My fetus is getting fat!
And so am I.
The past week has made for rapid changes in my waistline, meaning that I am rapidly losing any semblance of a waistline. It comes with the territory, of course, but American women are so constantly bombarded with skinny perfection everywhere we look (except for the food court at the mall), that it is hard to deal with on a superficial level.
Every time a piece of clothing does not fit, it's one more step away from the life that I used to lead, and one more step into this brand-new, unknown one.
Not to mention that Squirmy McFidgetoes seems to think that I sit down too much, and is letting me know more often.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
These Jeans
I mostly wore skirts last week because they are quite comfortable. Also, as my waist begins to leave me, a fear if pants is taking its place. I get them out of the wash basket, hold them up in front of me, and hold my breath while I step into them, one leg at a time, just like everybody else.
So far, my favorite pants, a brown pair of cargo type pants from Prana, still fit, for which I am thankful, and this morning, I attempted my day-to-day blue jeans.
Well, they are on.
They are not comfortable.
This will be their last time out for awhile.
Now that I think about it, those brown pants and a few pairs of work trousers (slacks? Almost all words for pants, including "pants," are funny) are about all that do fit me. There's one thing to be said for being pregnant over the warm months: draw string skirts and not having to layer.
That's two things.
So far, my favorite pants, a brown pair of cargo type pants from Prana, still fit, for which I am thankful, and this morning, I attempted my day-to-day blue jeans.
Well, they are on.
They are not comfortable.
This will be their last time out for awhile.
Now that I think about it, those brown pants and a few pairs of work trousers (slacks? Almost all words for pants, including "pants," are funny) are about all that do fit me. There's one thing to be said for being pregnant over the warm months: draw string skirts and not having to layer.
That's two things.
Catching Up
In addition to the current stuff being posted on gadabout while we are in Hawaii, I am playing a bit of babywhumpus catch-up. This means that there will be some new but backdated posts from March 22-25. There are only a couple, but if I am going to be up at 4:00 in the morning, local time, I may as well get something done. Since I can't turn on the lights because Pete is still sleeping, I am writing.
I guess that means I should update the Urban Ecosystem blog as well... I'll let you know.
I guess that means I should update the Urban Ecosystem blog as well... I'll let you know.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Diversion...
For this week, I would like to divert you to babywhumpus' little sister, gadabout. It's a super special guest star week straight from Maui.
And Maui itself tells me that it's the "Best Island in the World," and, aside from all the stealing from parked cars, I guess I have to trust it...
And Maui itself tells me that it's the "Best Island in the World," and, aside from all the stealing from parked cars, I guess I have to trust it...
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Fondue, just like Jesus used to have
Ham is a normal easter meal.
I am not entirely sure why, though now I want to look it up, but it does not really matter; we have never been huge on ham in a familial way, so it was just fine with me when my sister-in-law, Ruth, suggested that we fondue.
It's not just for the 70's anymore. I figure that if a fledgling religion can commandeer a pagan festival and try to convince us that eggs and bunnies have something to do with Jesus' death on the cross and supposed subsequent resurrection, then we can cook meat on metal sticks in a small cauldron of steaming broth.
Because I am picky, a bit of a food snob, a control freak, and, oh yeah, pregnant, I kind of took over. I finally have energy again, and I may not have it for long. Also, it's nice to feel like a grown up and be able to do things for my family as they had to help me out a lot in my twenties. It's one of the only ways I want to be a grown-up, in fact. That and paying my bills, being a responsible worker, and being self-reliant so that I can be of benefit to society. But THAT'S IT!
Ruth gave me a list of what she wanted, and boy, was it an extensive list. It was good, though, because it gave me a little more direction and a couple of challenges. Mushroom-rubbed steak? OK. I don't know where to find mushrooms affectionate enough to want to do such a thing, but now that you bring it up as a possibility, I feel that I must succeed.
I procured supplies at the co-op and began the preparations on Friday afternoon and evening, preparing the broth, marinating the teriyaki steak, rubbing the mushrooms on the steak (they would not do it themselves), and making sauces. I also made a butter pound cake and brownies. Then I watched Star Trek and went to bed. In the morning, I finished up a few more sauces and cut up the chicken. I figured I could get Mom and Ruth to help with the rest.
The meal consisted of two cheese fondues (Traditional Swiss and Mexican) with bread, apples, tortilla chips, and assorted veggies. Then the broth with three kinds of steak, chicken, shrimp, ravioli, and... I feel like I am missing something...
