Favorite Things about Being Pregnant:
10. Missing out on my festive hot cocoa drinks with Teresa.
09. I can’t reach my toes, which means polish is overdue.
08. When I do sleep it is full craziness and disbelief dreaming.
07. Constantly pulling up my nylon band jeans is super hot.
06. Wearing sweaters and jackets adding bulk to areas not needing the help.
05. Buying new bras for my unnaturally fast growing breasts (DD to DDD, really?) only to know I will be back in a few months for an upgrade.
04. Going to the bathroom, standing up, lifting the belly to move baby off bladder and go potty again.
03. Shaving the bikini line.
02. Afraid I may pee my pants when I sneeze or laugh to deeply.
And the number one thing about being pregnant is…
Through all of this and more my husband still calls me beautiful.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Support
It is time. It is time to buy one of my least two favorite items: bras. I think the market has women cornered. I mean we have to wear them. Okay, some women don’t have to and others choose not to wear one. I choose to wear one. They can charge us an ungodly amount of dollars for this ‘necessity’ and how do I know which is really best for me? There are so many styles and materials. It is an exhausting experience of both the mind and bank account.
Anyway, last week was time for the fitting, so off to Nordstrom’s I went.
I try to go in for a fitting annually. It is my upper half’s annual exam to make sure the girls are being housed correctly for the sake of my posture and back/shoulder support. I am an advocate. Every woman should go and do this. It is a surprising and life changing experience. I kid you not. I could tell over the last couple of weeks it was time to recheck the status. I drug my feet as long as I could. There are women who love to shop for bras and panties. I am not one of these women. I prefer to spend the $60 or so dollars on shoes or three weeks of Eggnog Latte’s.
Kaden and I took the Nordstrom lingerie department by storm; and the fitting gal took my by storm.
It is amazing how I have let go of many different inhibitions after giving birth and again being pregnant. I have a different view of the world and reality is reality. So, I warn the fitting gal that I am way pregnant and hope she enjoys the maternity pants hiked up under my bra line. She giggles and enters.
She measures me, excuses herself and brings me a fit bra. She asks me to face the wall, remove my shirt and bra. I am to put the fit bra on and she will clasp and fit it. I am then to bend down and ‘put my breast tissue’ into the cup. I do. As I follow her orders I see Kaden looking at me dancing with his arms up over his head to Madonna. Perfect.
It is a fit. I am officially a 34/36 DDD. Are you kidding? What happened to the other double alphabet letters like EE, F or GG? I just skip right on into the triplets? I don’t know, but this growth seems unnatural. No wonder I have been so uncomfortable. I should call Guinness Book of World Records. She shops the floor as I sit in the fitting room entertaining Kaden in my maternity pants and fit bra. She brings back several different choices. Each one looks as though the cup will swallow my head whole.
I try on a few options. I am disappointed because the selections don’t tack correctly or the cup won’t lay flat against me. I question the fit and/or size. Am I really a DDD? Are you sure a full cup is my best option over a demi or blah blah blah. We keep repeating the turn around and place my tissue in the cup routine and as if things couldn’t get more uncomfortable she asks her manager to come and take a look. I feel my face redden. I breathe repeating in my head that this is their job. They see women of all shapes, sizes and styles. Maternity pants belly and all is part of the gig. Poor things.
I eventually am fit with the PERFECT bra. It is beautiful. I am in love. I look like a super model or as I later tell a few select people I look like a porn star… In the middle of my admiration I realize that this beauty costs one hundred and four dollars. What? I whip around and laugh towards the fit gal. I am carefully holding the tag under my arm pit as I look at it. I repeat out loud, “I am not frugal, but this bra costs one hundred and four dollars! Is this a digit per D?” She giggles. She seems to giggle a lot. I explain that although it is like a second skin I would like to keep shopping…
The end result is three bras for $148.00 and the ‘girls’ that I now refer to as the ‘wild women’ have never been happier. In learning about this rapid rate of growth I have a fear of what will come after I deliver. I wonder if postpartum I will be able to support what is to come physically, emotionally and within our bank account.
Anyway, last week was time for the fitting, so off to Nordstrom’s I went.
