not that you asked...

Of note

I am now Officially Enormous. So much so that—and take note all you giddy first-timers, because IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU, TOO—each routine OB appointment is simply a fresh opportunity to pee all over my hand during the urine sample collecting portion of the program. My arm barely reaches far enough over my huge expanse of abdomen to get the cup in the right VICINITY. As a result, I am the patient who is in the bathroom for approximately 17 minutes longer than she should be, because I’m scrubbing down the aforementioned appendage, plus the outside of the cup, plus the FLOOR, should I have possibly happened to set the cup down to deal with the unwieldy toilet paper dispenser and then NOT SEE IT when I stood up and maybe accidentally KICKED IT OVER. (In related news, it is difficult to clean a floor at 33 weeks. It is not difficult, however, to eek out sixteen extra drops of urine. THERE IS ALWAYS BACKUP URINE AVAILABLE. Always.)

I have also somehow reverted back to the first trimester and am experiencing Major Smell Trauma. As far as first trimesters go, I got off Easy with a capital E. No nausea, no back pain, no major fatigue. But now, suddenly, late in the THIRD, I am spending the majority of my nights and weekends with my shirt pulled up over half my face, attempting to avoid the two most penetrating and overwhelming smells I have ever IN MY LIFE SMELLED, which are my husband’s hair and his deodorant.

The deodorant thing is the worst when we’re lying in bed, and he’s not wearing a shirt, and even though he has not applied deodorant in something like sixteen HOURS, the slightest movement on his behalf sends a wave of odor in my direction and I want to cover my head with every pillow on the bed and suffocate myself to death rather than smell it. And it isn’t even a BAD smell—it’s not halfway worn-off deodorant mixed with rancid body odor, or even an exceptionally fragrant deodorant (I’m the deodorant buyer in the house and I smell before I buy, so I SHOULD KNOW) but OH, how much I despise smelling it. I beg and plead for Dave to try to remember to keep his arms down at all times. When he forgets, I freak out. And in the middle of the night, when he’s on his back with his arms pinned behind his head (SNORING HIS BRAINS OUT, might I add) I actually have to put up a pillow barrier between us and attempt to block out any possible scent waftage. Because if I smell it, I WILL DIE. Or Dave will kill me, because what could be worse than your wife being completely offended by how you smell, even though she swears it isn’t a BAD SMELL, just a STRONG one? (I don’t think he believes me, anyway.)

The hair thing is even weirder, because DUDE, who can smell hair? Hair products are one thing. But I just smell hair, growing out of a head. Yesterday morning I ALMOST passed out in the car on the way to Einstein Bagels because Dave took his hat off and scratched his head and the SMELL OF HAIR THAT PERMEATED THE CAR… I just can’t even talk about it. It’s not even an offensive smell, just unwashed (but not necessarily dirty) hair, but for some reason, the smell hits me harder than anything else. I can smell it across a room, I can smell it through walls. I could walk into a DONUT SHOP and not have half the reaction to the smell of deliciously rising yeasty, chocolate-covered dough as I have to someone running his fingers through his hair while sitting in the driver’s seat of the car.

Five weeks from tomorrow. I’ve washed all the newborn-size clothes. I’ve set out some outfits to take to the hospital. (Outfits for the baby, not me. Being in the hospital for the better part of a week gets boring, so changing baby clothes is a Definite Highlight for me.) This weekend I’m actually going to pack my hospital bag, you know, before the chaos of the holidays is upon us and I end up spending all of my spare time trying to prevent Asher from tearing apart the Christmas tree. I am NOT getting stuck at the hospital with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING again, like I did last time. And I hope to actually show you what I pack, since I feel like I learned something the last time I was in the hospital for five days—namely, that one entire suitcase should be devoted to Trader Joe’s chocolate-covered pretzel bites. And after I eat them all, I will fill that suitcase back up with disposable hospital underwear. HOW EXCITED ARE YOU FOR THAT PHOTO.

Hosiery woe

Before we get into the debate over Thigh High Stockings: Friend or Foe, I think we should first spend a paragraph or two ridiculing the general craptastic nature of pantyhose sizing. Namely, that there is absolutely zero rhyme or reason to the sizing system—you’re not a four, or an juniors size 7, or even an XL. No, that would make SENSE or something, so you’d better plant your feet firmly in the aisle with a L’eggs egg in each hand and spend ten minutes comparing height and weight charts to figure out if you’re an A, B, or (and I seriously cannot believe it’s still politically correct to say this) QUEEN.

