there, warmed only by steaming piles of elephant dung, until the next morning’s session. (WHY DON’T I THINK THESE THINGS THROUGH, I ASK YOU?)

Also, it’s supposed to RAIN, of all things, on Friday, and I have no idea if animals even LIKE rain (the only evidence I have is Hambone, and he would rather hold it for 72 hours than step outside at the first hint of dampness). Will we get there and all the animals will be seeking shelter in their little windowless concrete huts what with the 30 percent chance of scattered showers? Are we going to be forced to spend our entire day in places like The Great Ape House (which REEKS) or somewhere even worse, like THE GIFT SHOP?

Wait, which is less painful: me whining about this or me whining about how MAH BABY IS ALMOST TWO, WAHHHHH. (Tough call, isn’t it?)

Second pregnancy = way, WAY more prepared

Okay okay OKAY OKAY, I get it, you all love your Macs and the LEAST I can do is go to the Apple store and check one out my own damn self for approximately 15 seconds before grabbing it off the shelf and clutching it to my heaving bosom and throwing myself in line to buy it. You were all so CONVINCING, what with the loving it and the ease of use and, WOW, do you know how to throw around a line about how I’m worth it. (I AM WORTH IT!) Needless to say, I don’t think I’m feeling very openminded about the situation anymore. I’m feeling pretty darn sure I want a Mac, so I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY.

And now, something I never thought I’d say: I’m ready to have a baby.

I mean, obviously, NOT RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, what with the preemie situation and the underdeveloped lungs and the months-long stay in the NICU and the hospital bills, but OH MY GOODNESS the second pregnancy thing has been a completely different experience for me than the first one was.

I am not COMPLETELY uncomfortable yet, so it’s not that I want this baby OUT OUT OUT HURRY PLEASE. Yes, my hips are achy every morning by 4 or 5 am which makes it difficult to sleep. I’m reaching that point where my belly is starting to get in the way of me doing simple tasks like bending over to reach into the laundry basket or getting a Coke off the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, and I’m carrying this baby a heck of a lot lower than I carried Asher, so I am peeing roughly about every 13 minutes. A rough ESTIMATE, is what I mean. I am not peeing roughly, and if I were, I would have hightailed it to the doctor for some antibiotics by now, I suppose.

During my pregnancy with Asher, I don’t think I ever admitted I was uncomfortable being pregnant. Not even in the last few days before I was induced, when my head was the size of a mylar balloon and my legs were so tight that I couldn’t really bend them and I had to lie down for 30 minutes to reduce the swelling in my feet so I could stuff my sausage feet into some shoes. (I use the term “shoes” loosely here, as I even had to do this to squeeze into RUBBER FLIP FLOPS.) You don’t believe me? Take a look at some unpublished photography. I attended my baby shower two days before I was induced, despite having been put on BEDREST and having gained 10 pounds of water weight in the previous two weeks:


HORRIFYING.

(And in case you want to follow up, here I am exactly 11 days after giving birth.)

People, you KNOW I had to have been uncomfortable. I remember, however, thinking that this must have just been par for the pregnancy course, and that other people probably had it so much worse than I did. But I also remember being so nervous about having a baby that I thought downplaying my symptoms might give me a better chance at keeping him in longer. I was willing to go PAST MY DUE DATE, even, that’s how nervous I was and how unprepared I felt to have a baby. And I know, LOTS of women are nervous about having babies! But those women are probably balancing out the fear emotion with the thrill of excitement and I admit, I didn’t feel much excitement in those last few weeks of pregnancy. I FELT TERRIFIED. In hindsight, this probably should have been a big, fat, blinking, neon sign that I was a fantastic candidate for post-partum depression.

Having a second child is scary for a lot of reasons, but none of those reasons (for me, anyway) involve the Fear of the Unknown like it did the first time. It will be difficult to find a new rhythm and figure out how to deal with two needy people all day long, but it isn’t scary like it was before. (Incidentally, isn’t it depressing that I will essentially be DOUBLING my workload and not getting a raise? This would NEVER happen in the corporate world.) In fact, I find that I am actually getting excited about a new baby, even though for a fact, I do not particularly enjoy the lumpy newborn phase of life. (Yes, the smell is good, but the smell does NOT make up for everything else, I’m afraid. DON’T TRY TO TELL ME IT DOES.)

Also, this time around, I find that I really do value my non-pregnant body a lot more. I don’t really like how it feels to gain weight, although I am not trying to restrict myself in any unhealthy way. I think it is much healthier for me personally to grant myself Eating Freedom rather than to panic about everything that goes into my mouth and how it will affect my postpartum body. I don’t want to be obsessed with my postpartum figure while I still have a baby INSIDE ME. But I am missing my grueling exercise routine and I am tired of eating cookies all the time and I wish I had a REASON to stop. But until this baby comes out of my body, there is no reason why I should try to get in shape, so I’ve just got to be patient and not go TOO overboard. (Do you think three or four cookies a day is overboard? Because I certainly don’t.)

All that to say, it turns out pregnancy isn’t the party I tricked myself into thinking it was the first time around. It’s uncomfortable even though it’s also wonderful, and this time, I will honestly be glad when it’s over. Not only will I get my body back in 13 more weeks, I’ll also have a daughter to show for it, and I am genuinely looking forward to meeting her.