I try to go in for a fitting annually. It is my upper half’s annual exam to make sure the girls are being housed correctly for the sake of my posture and back/shoulder support. I am an advocate. Every woman should go and do this. It is a surprising and life changing experience. I kid you not. I could tell over the last couple of weeks it was time to recheck the status. I drug my feet as long as I could. There are women who love to shop for bras and panties. I am not one of these women. I prefer to spend the $60 or so dollars on shoes or three weeks of Eggnog Latte’s.
Kaden and I took the Nordstrom lingerie department by storm; and the fitting gal took my by storm.
It is amazing how I have let go of many different inhibitions after giving birth and again being pregnant. I have a different view of the world and reality is reality. So, I warn the fitting gal that I am way pregnant and hope she enjoys the maternity pants hiked up under my bra line. She giggles and enters.
She measures me, excuses herself and brings me a fit bra. She asks me to face the wall, remove my shirt and bra. I am to put the fit bra on and she will clasp and fit it. I am then to bend down and ‘put my breast tissue’ into the cup. I do. As I follow her orders I see Kaden looking at me dancing with his arms up over his head to Madonna. Perfect.
It is a fit. I am officially a 34/36 DDD. Are you kidding? What happened to the other double alphabet letters like EE, F or GG? I just skip right on into the triplets? I don’t know, but this growth seems unnatural. No wonder I have been so uncomfortable. I should call Guinness Book of World Records. She shops the floor as I sit in the fitting room entertaining Kaden in my maternity pants and fit bra. She brings back several different choices. Each one looks as though the cup will swallow my head whole.
I try on a few options. I am disappointed because the selections don’t tack correctly or the cup won’t lay flat against me. I question the fit and/or size. Am I really a DDD? Are you sure a full cup is my best option over a demi or blah blah blah. We keep repeating the turn around and place my tissue in the cup routine and as if things couldn’t get more uncomfortable she asks her manager to come and take a look. I feel my face redden. I breathe repeating in my head that this is their job. They see women of all shapes, sizes and styles. Maternity pants belly and all is part of the gig. Poor things.
I eventually am fit with the PERFECT bra. It is beautiful. I am in love. I look like a super model or as I later tell a few select people I look like a porn star… In the middle of my admiration I realize that this beauty costs one hundred and four dollars. What? I whip around and laugh towards the fit gal. I am carefully holding the tag under my arm pit as I look at it. I repeat out loud, “I am not frugal, but this bra costs one hundred and four dollars! Is this a digit per D?” She giggles. She seems to giggle a lot. I explain that although it is like a second skin I would like to keep shopping…
The end result is three bras for $148.00 and the ‘girls’ that I now refer to as the ‘wild women’ have never been happier. In learning about this rapid rate of growth I have a fear of what will come after I deliver. I wonder if postpartum I will be able to support what is to come physically, emotionally and within our bank account.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Under Water Adventures
I wonder at what point it will end. I am beginning to fear bath time. And it looks like in my job description bath time is one of my job duties. No escape. There was a time when it was so much fun… I would say, “It’s bath time for Kaden.” He would start in the direction of the stairs ready to swim and splash around. It was a time of giggles and relaxation, for us both. However, like most jobs the newness has worn off and I have grown bitter.
He used to get in the tub play with his toys and lay on his tummy as though he was doing butterfly laps. I would be three steps away doing my makeup and hair. I could see every move he made in the reflection of the mirror. I could he was sitting up and what toy he had, but what I didn’t know was what was happening under the water line. And this is what has changed bath time forever.
It is an ordeal. I have to get extra towels and Lysol. I keep these extra supplies near the tub. I have to keep them out of his octopus reach, but close enough for my immediate reach. I don’t dare step away even the three steps to the mirror. The dreaded may happen at any time. He may poop in the tub at any moment and I will miss it. What happens under the water line stays under the water line if I am not by the tubs ledge. God forbid I won’t know that his matter is floating around.
Yes, my son has taken up pooping in the bath tub. God help us.
Okay, it happens. I get it. I think he is a gold medal winner and has taken this to a whole other Rardin level.
The first unpleasant incident happened a few months ago. I laughed and shook it off. It was gross, but I was thankful for bleach. We moved on. It happened a few more times. It wasn’t so funny. I adjusted the morning routine: Boy must poo in diaper before a bath is given. Boy poo’s and is rewarded with bath. Now boy continues to poo in the tub regardless of his morning bowel movement. I am at a loss. Does boy never bathe again?