QUEEN! It boggles me every time. Who decided the appropriate step up from B was QUEEN and not C? Or B Plus? Or just plain old Plus, which as I seem to understand it, is the universally appropriate and polite way to refer to larger sizes these days? And I know you think I’m capitalizing for effect, but I absolutely am not, and if you want proof just march yourself into the lingerie section and see for yourself that if you happen to need a pair of QUEEN-sized pantyhose, the box will make sure everyone in a six-mile radius of the cash register will be able to read it because it is always written in ALL CAPS. I guess because A and B are capitalized? What, they don’t want QUEEN to feel left out? It makes no sense.

I’m a B in pantyhose, and only recently (or, say, three years ago, I guess) did I realize that it was okay to wear the non-control top version of the stuff. Control top pantyhose is from Satan himself, what with all the squeezy control and the smooshing in and then the resultant spilling over the top and the not knowing how high to pull them up to actually control anything and how hard it is to spread your legs apart to use the bathroom and GAH. What a crock that stuff is. I figured out that regular pantyhose? Are also kind of tight! They also smooth, and make your clothes a little more flattering when you need them to, and also? They don’t cut you in half and create a muffin top where you didn’t even HAVE ONE BEFORE. Unless you are pulling your control top pantyhose up to meet your bra, I have no idea how it could possibly be helpful in the least.

I was not exactly looking forward to wearing maternity pantyhose last week, but at the same time, I did think I would be more comfortable with SOMETHING supporting my stomach, thighs and hips under a thin knit dress. Except then I got to Target and couldn’t find any, and it was too late to go traipsing out to the mall to the Motherhood store, and that’s exactly when I saw the thigh high display and thought BINGO. Did you know they size thigh highs in a NORMAL MANNER? I bought two pairs, a size medium and a size large, mostly because for the majority of my life I have been a size B in stretchy nylon and so I was understandably confused about two things: sizing, and my own PERSONAL sizing, since I am [a lot of] pounds heavier than I was six months ago, and I wasn’t sure just how many of those pounds were sitting from mid-thigh down.

Okay, so the SIZE was fine. No issues getting them on. The problem, it seemed, was not even necessarily keeping them up. They stayed up! They didn’t droop, or even slide down all that much. The issue is that I wasn’t used to wearing them, so I wasn’t sure HOW THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO FEEL. You know what I mean? It’s like, TECHNICALLY they weren’t sliding down, but I was so SENSITIVE to the idea that they MIGHT that I was CONSTANTLY YANKING ON THEM UNDER THE TABLE. I wasn’t sure how high to pull them up in the first place (model on the cover of the package was no help, as she was also wearing French-cut panties which gives the illusion of a MUCH longer leg, and YES, that is my excuse, and NO, there was no time for Internet tutorials/research on the subject). And I even managed to buy the kind with a very nice, wide, lacy band at the top with (and this TOTALLY surprised me) even some sort of rubbery texture on the inside of the band. Dude, that was something I was just not expecting. I don’t know WHY I didn’t think that, because technically, without that adhesive-ishy stuff, I’d have needed to wear a GARTER BELT or something equally hooker-esque to keep them up.

Anyway, the bottom line is that unless you’re USED to wearing them, or I suppose if you can see them at all times (see above, re: HOOKER) you don’t really know if they’re sliding down and need to be readjusted. You know, like that thing where you close your eyes and someone slides a finger up the inside of your arm and you’re supposed to be able to tell when they hit the crook and you feel like they’re there and so you open your eyes and they’re still, like, FIVE INCHES AWAY? (SO. TRICKY.) I made numerous trips to the bathroom to see if I should be pulling and yanking on them even more, and I never NEEDED to—they were always in about the right place, but once I couldn’t see them anymore, I HONESTLY COULDN’T TELL. So I continued to yank and tug and then WHAT DO YOU KNOW, I returned to the bathroom one last time and PUT MY ENTIRE FIST THROUGH THE BACK OF EACH LEG.

But who cares, when I got back to the table they served me a big plate of cheesecake and then we left. And I took those suckers off in the car, which was a real feat, because PREGNANT WOMEN AREN'T VERY BENDY.