We finished with a double chocolate fondue (next time with some hazelnut, I think) with various fruit and the brownies and pound cake.
There was a lot of food.
Fondue is an interesting meal. It's very labor intensive though technically, people cook it themselves. I cut up pounds of meat, Mom deveined and shelled a pound of shrimp, Ruth and Mom cut up veggies and fruit, I baked, and I made steak, bbq, mushroom, lemon cream, teriyaki, sour cream curry, california, and... and... I feel like I am missing something.
(That happens a lot now, by the way. The Missing Something Feeling.)
Fondue is also a slow meal. We ate from 1:15 until 7:00 with small breaks to transition to the next course as well as a longer break between meat and sweet in which we colored Jesus's eggs with authentic Hinkle's Dye from Columbia, PA (it's the only way to do it), hid them, and the kids found them and their Easter baskets. You also eat in bites of food. You have 8 forks in the little pot, cooking 8 pieces of the meat of choice. At the end, you did not have a steak or a chicken breast, you had 25 bites of assorted foods.
The warring fondue forks also make fondue a rather tragic meal. Things fall off, things fall apart, and the action stops. Jim was the lifeguard. The pool was cleared, and the victim retrieved. I would have just let the little sucker drown.
Oh, and I just read some blather on the internet about how the ham-eating tradition started in England hundreds of years ago and is somehow related to the fact that Germans supposedly believe that pigs are good luck, though I don't see how being so unfortunate as to be eaten could possibly be lucky.
And I forgot about the potatoes and the green goddess sauce.
I am not entirely sure why, though now I want to look it up, but it does not really matter; we have never been huge on ham in a familial way, so it was just fine with me when my sister-in-law, Ruth, suggested that we fondue.
It's not just for the 70's anymore. I figure that if a fledgling religion can commandeer a pagan festival and try to convince us that eggs and bunnies have something to do with Jesus' death on the cross and supposed subsequent resurrection, then we can cook meat on metal sticks in a small cauldron of steaming broth.
Because I am picky, a bit of a food snob, a control freak, and, oh yeah, pregnant, I kind of took over. I finally have energy again, and I may not have it for long. Also, it's nice to feel like a grown up and be able to do things for my family as they had to help me out a lot in my twenties. It's one of the only ways I want to be a grown-up, in fact. That and paying my bills, being a responsible worker, and being self-reliant so that I can be of benefit to society. But THAT'S IT!
Ruth gave me a list of what she wanted, and boy, was it an extensive list. It was good, though, because it gave me a little more direction and a couple of challenges. Mushroom-rubbed steak? OK. I don't know where to find mushrooms affectionate enough to want to do such a thing, but now that you bring it up as a possibility, I feel that I must succeed.
I procured supplies at the co-op and began the preparations on Friday afternoon and evening, preparing the broth, marinating the teriyaki steak, rubbing the mushrooms on the steak (they would not do it themselves), and making sauces. I also made a butter pound cake and brownies. Then I watched Star Trek and went to bed. In the morning, I finished up a few more sauces and cut up the chicken. I figured I could get Mom and Ruth to help with the rest.
The meal consisted of two cheese fondues (Traditional Swiss and Mexican) with bread, apples, tortilla chips, and assorted veggies. Then the broth with three kinds of steak, chicken, shrimp, ravioli, and... I feel like I am missing something...
We finished with a double chocolate fondue (next time with some hazelnut, I think) with various fruit and the brownies and pound cake.
There was a lot of food.
Fondue is an interesting meal. It's very labor intensive though technically, people cook it themselves. I cut up pounds of meat, Mom deveined and shelled a pound of shrimp, Ruth and Mom cut up veggies and fruit, I baked, and I made steak, bbq, mushroom, lemon cream, teriyaki, sour cream curry, california, and... and... I feel like I am missing something.
(That happens a lot now, by the way. The Missing Something Feeling.)
Fondue is also a slow meal. We ate from 1:15 until 7:00 with small breaks to transition to the next course as well as a longer break between meat and sweet in which we colored Jesus's eggs with authentic Hinkle's Dye from Columbia, PA (it's the only way to do it), hid them, and the kids found them and their Easter baskets. You also eat in bites of food. You have 8 forks in the little pot, cooking 8 pieces of the meat of choice. At the end, you did not have a steak or a chicken breast, you had 25 bites of assorted foods.