It is an Olympic event and quite frankly I am in no condition to keep up. In a quick movement I hit the drain to suck down the water while I swoop him up and out of the tub. I lay his now toxic body on a towel. Please, he is a pre-walker so lying down isn’t a viable option. I then have to straddle over the top of him. Yes, a 5 month pregnant woman is sitting on top of her fifteen month old son as she cleans and sterilizes the tub. To set the boy free would put toxic waste all over the bathroom! I think about this and move quicker.
The tub is scoured with Lysol and bleach. I now have to double, no, triple rinse it with water. My five month pregnant body is still straddled over this little boy. The humor is gone. I am no longer laughing. I move hastily as I try to keep the cleaner away from us in spillage and reach. He is no longer laughing. He begins to tantrum. I have to give Kaden another bath; I have to clean him of his own filth. I question if the bleach is safe, but I figure it has to be safer than having him contract a form of Hepatitis or Salmonellas. So, in he goes.
I admit as a new Mom I have a learning curve. There is a lot I didn’t plan or prepare for. How can we? It is a job that we roll with the punches every new day, for the new day brings new challenges. I never in my wildest dreams dreamt I would be dealing with a serial bath pooper. Never.
I just want to know: when will the under water adventures end?
He used to get in the tub play with his toys and lay on his tummy as though he was doing butterfly laps. I would be three steps away doing my makeup and hair. I could see every move he made in the reflection of the mirror. I could he was sitting up and what toy he had, but what I didn’t know was what was happening under the water line. And this is what has changed bath time forever.
It is an ordeal. I have to get extra towels and Lysol. I keep these extra supplies near the tub. I have to keep them out of his octopus reach, but close enough for my immediate reach. I don’t dare step away even the three steps to the mirror. The dreaded may happen at any time. He may poop in the tub at any moment and I will miss it. What happens under the water line stays under the water line if I am not by the tubs ledge. God forbid I won’t know that his matter is floating around.
Yes, my son has taken up pooping in the bath tub. God help us.
Okay, it happens. I get it. I think he is a gold medal winner and has taken this to a whole other Rardin level.
The first unpleasant incident happened a few months ago. I laughed and shook it off. It was gross, but I was thankful for bleach. We moved on. It happened a few more times. It wasn’t so funny. I adjusted the morning routine: Boy must poo in diaper before a bath is given. Boy poo’s and is rewarded with bath. Now boy continues to poo in the tub regardless of his morning bowel movement. I am at a loss. Does boy never bathe again?
It is an Olympic event and quite frankly I am in no condition to keep up. In a quick movement I hit the drain to suck down the water while I swoop him up and out of the tub. I lay his now toxic body on a towel. Please, he is a pre-walker so lying down isn’t a viable option. I then have to straddle over the top of him. Yes, a 5 month pregnant woman is sitting on top of her fifteen month old son as she cleans and sterilizes the tub. To set the boy free would put toxic waste all over the bathroom! I think about this and move quicker.
The tub is scoured with Lysol and bleach. I now have to double, no, triple rinse it with water. My five month pregnant body is still straddled over this little boy. The humor is gone. I am no longer laughing. I move hastily as I try to keep the cleaner away from us in spillage and reach. He is no longer laughing. He begins to tantrum. I have to give Kaden another bath; I have to clean him of his own filth. I question if the bleach is safe, but I figure it has to be safer than having him contract a form of Hepatitis or Salmonellas. So, in he goes.
I admit as a new Mom I have a learning curve. There is a lot I didn’t plan or prepare for. How can we? It is a job that we roll with the punches every new day, for the new day brings new challenges. I never in my wildest dreams dreamt I would be dealing with a serial bath pooper. Never.
I just want to know: when will the under water adventures end?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Girl Talk
Adam and I are fortunate for we have been blessed with two nieces both named Brooklyn. These little girls adore Kaden and are an intricate part of his childhood. I am sure this will hold true for Littlest Rardin too. You three (four) children are so close in age that there is so much fun ahead. I look forward to watching the dynamics and hearing the stories of your adventures. I am sure that the girls will star in many of our shared stories. I don’t think your journal would be complete if these young ladies were excluded from these pages. This particular story is not one I want our memory to lose…
On Wednesday I went to the Church’s to drop off Kaden. Before I left Grandma and I were visiting in the kitchen. The conversation quickly took a turn. The following conversation is recorded (below) as remembered and unedited:
“Auntie Nicole…” Brooklyn interrupts.