This is the most I will ever say about poor fashion choices, unless they are my own

Dave and I attended a black tie optional gala event last weekend. I should say, first off, that it was a benefit for a wonderful cause, and I think the company that hosted it generated a lot of money that will be used to continue to help a charitable organization do amazing things for some very deserving people in need.

Ahem. THAT SAID.

Black tie optional? Is such a FREAKING JOKE.

I did not see ONE SINGLE MAN in attendance who challenged the suggested dress code in any way. I don’t think this was the kind of shindig where people felt pressured to go out and rent tuxes or anything, so my guess is anyone who was wearing one must have owned it outright, or else was a member of the waitstaff. And the remaining portion of the male population was dressed appropriately in dark suits and ties—I don’t recall seeing anyone sitting around with even their JACKET off.

So it surprised me to see so many women looking downright—how do I say this?—cheap. It’s weird the way “black tie optional” translates, isn’t it? For men, it means The Nicest Thing I Own/My Best Suit/A Rented Piece of Formalwear. So how is it possible that for women, black tie optional can somehow mean Oh, That Slinky, Clingy, Revealing Number I Found on the Clearance Rack at TJ Maxx for $16 Last Week. I saw so many women wearing dresses that were CUT like they were supposed to pass as formal dresses, but then were fashioned out of that cheap, stretchy, halfway sparkly material that is better suited for DANCE COSTUMES. I swear, unless you’re 13 years old and headed to the Homecoming Dance, it is JUST NOT AGE APPROPRIATE, and do you know how I KNOW it isn’t age appropriate? Because you are not wearing the right foundation undergarments with it and I can see every dent, crease, and pucker you have hiding underneath. Last time I checked, most 13-year-olds aren’t puckering ANYWHERE. (And if there are exceptions, I am sure someone is already filming them for a Discovery Channel documentary series.)

At some point in life, the halter neckline is just not going to work for most people anymore. Ladies, first get an honest opinion, and then? GET A SHAWL. Do not make us wander around behind you looking at your wobbly flesh hanging out over your dress. And I know it’s probably a hard place to be when you get to that point in life, because no one likes to admit they’re old enough to start wearing those sparkly, wide-legged pantsuit-slash-jacket outfits that people who qualify for AARP love to wear, but GET IT THROUGH YOUR HEADS: “Formal attire” does not mean “the more skin you show, the better.” Sometimes? The more skin you show, the more RIDICULOUS you look, and that can apply whether you’re 27, 40 or 72, and whether you weigh 95 pounds or 395 pounds.

Is it just me, or does something about all that just not compute with you, either? To me, black tie optional—one very minor step down from BLACK TIE REQUIRED—means Please Try Really Hard to Look Really Good Because The Place We’re Having This Thing? Is FANCY. And I’m not saying that women should be out there buying $2,000 ball gowns and having their hair professionally shellacked on top of their heads for one (possibly not very important to them) night, but I do think that many of the women in attendance seemed to take a lot of liberty with the idea of what is appropriate dressy attire and what is so far from it that they should be whacked upside the head with a favor bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

And if I am to be completely honest, I will say that I was not exactly in top form myself that night, seeing as how I showed up wearing a black, long-sleeved knit dress from the Gap, but my excuse was the uncomfortable growth protruding from my midsection. A midsection that I kept COMPLETELY COVERED UP, however.

(Something I wish the 40-something woman with the faded butterfly tattooed on her cleavage would have considered.)

Things we need to discuss next time: THIGH HIGH PANTYHOSE. Pros, cons and how I put two fist-sized holes through the backs of them within 20 minutes of arriving at dinner, OMG HOW GENTLE DO YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO BE WITH THOSE THINGS, should I have been wearing SATIN GLOVES OR SOMETHING?

Emotional roller coaster: The definition of me at 32 weeks.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked Dave whether he had done any further thinking about our hypothetical third child. It’s something we’ve discussed on numerous occasions and something we are not at all opposed to, although we do have enough sense to not make an official call until we see what life with two children is like first. Anyway, you’d think his objections—his “second thoughts”—on the idea would likely involve our worsening economy and the rising cost of a college education and just how freaking EXPENSIVE kids get once they start wearing brand-name clothes and needing car insurance and full-sized restaurant meals but it turns out that you would be VERY WRONG INDEED.