The warring fondue forks also make fondue a rather tragic meal. Things fall off, things fall apart, and the action stops. Jim was the lifeguard. The pool was cleared, and the victim retrieved. I would have just let the little sucker drown.
Oh, and I just read some blather on the internet about how the ham-eating tradition started in England hundreds of years ago and is somehow related to the fact that Germans supposedly believe that pigs are good luck, though I don't see how being so unfortunate as to be eaten could possibly be lucky.
And I forgot about the potatoes and the green goddess sauce.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Pooping
It's something that we take for granted.
I had never really thought about it much until Pete came along, actually. Girls, in general, don't keep track of this sort of thing. We do it, it happens, and we move on.
It seems like a big deal for boys, though. They are more aware of its comings and goings, and if it is absent for what they deem an unreasonable amount of time, it causes them distress. I have not conducted any ranked surveys or statistically sound polls; this is all anecdotal observation. Boys going through potty training get the whole peeing-in-the-toilet thing pretty easily, but when it comes to the pooping, there seems to be a bit of separation anxiety. I don't know what else to call it. They want their diapers back on; that's where it must be deposited, and it can be a serious undertaking. I have heard the stories from more than one mother. If this fetus turns out to be a boy, I will be most interested to see what happens at that point.
I have not surveyed any of the men I know, and boys at potty training time are not necessarily a mine of relevant sociological data: "How do you feel about your bowel movements?" I can really only rely on Pete, and the memories that are sparked. I know that when I have asked girlfriends "When was the last time you pooped?" they have usually shrugged and said "I don't know... yesterday sometime?" It's just not an event that has a memory marker.
Pete would know if you asked him.
Luckily, I think that no one but me would ever ask him. And now, maybe a bunch of people to whom I am exposing his personal habits.
I can get away with this because I am pregnant. And I am about to talk about me.
Pregnancy has changed my attitude about my body and my relationship to it. I now know about my pooping. It does not cause me anguish, it is just interesting. Pregnancy takes a lot out of you, literally and figuratively. Actually, figuratively, it adds a lot to you....
It can be mentally taxing.
The demands put upon all your major systems are no small matter, no matter how small the fetus. Or embryo. Or blastocyst. Or zygote. My digestive system has slowed down so that I can squeeze every last drop out of the food I eat. It's slower going down, it stays in there longer, and it's slower coming out. Yet another reason to stay away from crap food. How long do you really want a Big Mac to be inside you?
This slow down means that heartburn and constipation are more common. I poop less. Much less. But you know? I would not call it constipation because I am not really uncomfortable and, it's a natural and necessary part of being pregnant. I consider constipation to be a departure from the norm. It can be two days between B.M.'s, as my grandmother used to call them (The other grandmother called it "make a pile." Truly gag-worthy. I hope to never say such things to my future child). The heartburn is more uncomfortable than the infrequency of poopage, though. It's in my throat; it's right there--I can taste it, and I can't really stop it once it starts. Were the poop doing something like that, I would most certainly object.
They keys are fiber, water, and smaller, more frequent meals. That's good advice in general for non-pregnant people, too, so one side effect of all this is that I could develop better habits.
Not giving up spicy food, though. This fetus will have to tough it out and get used to it.
I like my curry.
I had never really thought about it much until Pete came along, actually. Girls, in general, don't keep track of this sort of thing. We do it, it happens, and we move on.
It seems like a big deal for boys, though. They are more aware of its comings and goings, and if it is absent for what they deem an unreasonable amount of time, it causes them distress. I have not conducted any ranked surveys or statistically sound polls; this is all anecdotal observation. Boys going through potty training get the whole peeing-in-the-toilet thing pretty easily, but when it comes to the pooping, there seems to be a bit of separation anxiety. I don't know what else to call it. They want their diapers back on; that's where it must be deposited, and it can be a serious undertaking. I have heard the stories from more than one mother. If this fetus turns out to be a boy, I will be most interested to see what happens at that point.
I have not surveyed any of the men I know, and boys at potty training time are not necessarily a mine of relevant sociological data: "How do you feel about your bowel movements?" I can really only rely on Pete, and the memories that are sparked. I know that when I have asked girlfriends "When was the last time you pooped?" they have usually shrugged and said "I don't know... yesterday sometime?" It's just not an event that has a memory marker.
Pete would know if you asked him.
Luckily, I think that no one but me would ever ask him. And now, maybe a bunch of people to whom I am exposing his personal habits.