“Grandma and I are in the middle of a conversation. Please do not interrupt. We are almost finished” I reply.
Brooklyn morphs into a cat heading back into the family room.
(3-5 minutes passes. Grandma and I are still engrossed in conversation.)
Brooklyn enters the kitchen standing in front of me staring. It is clear she has something she really wants to say.
“Brooklyn, thank you so much for being so patient and waiting to talk to me! Do you still have something you want to share?”
“Oh, AUNTIE NICOLE” she squeals. Her eyes are sparkling with true excitement.
I can tell she has something big to say.
She looks up at me with such sincerity. “I already know who my husband is!”
I look up to Grandma to make sure I heard her correctly.
Confused I need clarification. “Excuse me? You know who your husband is?”
“Yes. His name is Conner.”
I am intrigued. “How do you know Conner? Does he go to your school? Is he in your (Kindergarten) class?”
“Conner is in my class.”
“Oh. So, ummmmm, why do you want to marry Conner?”
I continue, “I mean why him? Is he cute? Nice? Funny? Why do you want Conner to be your husband?”
She starts to become coy, turning circles and twirling her hair.
She giggles, “Auntie Nicole. I don’t want to tell!”
She stops. She turns and looks at me. “I am in love with him. That’s why!”
I shake my head and feel my eyes widen. Am I really having this conversation with my five year old niece? How can I disagree with love?
“Brooklyn, you are in love with him?” I am now totally engrossed in the conversation.
“Yes.” She jumps up onto the bench to stand behind Grandma.
I have to keep probing.
“How did he ask you to marry him?”
“Oh, I asked him. Well, I told him he was marrying me.” She goes on to explain, “My friend Jaden said she was going to marry Conner. I told her (voice starts to whine) that I was marrying Conner.”
I raise the question as to what then happened…
And with a smile and her hands raised above her head she rejoices. “Conner said he would marry us both!”
“And you know what?”
“What?” I answer.
“You know what my Daddy is going to do?”
“What is Daddy going to do?” I ask.
She leans in towards me over Grandma’s head and very frankly announces: “Daddy is going to walk me down the aisle!”
Wait. Wait just one minute. I need to wrap my brain around this. Did she just start planning her wedding day?
She waltzes into the family room. “And I will walk down the aisle with rose petals on the ground.”
In the very next breath she morphs back into a cat. I guess the girl talk is over.
It is officially confirmed that women begin planning their wedding as little girls.
Brooklyn, you have my word: rose petals it is.
On Wednesday I went to the Church’s to drop off Kaden. Before I left Grandma and I were visiting in the kitchen. The conversation quickly took a turn. The following conversation is recorded (below) as remembered and unedited:
“Auntie Nicole…” Brooklyn interrupts.
“Grandma and I are in the middle of a conversation. Please do not interrupt. We are almost finished” I reply.
Brooklyn morphs into a cat heading back into the family room.
(3-5 minutes passes. Grandma and I are still engrossed in conversation.)
Brooklyn enters the kitchen standing in front of me staring. It is clear she has something she really wants to say.
“Brooklyn, thank you so much for being so patient and waiting to talk to me! Do you still have something you want to share?”
“Oh, AUNTIE NICOLE” she squeals. Her eyes are sparkling with true excitement.
I can tell she has something big to say.
She looks up at me with such sincerity. “I already know who my husband is!”
I look up to Grandma to make sure I heard her correctly.
Confused I need clarification. “Excuse me? You know who your husband is?”
“Yes. His name is Conner.”
I am intrigued. “How do you know Conner? Does he go to your school? Is he in your (Kindergarten) class?”
“Conner is in my class.”
“Oh. So, ummmmm, why do you want to marry Conner?”
I continue, “I mean why him? Is he cute? Nice? Funny? Why do you want Conner to be your husband?”
She starts to become coy, turning circles and twirling her hair.
She giggles, “Auntie Nicole. I don’t want to tell!”
She stops. She turns and looks at me. “I am in love with him. That’s why!”
I shake my head and feel my eyes widen. Am I really having this conversation with my five year old niece? How can I disagree with love?
“Brooklyn, you are in love with him?” I am now totally engrossed in the conversation.
“Yes.” She jumps up onto the bench to stand behind Grandma.