Right now, the thing that panics my husband the most about the idea of a third child? Is the idea of putting up with me throughout a THIRD PREGNANCY.

PUTTING UP WITH ME. Me! The light of his life! The wellspring of his joy! The WOMAN OF HIS DREAMS! Who is apparently absolutely intolerable while gestating new life.

Honestly, it is no secret that I am not enjoying pregnancy very much this time around. Keeping tabs on even a very well-behaved and independent toddler is a much bigger physical strain than sitting at a desk and flagging typos ever was. I am constantly bending over and picking things up, sitting down on the floor to read books and play trains, or hauling 28 pounds of boy in and out of the car or the stroller or (and GAH this is annoying all of a sudden) UP AND DOWN THE STAIRS.

Pregnancy this time around is PAINFUL. My back is always aching. I’m getting cramps in my feet and my fingers are starting to get sausagey and my boobs are starting to spill out of my bra up near my armpits and while that doesn’t necessarily FEEL uncomfortable, it DOES make me want to CRY when I see them in the mirror, oozing every which way and looking decidedly depressing. I can’t sit up in bed for long without my hips practically popping out of their sockets. And sometimes, when I’m walking, my right leg will actually GIVE OUT ON ME and pretend it is unattached to my body. (This makes for awkward moments in HomeGoods, you know, when your leg JUST DOESN’T RESPOND in the picture frame aisle. WOULD NOT RECOMMEND, especially in the midst of all that glass.) And I’m carrying so low this time that the maternity bands in all my pants get crumpled up underneath my belly, which cuts off my circulation and somehow also gets my bladder all riled up too.

I don’t think Dave gets it, though. I can’t imagine that he’s supposed to, really—my complaints are vague and to the best of my knowledge, he’s never experienced anything like pregnancy himself. But at the same time, I think he’s beginning to suspect that I’m blowing this way out of proportion. Which results in him not feeling HALF as sympathetic as I want him to feel. Instead he finds me insufferable and cranky and I know he rolls his eyes every time I turn my back. I KNOW IT.

And the truth is, I AM insufferable and cranky. I can be hateful and grumpy and irritable, I am the first to admit it. But I’m not this way because I choose to be this way. There is a real, honest-to-God REASON I am not the happiest/smiliest/most patient person in the world right now, and it’s because my hormones are out of whack and my body is out of whack and I can’t even get up off the floor UNASSISTED anymore and yet, for some reason, I’m the one completely at fault here; I’m apparently the one who BROUGHT THIS ON MYSELF or something, and what makes it even worse is that I am not allowed to drink the amount of wine it would take to MAKE ME FEEL EVEN A LITTLE BIT BETTER.

I sound a lot angrier than I intended to sound, I think. I don’t want to be insufferable and grumpy, I really and truly don’t. But here I am, going about my daily routine, having given NOTHING UP, having not cut back on doing anything I have always done that is household-related (cooking, cleaning, taking care of the kid, paying bills, organizing, shopping, and walking the dog, in addition to earning money doing freelance jobs during naptimes and evenings) but I am also doing it with a body that isn’t cooperative in the LEAST and with wonky hormones absolutely oozing out my EARS. Where is my respect? Where are my kudos?

WHERE IS MY PREGNANCY MASSAGE?

*  *  *  *  *

Last night, a few hours after I had finished spewing hatred onto the screen (please see above) and spent two long, horrible hours in another Epic Toddler Battle of Wills, I had one of those Crazy Pregnancy Meltdowns, complete with hysterical sobbing and mascara smearing and pleading with my husband not to divorce me (“I really wasn’t considering it,” he said) and I felt better. This morning he unloaded the dishwasher and put away his clean laundry without me having to ask him to, which was especially nice, because I never actually DO ask him to—I always just do it myself. And isn’t it amazing what little things like that can do for a person’s spirit? I feel like marrying the man all over again. I still do not feel much like enduring seven more weeks of this pregnancy, BUT IT WILL DO IT, I suppose, if for no other reason than I just have to.