I can get away with this because I am pregnant. And I am about to talk about me.
Pregnancy has changed my attitude about my body and my relationship to it. I now know about my pooping. It does not cause me anguish, it is just interesting. Pregnancy takes a lot out of you, literally and figuratively. Actually, figuratively, it adds a lot to you....
It can be mentally taxing.
The demands put upon all your major systems are no small matter, no matter how small the fetus. Or embryo. Or blastocyst. Or zygote. My digestive system has slowed down so that I can squeeze every last drop out of the food I eat. It's slower going down, it stays in there longer, and it's slower coming out. Yet another reason to stay away from crap food. How long do you really want a Big Mac to be inside you?
This slow down means that heartburn and constipation are more common. I poop less. Much less. But you know? I would not call it constipation because I am not really uncomfortable and, it's a natural and necessary part of being pregnant. I consider constipation to be a departure from the norm. It can be two days between B.M.'s, as my grandmother used to call them (The other grandmother called it "make a pile." Truly gag-worthy. I hope to never say such things to my future child). The heartburn is more uncomfortable than the infrequency of poopage, though. It's in my throat; it's right there--I can taste it, and I can't really stop it once it starts. Were the poop doing something like that, I would most certainly object.
They keys are fiber, water, and smaller, more frequent meals. That's good advice in general for non-pregnant people, too, so one side effect of all this is that I could develop better habits.
Not giving up spicy food, though. This fetus will have to tough it out and get used to it.
I like my curry.
Friday, March 21, 2008
16 weeks
Is it just an American thing, this obsession with babies and pregnancy? I have never thought of anything happening in my uterus as a community event, but apparently, my uterus has become a sort of Commons.
Of course, I am writing all about this experience, so I am inviting scrutiny, but I am also writing this mainly for me and simply to keep me writing. A secondary reason is because I would hope that sometimes I bring up things that other pregnant women will be able to relate to, if they were to stumble across these pages. It's not socially acceptable or expected to be less than saturated with joy due to pregnancy, and that is enough to make more than just pregnant-little-old me feel a bit alone in the world, I would guess.
Some people find it odd, for instance that I refer to what is inside me soley as a fetus (or McFetus) and refer to the future with words and phrases like "hopefully" and "if all goes as expected." This goes along with my intention not to find out the sex and not to decorate a room before the arrival of the eventual and hoped-for baby. Part of this is semantics, yes, in that I do not believe that the word "baby" actually defines what is in there (It can move, including the muscles in its face, but it's still making bones. If it's female, it's making eggs, and no matter which sex, its eyes are sensitive to light. It can get the hiccups, but its respiratory system is filled with liquid. It's about4-5 inches long and weighs less than three ounces. It's not a baby).
The other reason is simply pragmatic; a lot can happen between now and September. I am not a mother, because there is not a baby. I am a pregnant woman. If Pete and I were to start referring to ourselves as Mama and Papa, giving ourselves titles that we do not yet have, what does that mean if something bad were to happen? I don't have that identity until I have that baby.
It’s a strange dichotomy. This experience, at its core and especially while it is happening in me, should be all about me, but I don’t like attention and fussing. Never have. I don’t care for help; I don’t like solicitous behavior—even compliments make me uncomfortable. And yet, this is about me. It’s about what I want because if I am feeling stress or pressure being placed upon me from outside sources, it’s bad for my physiology and therefore bad for the fetus.
But instead, what I feel is an erasure of me in favor of the outcome of this experience: the baby that will hopefully result. I am being steamrolled by expectations and preparations for a future that barely includes me aside from my role as the incubator of a fetus and then the mother of a baby. I resent it. This pregnancy is happening in me and with me. It’s only happening to others via extension and even then, mainly just to Pete who has to deal with me all the time. He’s the one who helped create this after all.
The excitement that baffles me most is the selfish excitement that is not mitigated by the desires of the object of the excitement. But in this case, the object of the excitement is a five-inch long fetus that won’t be a person until next fall. My wishes are not taken into account. I am again erased.
I do not want fuss. In general, when I want help, I will ask for it. I don’t like assumptive or presumptive behavior that supposedly has “help” at its core. I find that sort of thing to actually be about the helper rather than the helpee. If it were truly meant as help or support, the wishes of the object would be first consulted and then observed. It’s like my experience is being hijacked by other people’s wish fulfillment.
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