I have to keep probing.
“How did he ask you to marry him?”
“Oh, I asked him. Well, I told him he was marrying me.” She goes on to explain, “My friend Jaden said she was going to marry Conner. I told her (voice starts to whine) that I was marrying Conner.”
I raise the question as to what then happened…
And with a smile and her hands raised above her head she rejoices. “Conner said he would marry us both!”
“And you know what?”
“What?” I answer.
“You know what my Daddy is going to do?”
“What is Daddy going to do?” I ask.
She leans in towards me over Grandma’s head and very frankly announces: “Daddy is going to walk me down the aisle!”
Wait. Wait just one minute. I need to wrap my brain around this. Did she just start planning her wedding day?
She waltzes into the family room. “And I will walk down the aisle with rose petals on the ground.”
In the very next breath she morphs back into a cat. I guess the girl talk is over.
It is officially confirmed that women begin planning their wedding as little girls.
Brooklyn, you have my word: rose petals it is.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I Woke Up Pregnant
Today I woke up pregnant. I mean whoa belly pregnant! Yes, I am in my 23rd week, but who knew? My tummy wasn't telling! Well, ta-da…the bump is a hump. I am still confused as to how I can go to sleep in one body form and wake up with a completely different one.
I felt my midsection ‘stretching’ as though it was being pulled by a vice all night long. It must be indigestion. When anything happens to your midsection during pregnancy it is always indigestion. Why is nothing digestible while you are pregnant? Anyhow, as my stomach has been pushed upwards, bladder bent in half and rib cage separated the baby made its home. As Adam recites from a favorite movie, “What my baby wants my baby gets…”
What this baby got was me right on out of my ‘regular’ jeans and straight into maternity jeans in a record breaking eight hours. I am in awe that the human body can stretch to ungodly limits in such a short amount of time. Since this is round two of the pregnancy lineup I don’t worry that my skin will become translucent or tear. I do worry that my body will not return to my pre-baby pod days. Then again, that was all before I was thirty. Do I blame the pregnancies or turning the BIG 3-0?
I have realized that much like our children differ, so do our pregnancies. We don’t know what to expect. I admit that I had expectations that this pregnancy would be similar in growth and milestones to when I was pregnant with Kaden. We know what we know and thus this is what we set our expectations to. I have been quickly corrected, for much of this pregnancy is different.
The most significant difference is the baby’s movement. I don’t feel Littlest Rardin move throughout the day, but as soon as I turn off the lights to go to bed the womb becomes the next big dance joint. It is when the (what feels like) Macarena begins. The little one is all over the place. We still don’t feel the moves outside of my body; I am the only one who feels this life. How can an almost 12” fetus not be felt by the outside world? Regardless, it’s evident that there is life in there by my proud growing hump, which greats the world straight on.
I felt my midsection ‘stretching’ as though it was being pulled by a vice all night long. It must be indigestion. When anything happens to your midsection during pregnancy it is always indigestion. Why is nothing digestible while you are pregnant? Anyhow, as my stomach has been pushed upwards, bladder bent in half and rib cage separated the baby made its home. As Adam recites from a favorite movie, “What my baby wants my baby gets…”
What this baby got was me right on out of my ‘regular’ jeans and straight into maternity jeans in a record breaking eight hours. I am in awe that the human body can stretch to ungodly limits in such a short amount of time. Since this is round two of the pregnancy lineup I don’t worry that my skin will become translucent or tear. I do worry that my body will not return to my pre-baby pod days. Then again, that was all before I was thirty. Do I blame the pregnancies or turning the BIG 3-0?
I have realized that much like our children differ, so do our pregnancies. We don’t know what to expect. I admit that I had expectations that this pregnancy would be similar in growth and milestones to when I was pregnant with Kaden. We know what we know and thus this is what we set our expectations to. I have been quickly corrected, for much of this pregnancy is different.
The most significant difference is the baby’s movement. I don’t feel Littlest Rardin move throughout the day, but as soon as I turn off the lights to go to bed the womb becomes the next big dance joint. It is when the (what feels like) Macarena begins. The little one is all over the place. We still don’t feel the moves outside of my body; I am the only one who feels this life. How can an almost 12” fetus not be felt by the outside world? Regardless, it’s evident that there is life in there by my proud growing hump, which greats the world straight on.
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