Today's Theme: I Am Not Nice

I had a doctor's appointment at 9am this morning. Last night Dave announced that hey! Did he forget to mention that he ALSO had a doctor's appointment this morning, only his was at 8:15 and 15 miles away in the direction of rush hour traffic, meaning he was going to have to be out of the house at 7:30 at the latest, leaving me alone to feed and dress the kid and somehow figure out how to squeeze in a shower for myself, so I wouldn't be that awkward patient who leaves some sort of dirty residue behind on the Doppler wand? So despite the fact that I was up until 1am watching election coverage, I dragged myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:30 to get everything Under Control. And it WAS under control, so very under control, even, that I wasn't going to have to do my makeup in the car at stoplights like I usually do, except then, sometime around 8:15, Dave called and announced that I wasn't going anywhere for routine medical inspection, seeing as how he was now all 15 of those aforementioned miles away, sitting comfortably in his doctor's waiting room, paging leisurely through the latest issue of Motor Trend, with BOTH SETS OF CAR KEYS IN HIS POSSESSION.

Ok, so that part of the story I can deal with; I simply called the doctor's office and rescheduled the appointment. Yes, it is frustrating to know you could have gotten more sleep than you did. Yes, showering when you don't have to blows. And yes, it sucks to suddenly be stranded at home when you had things so unbelievably Under Control that you could have squeezed a visit to the bagel shop in before the appointment. But taking two sets of keys was a mistake, an honest mistake. Not a mistake I personally would have ever made - THIS IS WHY WE HAVE A PLACE WHERE WE HANG THINGS UP NEATLY INSTEAD OF JAMMING THEM IN OUR COAT POCKETS - but a forgivable mistake. Except that Dave never actually apologized for inconveniencing me. This is one of his fatal flaws as a person: he never remembers to apologize. And one of MY fatal flaws as a person is NEVER LETTING HIM FORGET THAT IT HURTS MY FEELINGS. I generally do this in the most obnoxious and immature way I can devise, because I am QUALITY WIFE MATERIAL.

So. I let myself stew all day about this. I mean, HONESTLY, what kind of person doesn't say "sorry" when something is CLEARLY AND ENTIRELY THEIR FAULT? Even when it's an accident? Instead I heard, "Yeah, I'll bring those keys by when I'm finished here. It should be before 9." EXCUSE ME? Don't you mean, "Gosh, Emily, it sure is nice of you to be so accommodating as to rearrange your ENTIRE day, including the bagel visit I didn't even know about, simply because of my bonehead mistake. I'm so very SORRY for screwing that up for you."

When Dave got home this evening, I was giving him the half-silent treatment. I was fixing dinner, and he was playing with Asher, and if he asked me a direct question I answered, but mostly, I just ignored him. And thought about how I was going to LAY INTO HIM when Asher was finally in bed, because my raging pregnancy hormones don't tend to allow me to let things go easily. Oh, fine, so not letting go of things is another of my fatal flaws, along with really hating to brush my teeth before bed at night and screaming out loud at people on House Hunters.

Except PEOPLE. Tell me this is not the most frustrating thing you have ever heard: just when I'm about to get into it, to tell him WHAT'S UP, to announce how IRRITATED and HURT I am even if I'm blowing it WAY OUT OF PROPORTION, he runs into the bathroom and THROWS UP.

GAH. Throwing up? Totally trumps forgetting to apologize. I had to suck it up, and be the Nice Caring Wife who says comforting things like, "Lie down!" and "I'll make you a bagel with butter for dinner if you think you can keep it down," and "Don't be ridiculous, I will put the baby to bed/let the dog in and wipe his muddy paws/finish getting dinner ready even though I made your absolute favorite thing and you're not going to eat it." Oh sure, at first I did it through clenched teeth, but I gave it up after I watched him dry heave into a napkin a couple of times. (AM MOST HORRIBLE WIFE ON EARTH.)

But if this turns out to be a Real, Actual Sickness that I catch? SOMEONE BETTER APOLOGIZE FOR KISSING ME LAST NIGHT.

Another reason to vote. You know, besides it being your CIVIC DUTY AS AN AMERICAN and all.

Unsightly pregnancy bellybutton poking through your clothes?

 

Simply paste “I Voted” sticker over bizarre raised-lip bellybutton area that you can’t even really bring yourself to touch with your bare hands, as something about it is just SO VERY WRONG:

 

And VOILA! A smoother, shapelier silhouette. Well, for your BELLYBUTTON. I don’t think a TRUE smoother, shapelier silhouette is coming my way until AT LEAST April. (Probably May if I keep at the Halloween candy at my current rate.)